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Over the years, Estelle has imparted a litany of her prescriptions for acting appropriately, self-care and good home training. No matter how far from the Appalachians I have wandered, these mantras have followed me and have been delicately accompanied by Estelle's soft lilt echoing their importance. It is as if my own Marley's ghost is whispering "always use cloth napkins, always use cloth napkins. . .say yes ma'am and yes sir . . . never drink beer from a bottle."

With certainty, I have used these axioms to justify myriad frivolous actions. "Always wear nice shoes" validated a lovely pair of Pierre Hardy loafers purchased on the third floor of Barneys. As a preferred customer, I get personalized birthday and holiday gifts from Kiehl's when it is Estelle who should be thanked because she instilled the importance of skin care to her only child: "Always have a clean face." Some children can tell you about their first bicycle or first pet. I can tell you about my first time being introduced to Clinique's three-fold system of cleanse, tone, and moisturize with Estelle and Mrs. Louis Avery.

Even though I am in my late mid-thirties, referring to my elders, friends of my parents, or anyone more than seven years my senior by their first name still makes my stomach cramp. This self-imposed digestive disorder would be accompanied by Estelle's infamous, afore-mentioned look if I ever called Mr. Hollbrook the common "Bob."

During my tumultuous undergraduate years when I was lost in a world of the over-privileged and alcohol, Estelle's offerings displayed her frantic worry as a mother. "If you are lonely, read the Bible and if you're hungry, well, just make yourself a sandwich." Sometimes she would invert these relaying all of our befuddlement. Estelle only reads the Bible at church and views the kitchen as the hallway between the living room and the den. I can even recall a rather awkward moment when my mom presented me with a beautifully wrapped box, darned in intricate ribbons and quietly drawled, "Now Brian Crisp, don't_be_dumb." She left the dorm room and I opened the wrappings to find a box of condoms.

At her core, Estelle is a care giver who notices the slightest niceties in the world. Even in those moments when life erupts and threads are pulled and wits are beyond their last end and she really knows not what to say or do, she wants to offer an anecdote to make it all a little better. To her, offering nothing would be the same as concession, an option not taken for family or friends.

The art of the thank-you note is one of the pinnacles of expressing her endearment. About the same time Santa Clause was debunked, I was shocked to learn other families did not collectively gather on December 26th to write thank-you notes for the footed paisley pajamas or spiced fruit cakes rendered from seldom seen relatives. That was enough to incite a riot and sullen an eleven year-old's holiday. Often when returning from a dinner or social outing, Estelle's line of questioning resembled, "Hey there, did you have a nice time? Have you sent a thank-you note?" We send thank-you notes, always.

Estelle herself has a space in her office that would produce nothing less than envy from Crane and Company. Papers, stamps, seals and cards are available to match any social situation that needs proper gratitude. Her flourishing handwriting matches the sincerity of the note. As a recipient of many of these treasures, I can vouch for the attention given and the joy produced. One of my personal favorites simply said, "Brian, You always make me laugh. Thank you. Estelle."

Over the past week I have received an abundance of e-mails filled with very kind words about these quirky stories. It has been wonderful to read comments by old friends and equally as moving to read comments from complete strangers. I cannot really mail out 113 cards but I wanted to say thank you. I hope you continue to read and share these stories. I have delighted in telling many of them over the years.

Last night, I told Estelle about the blog and people's feedback and was charmed by her response. Her voice pitch is celestial when she receives a compliment and returns with a well-mannered, "why thank you." She paused and then asked, "Now why on earth would anybody wanna read about me?" This is the same woman who while shooting a rifle at snakes in the backyard was calling 9-1-1 because the pregnant runaway teen in the guest bedroom was giving birth. Now, you can't put that in a card.

P.S. Vladimir showed up for his first day of work today.