A real letter—how quaint, I thought. The envelope had even been hand written. I recognized the writing and the return address. In this day of emails and text messages, it was exciting to receive an actual letter written by my good friend. Alas, I was mistaken.
     "This is not a chain letter," the missive promised. Certainly, it wasn't like any chain letter I had ever received. The instructions were simple: Send a kitchen towel to the first person on the list. Put the sender's name on the top line of a new letter and add my name to the second line. Make copies of the letter and mail it to six of my friends. Not only was I promised a haul of 36 dish towels, I could specify a favorite color.
     The directive contained no threat of bodily harm; no danger of misfortune if I dropped the ball and tossed the letter in the waste basket. If I didn't forward it, to what could soon be former friends, all I had to do was contact the sender and decline. How genteel, I thought.
     Should I choose to accept the mission, the towel would fit easily in a standard-sized manila envelope. But then I would have to have it weighed, which meant taking it to the Post Office. What if they tricked me into confessing this was part of a kitchen towel chain letter? What would the sentence be for committing this crime? Would I be working on the chain gang? Pondering the punishment of community service versus incarceration, I decided to call my friend and tell her … what excuse would be good enough? I wasn't sure.
     Refolding the letter, the name at the top—the person I was to send a towel—caught my attention. It was that of a nun from my boarding school days. Yikes! Refusing to send her a towel would not be good, might even be sinful. After all, Sister works with the less fortunate. I needed to rethink my decision. Could compliance constitute a form of penance? Would it be enough to make up for my devilish ways in high school? Might my stay in H-E-Double Toothpicks be a tad shorter?
     After much examination of conscience, I decided to test the water. I would send six friends an email, asking if they would care to participate. Everyone needs new dish towels, I reasoned, pressing the Send button on the keyboard. Almost instantly, an onslaught of replies showed up. No one told me to go to H-E-Double Toothpicks, but every prospect said, "No," as nicely as they could. One said she had received something like this, requesting socks. Another warned it was, indeed, a chain letter. (Checking the website of the United States Postal Service, I determined dish towels, especially those purchased on sale, would have minimal value and would not violate Section 18 of the Postal Lottery Statute.)
     Even so, with a guilty conscience, I emailed the original sender and begged off. Are we still friends? I wondered. She replied right away, too. Forgiveness would be mine if I would send six towels to Sister.
     Heck, I'll send Sister 36 kitchen towels in the color of her choice if it will get me in good with her. Maybe it's not too late to be teacher's pet. Maybe she'll even write a letter of recommendation for me to her Boss. Is it possible to buy your way into Heaven with terry cloth towels? Let us pray.