“Tiger got to hunt,

Bird got to fly;

Man got to sit and wonder ‘why, why, why?’

Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;

Man got to tell himself he understand.”

— Kurt Vonnegut

Let me take you back to the days when I was just a middle schooler, full of mystery, hormones and a very confusing series of gifts from a “Secret Pal.”

Postcards, letters and stuffed animals started showing up at my house without warning, from “Your Secret Pal.” My initial reaction was one of pure delight. Someone was sending me presents! This was new territory. No birthdays, no Christmas, just random tokens of affection. I was the center of attention! Ha-ha, a win for the youngest — for once!

As the presents continued over a few months, what was once cherished and puzzling, became curious and aggravating. I asked my parents the identity of this Secret Pal, but nothin’ doin’ — they told me to wait and find out. But after the first wave of excitement, something started to shift.

The gifts kept coming, and while they initially sparked joy, the mystery morphed into perplexing. Who was this Secret Pal? Why was I getting a bag of Tootsie Rolls one week and a Holly Hobby notepad the next?

The trinkets that once made my heart race now had me gritting my teeth. For months, I was left wondering: Who was sending me these perfect gifts? How did they know me? The continued mystery of these packages from My Secret Stressor began to muffle the dopamine rush.

The “why” question hopped up and down on my shoulder month in and out. Why did someone buy me a horse necklace?

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Keep your friends close

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Christmas morning came, and under our overly tinseled tree, was a gift that said To: “Amy, from Michael.”

I looked at my mom, “Is Mike DeFuria my Secret Pal?”

“Nope,” she said, “what other Michael do you love?”

Now, hold the phone. The only Michael I knew was Mike Todd, who made me blush just by existing.

Mike Todd lived across the street from my friend Lesley Minehan. Mike was tall, muscular, blonde, athletic and, to complete this angelic picture of utter teenage obsession, really nice (not that I managed to utter a complete sentence in his direction). Lesley and I spent a few hundred hours juggling soccer balls on her front lawn hoping to catch a glimpse of him driving by in his little red truck. Sigh.

I swallowed, “Mike Todd is my Secret Pal?” My sisters burst out laughing; we were celebrating the birth of Christ, not my vision of the Second Coming.

“No, this isn’t from your Secret Pal. Open it.”

Inside the box was a VHS of my favorite movie, “The Godfather,” “sent” to me by Michael Corleone.

A few things haven’t changed, “The Godfather” is still my favorite movie, I never spoke to Mike Todd, and my Secret Pal remained so, until …

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Prime Suspect

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The other day I cracked open an old journal from my Secret Pal, and nostalgically smiled at my euphoria and irritation. I went through my list of suspects and instead of employing the hard-boiled detective style of Philip Marlowe to solve this dusty old riddle, I did the next best thing, I called my mom.

“Yup, it was Aunt Dot,” she answered matter-of-factly, as if I had not asked her a thousand times. “She had some much fun winding you up.”

“I can’t believe you never told me.” I said “Well, you haven’t asked since you were twelve,” she laughed, “have you watched ‘The Godfather’ lately?”

I always liked my Aunt Dot Fobare for this crime of generosity. Of course I asked her a few hundred times, but she kept her cards close, bold face lying. She could also out-talk anyone, and eventually I would leave her house wondering why I stopped by.

Why Aunt Dot? Her motive was congruent with her character toward me: she was singularly kind through every crunchy, snarky, confused moment of my childhood and adolescence. She also loved a good joke.

Life was like being stuck in a societal iron maiden — except, instead of spikes, it was decorated with contradictory rules, judgement and expectations that deflated your autonomy. You better be smart; your academic average measures your worth like a yardstick for your soul. Go to church and love your neighbor to attain salvation; those lesser mortals of other religions are destined for warmer realms. Around grandparents, be grateful for every morsel of food, demonstrating your intimate familiarity with the rod. Look this way, perm your hair ’till it breaks if necessary. Don’t be too intelligent, too funny, too clever or too athletic because that is too threatening.

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It sounds like a you problem

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Anyone who knew Dot Fobare would agree she was a bit of a wild card. She taught me a master class If Someone Doesn’t Like You That is Their Problem and she was steadfast in her loyalty to what she loved. She was the one adult who had zero expectations, which is the fun part about being an auntie.

Aunt Dot let me flow, to become and dissolve versions of myself without judgement. Aunt Dot didn’t base her happiness on my compliance with her set of mores.

Aunt Dot wasn’t just a wild card in my life; she taught me something crucial. Those presents wouldn’t have been half as fun if she handed them to me. She showed me life is better if we stop obsessing over the why and just enjoy life.

Looking back and applying it with a contemporary lens, the real secret I learned was: Let yourself wonder. Let yourself not know why. Stop Googling. Do you really have to know right this second how long the average bumble bee lives? I didn’t think so, just watch the bee a few seconds and be present.

Kurt Vonnegut wrote, “Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; man got to sit and wonder ‘why, why, why?'” Mystery is the spice of life; the open space is where curiosity can expand in the not-knowing.

Whether it’s a Secret Pal, a horse necklace, or a VHS of “The Godfather” — the question may not be why, but the answer is simply to let the hunt, the flight and the wonder continue.