Growing up, I listened to a lot of country music… Trisha Yearwood, Garth Brooks, Martina McBride, John Michael Montgomery. Hands down, Reba McEntire was my favorite. My sister had a raging crush on Billy Ray Cyrus (I mean, who wouldn’t, with that mullet and all). But by middle school I abandoned the twang and heartbreak for Jock Jams-esque songs — the kinds that were popular among my friends and that we could sing in the van on the way to cheerleading practice. This transitioned into a deep aversion to country music. The songs started sounding like whining to me, and the lyrics seemed so stupid — about dogs and cars and beer, none of which applied to my 13-year-old self. Besides, my boom box was full of Celine Dion and Goo Goo Dolls. Who has time for country with those musical masters in the mix?

But I didn’t have much choice when I was on vacation with friends in Florida last weekend. We picked up the rental car and country was the first to come on, and country was what we were going to listen to (apparently justified because we were in Florida, which doesn’t seem to be overwhelming country music terrain, but whatever). I objected — vocally and quite loudly in my heart, too — but I was told that because I’m from Kansas, I should like it. So I pouted in the dark, which didn’t really have much effect, and rolled down my window hoping the sound of the wind would drown out the noise. It didn’t.

Strangely, though, as much as I claimed to hate the music, I knew the words to nearly every song on the radio. Some within the first few beats, before a word had even been uttered. My friends were pretty impressed, and assumed I’d come to like the music. I quickly disagreed in between refrains. I still groaned when Kenny Chesney’s She thinks my tractor’s sexy played, but surprisingly, I enjoyed hearing all the old songs. And as I sang along, I realized I couldn’t remember why I hated the music so much for so long. I’d been hanging on to this hate because that’s what I’d been doing and it seemed like what I should keep on doing. Liking — or even listening to — the music — wasn’t even on my radar. And while I’m not gonna be downloading the rental car soundtrack on iTunes anytime soon, I’ll at least be paying more attention to other things I’ve written off that might deserve a second chance.

This past weekend, two of our best friends moved in with us. My husband and I have a wide array of friends, ranging from my artist girlfriends to his long-time colleagues to couples we hang out with on a regular basis. These particular friends of ours are a couple, and they occupy their own unique space in our world, where a stranger observing the four of us interacting would probably not be entirely sure who was married to whom. One afternoon, three of us went shopping for a couch for my husband and me, and I could tell our salesman was totally confused. Who was the couch for — the woman and this guy or that guy or was it for the two guys? I’m sure when we walked out of the store, receipt in hand and new couch ordered, he still did not know which one of us was coupled with the other and who was going to get to enjoy that new couch.

When these friends were suddenly out of a job and a home — because their jobs gave them a place to live as part of the package — there was no question they would move in with us while they looked for new employment. My husband and I had no discussion about it; the four of us did not sit down to set out rules or boundaries or timelines. They just moved in, and that was that. Last night we had our first dinner together as “roommates” and we toasted our good fortune — our home, a delicious meal, good music and each other. We all tried to watch a movie, but couldn’t stay awake, so we turned off the TV, said good night and went to bed, just like any other typical suburban household on Main Street, USA.

In conversations with other friends over the weekend, when I mentioned, “Our friends just moved in with us,” I experienced reactions that were one step short of shock and awe. I find this especially funny considering my husband and I run a bed and breakfast; friends from across the globe have stayed with us for weeks at a time and not a month goes by when we don’t have someone other than the two of us sleeping under our roof. The idea of this couple moving in for a while barely registered on our radar. The only thing we really need to consider is where to put all the other friends who booked their stays here long before our household increased by two. Other than that, having friends in the house is par for the course around here, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Perhaps the mortified reactions I got this weekend had to do with anxiety over how it feels to think about letting someone into our own little quirky worlds. For this to work, I have to be willing to let my friends see that I leave the kitchen a mess most mornings and I’m obsessive about laundry. I’ll see what brand of half and half they prefer, and they’ll have to listen to me practice piano. Considering I’ve only had four lessons in my entire life, this doesn’t mean they’re getting private piano concerts; they’re having to hear me muddle my way through “On Top of Old Smokey” a dozen times in a row. In sharing a home, we’re going to be exposing another layer of our lives and ourselves, and that isn’t easy with just anyone. I can’t say my husband and I would invite any of our friends to live with us if they were in the same situation; this decision was easy because it was these friends, and with these friends we have a foundation that makes this possible.

The four of us have seen each other in good moods and bad moods, in tears, in the midst of arguments with our respective partners, tired, jet-lagged, angry, tipsy, melancholy, giddy and grouchy. We call one another friends and our actions have backed this up from the day we met, and perhaps that is why our connection has been so consistently strong — all four of us, for our own reasons, believe in the power of our actions more than our words, and we strive to act according to what we say. Each of us has our own unique stories of loss, betrayal and grief, and through these experiences our integrity became important to us and we eventually found our way to each other. We can laugh as freely as we can because we know we can also cry when we need to; we trust each other because trust has been built through a thousand tiny moments where we made the choice to be there for each other no matter what.

Today, that means we live under the same roof, and our hearts will be all the richer for it.

There’s a stack of letters sitting in my bookshelf. They’re alone — everything else in the room is packed for my return to the United States after several years of living abroad. I’m not ready to pack them just yet.

Having a pen pal in grade school is fun, but having one at age 24 is something totally different. Other students in my program have noted my regular flow of letters — real mail is like gold here — and looking forward to the next battered envelope keeps my sprits up during grueling schedules and study periods.

I’ve been writing M, a corporal in the U.S. Marine Corps, for a year. Our parents, those usual agents of set-ups everywhere, arranged this during their ballroom dancing lessons on Monday and Tuesday nights. By the time I returned home for a month to visit, the trap was already laid. By the end of my month, I was good friends with M’s father, and so I quickly agreed to a favor: please write his son, who was far away in the Marine Corps, a letter just so he’d have some mail.

I couldn’t refuse. Besides, I love all the details of correspondence — the stationery, envelopes, stamps, address books — all of it. So I sent a short introductory missive before I left to return to grad school in Italy, expecting nothing in return. That started one of the best correspondences I’ve ever had.

We talk about our families, how much we love our home state Colorado. We talk about being teens, and our high school years, and things that could have gone better. We talk about trivial things: the latest TV shows, best books and our favorite movies. We talk about important things: the future, our lives right now and what will come next. We talk about the things that scare us and things that give us hope.

He asks great questions. Sometimes they are about my life abroad; sometimes, specific topics related to my previous letter. My favorites are the unconnected ones about whatever he was thinking at the moment, things like my least-liked color, most influential mentors and the most important thing in my life.

We share stories of our days, mishaps, interesting things and asides. He asks about Italian life; I ask about all kinds of military questions (I really and honestly know nothing about the armed services, I’ve discovered). It’s been an education for me, and I can only hope my letters have been an escape for him.

We talk about politics and religion, but never about why he’s in Iraq. I never tell him how scared for him I am, or that I spent the first minutes of every day anxiously scanning headlines, praying for no news from Iraq: no bombings, attacks, ambushes, explosions or fire fights. When I get a letter, I do a little mental math and send an e-mail to his dad “I got a letter — as of 21 days ago, all is well in Iraq …”

There’s an envelope waiting for an address on my desk. M is on the move, and he doesn’t have an address for me yet. I hope that means he’s coming back to the U.S. for good. He’s planning on starting college in Colorado in the fall, and I’m finishing my MBA and heading back to Colorado, too.

I have no idea what will happen when this time is over. Maybe there will still be letters flying between us. Maybe we’ll actually talk instead. Perhaps there will be more to our story. (The parents, though, they have hopes, as parents always do.)

No matter what, in a difficult time in our lives, we each had someone there to listen to our stories, give some advice, share a moment and laugh. We built a friendship out of paper, pen, some stamps and our lives, as best we could explain them on sheets of paper. The humble snail mail system delivered friendship in way rarely seen these days — something remarkable in an extraordinary time.

Tess Montano is a guest writer for This Ordinary Day. She was recently a program coordinator for an international graduate program in Asolo, Italy, about an hour north of Venice.

The receptionist in my office is great with people. She works at the front desk directing phone calls, receiving mail and generally serving as the gateway to my department. I don’t know a thing about the way she makes copies or collates, but if part of her job description is greeting people and making them feel welcomed, she’s succeeding.

The first thing you notice about Jacky when you enter the office is that she’s familiar, even if you’ve never met her. She’s old enough to be my mother and seems to relate to everyone regardless of age. She is warm and kind, and her face lights up with a genuine smile any time someone walks into her space. You couldn’t fake that type of enthusiasm, at least not convincingly. Her voice is rich and sounds like she’s smoked a good portion of her life, but it fits with her. It doesn’t sound grainy, it sounds like experience. When I walk by her desk each morning on my way to fill my water bottle, I tell her good morning and she takes her eyes off her computer screen, looks right at me and asks, “How are you this morning?” and I feel like she actually wants to know.

I want that to be me. Not the job, but that ability to make an instant connection with people I meet on a daily basis. We’ve all met people like Jacky as teachers or bosses or department store clerks. They can slide into any position and offer an opinion or an observation that from someone less people-friendly would seem awkward, but from them it’s what we need to hear. I want everyone — friends, co-workers, clients, family and total strangers — to pick up on warmth or kindness that can make the day better. But that’s the whole thing, isn’t it? You can’t be that kind of person just by wanting to be that kind of person. It’s sort of like ambidexterity: You either have it or you don’t. I’ve caught myself trying to be this person before, which goes against the whole principle. Then once it occurs to me that my act is no good, I overthink and end up on the other side of the spectrum: socially self-conscious.

Is it the elusiveness that makes people like Jacky seem so impressive? Those of us who don’t have that skillset look at them and think, “I wish I could be like that” but we know it’s not something you can just make happen. They probably never give it a second thought. Come to think of it, that’s probably another requirement — to be genuinely good with people, maybe you can’t know that you’re good with people. They must think like the rest of us when approached by someone new: slightly uncomfortable and uneasy.

Still, I’m working on it. Mid-conversation, I’m reminding myself not to analyze everything that’s being said. I’m reminding myself to smile, relax, listen and be friendly (but not overly so). Maybe I’m holding out hope that I can be, or already am, easy to talk to.

Gabe, the little boy I get to spend my summer days with, is going to make some woman very happy someday. He is the perfect gentlemen. He holds doors open for me, always tells me I look beautiful and brings me flowers. When I bring my dog, Winnie who is the same breed as his dog, Lady but not as well trained, he is always sweet to her. The other day he was showing me how well Lady could roll over. He then turned to Winnie and commanded her to roll over. Winnie looked at him for a moment and then jumped up and licked his face. Gabe smiled at her and told her it was a good try.

He’s sweet, smart, adorable and only 4 years old.

When I arrived the other day, his mother told me he was upstairs cleaning his room. I have never seen his room messy, so I was curious to see what exactly he was cleaning. I arrived upstairs to find Gabe arranging his books in alphabetical order by author. Taped to the top of the shelf were the letters of the alphabet, written neatly in black crayon.

“I know my letters,” Gabe promised me, “But sometimes I sort of forget if P comes before R.”

I sat on Gabe’s bed and watched for 20 minutes as Gabe rearranged his already tidy bookshelf. When he was finished he gave me a relieved look.

“I just feel so much better. That shelf has been driving me crazy for weeks,” he told me.

It was only 7 a.m. Gabe was already dressed in a polo and khaki pants. He had finished breakfast and cleaned his room. I recall summer days when I didn’t change out of my pajamas until it was lunchtime.

We spent much of our morning reading books meant for 10-year-olds, searching for countries on a massive globe Gabe had received for his 4th birthday, and watering all of the plants in the house.

When we had watered all of the plants and made sure they were in a place where they would receive adequate sunlight, I cautiously asked Gabe what he would like to do next, hoping it wouldn’t be something too advanced for me.

“Can we do anything I want?” Gabe asked me.

“Sure, as long as your parents would approve,” I answered.

“Well, I just got a tape that teaches you how to speaks French. But last week my sister and I made mud pies,” Gabe began.

“Oooh, I love making mud pies,” I replied.

“It’s really fun, but I’ll need to change first,” Gabe said with a smile.

I waited as Gabe ran upstairs. He returned wearing a Spiderman T-shirt and bright red gym shorts. He was also jumping up and down in excitement.

We spent the rest of the morning digging in the dirt with spoons and plastic shovels. Gabe got dirt on our clothes and under our finger nails. He laughed at the wiggling worms and decorated his mud pies with rocks and sticks.

I love that Gabe is well-behaved and smart. But I also love him when he’s dirty and silly. After all, he’s only four. He has plenty of time to learn French.