On the spur-of-the-moment, my friend Nancy and I planned a belated birthday dinner at a posh-ish restaurant that’s got a great bar with an upscale “Cheers” kind of feel. Now Nancy is one of the absolutely sweetest souls around ~ but of her own admission, perpetually late, and so it went that I arrived first.

I noticed one empty seat at the busy-Saturday-night-filled bar. I should grab it, I thought, but it was cold inside (I hate to be cold), so I went back out to wait in the late summer air. After a while I remembered I’d brought my book along “just in case”, so went back in hoping to find a spot with some light. And there, as if invisible to all but me, was the same vacant seat. “Kismet”, I thought!

Plunking myself down, I ordered a drink and stealthily opened my book. (I know, who goes to a bar to read a novel? But I was close to the end, and you know how that is … )

Almost immediately the folks on the bar stools to my right started making fun.  “You’re not really going to read a book, are you?” said the younger. “I didn’t know the library served alcohol!” said the elder.

And so opened the way to a night of raucous laughs and fun synchronicities.

Jason, the younger, and Frank, the elder, were father and son. Marie was Frank’s wife and Jason’s mom ~ and by the time Nancy arrived, we were fast friends. In no time flat, all 5 of us were bugs in a rug. I don’t remember sustained laughing-out-loud so hard in a long time (recall the “no lollygagging” post…). What great medicine that is!

When talk came around to “what do you do?”, I had a little something to show & tell, as it just so happened I had a copy of my new “52 Weeks of Peace” postcard book in my sack … which comes in handy if you’re someone prone to forget your business cards. (eh-hem) So they got the whole elevator schpeel, with visuals.

And all this happened to lead to talk of business collaborations as well as another cool kismet-like morsel ~ learning that Jason’s work was an uncannily similar, kind of modern-day version of what I was reading about in the historical novel that I’d so socially-incorrectly brought along. The odds of that were rare indeed!

The postcard book also just so happened to lead to The Postcard Story.

The story goes that Frank and Marie first met at a dance (I think) of some kind. Frank was smitten with Marie and asked if he could call on her again.

Marie, meanwhile, wasn’t the slightest bit interested in Frank. She dismissed him with “oh sure, send me a postcard sometime”. She figured that was the end of that, and she’d never have to see him again.

Apparently Frank didn’t get the message, because soon afterwards Frank sent Marie a postcard. And the rest, as they say, is history. Fifty-five years of marriage later, on a random night with strangers, here was another golden nugget of proof for the power of the written word. I just love that.

More stories followed. Good-natured, hysterical stories. Nancy and I were in stitches. I’m pretty sure the five us of were too loud, our laughter causing a scene and making us look like incredibly fun people.

So much for unobtrusively catching up on a little reading while waiting for a friend, eh?

And so much, yes, for the power of a postcard. (Thank you, Frank, Marie and Jason.)

And, call me crazy, but it was the kind of night where I had to wonder if the stage had not already been set, beginning with the empty seat at a busy bar. Hmmm…. Kismet?

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