SHAME ON ME WHEN IT COMES TO THANK-YOUS

The Boston Globe

BEVERLY BECKHAM

The thank-you notes arrived less than a week after I brought over two small presents to the twins who live next door. They are 8 and in second grade. The notes, one from Albert and one from Melody. were written in little-kid print and addressed the same way, carefully, in neat straight letters.

I read them and thought that with all their mother has to do - she works full time and takes care of a house, a husband, two kids, and a recently widowed father - she did this. She bought the kid-friendly stationery, sat down with her children, directed them ("Do we have to do this now, Mom?" at least one of them must have said), then made sure the letters got stamped and posted.

Two letters, not one. Written by the children, not her. Written promptly while the Christmas decorations were still up.

The kids could have called and said thanks. They could have not called because they thanked me when I gave them the presents. They could have done absolutely nothing because who sends thank you notes anymore, anyway?

They do. And it is the nicest thing.

I held their letters in my hand and wished I could phone my mother-in-law and say, "You were right. I didn't know. I'm sorry." Because for years she used to ask, beg, plead with me to write to her relatives. "Did you send a thank-you note to Aunt Ethel? Did you have the kids write to Aunt Maude? Did you thank Daisy for the dress she gave Lauren?"

I thanked Daisy when I saw her, I said. I made sure Lauren wore whatever Daisy sent whenever Daisy came to visit. In my youth and in my ignorance, I thought this was enough.

I wrote to Maude maybe twice in 10 years and belatedly both times for the $5 she sent every Christmas to each of my children. And I never wrote to Aunt Ethel, not even when she sent my son the full vinyl record set of "Pirates of Penzance," a gift I would never have chosen but one she bought and lugged to the post office and mailed.

Even worse? I didn't teach my children to write or say thank you either.

Shame on me.

I don't know how my mother-in-law held her tongue. I wish she hadn't. I wish she had sat me down and said, "This is important. I don't care how busy you are. You need to do this."

But a mother-in-law can't say these things.

And so my children didn't learn to write thank-you notes because children learn what they see. And they didn't see me writing them.

It was my friend, Anne, who showed me the why behind the written thank you. She did it gradually.

Her first to me arrived more than 25 years ago. "Thank you for rescuing my dog," it said. I hardly rescued Tar. I just recognized the loping black Lab unleashed and making her way down the street. I knew where the dog lived. I phoned. A man came to get her. And the next day a note arrived.

Little did I know that this would be the first of many thank-you notes I'd receive from Anne.

We became friends not long after. And the notes continued. "Dear Bev, We had such fun yesterday, Thank you. Thank you."

"Thank you for lunch."

"Thank you for stopping by."

"Thank you for a wonderful afternoon." (This was written after my children and I had spent the day at HER house!)

What I lack in manners and gratitude, Anne possesses in excess. I could wallpaper my house with the notes and cards and pictures. (Yes pictures of things I've sent her!) "These beautiful flowers came from you on my birthday!" says a note that arrived with a photo she took, had developed, and then mailed.

My friend Anne is the queen mother of thank yous. And eventually, her example and the feeling her notes gave me sunk in. I got it.

She says she learned the art at her mother's knee. "We always sat down in our pajamas the day after Christmas and wrote our notes. It wasn't punishment. It was a way of reliving the thrill of opening the gift."

I hope Melody and Albert feel the same way. I know one thing their handwritten notes thrilled me.

They also inspired me to do better because everyone likes to be appreciated. And that's how a thank-you note makes you feel.