When I’m downtown in the big smoke, I keep a handful of toonies in my pocket to dish out to panhandlers. I’ve also been known to buy a poppy or two in November; and, sometimes, I find myself stocking up on Girl Guides cookies when I get that knock at the door.

Outside of those activities I’m not much for casual charity. And of the one or two good works I sometimes support, I make sure they don’t give my name to anyone.

But a few years ago I slipped up and sent off a few dollars to save the whales, or wolves, or whistling marmots, or, perhaps, an acre or two of tall grass prairie — or maybe even to buy a meal for a street kid.

I got a nice printed “Thank you” note and then the floodgates opened. Gradually, worthy causes passed the word that there was a live one out in my postal code and my mailbox began to fill up. I got small packages of my name and address for sticking on letters. I received tasteful samplings of “Thank you” notes and several pads with my name inked on them, as well as a refrigerator magnet or two.

All these small gifts came with a note that told me every little bit counts, and that perhaps I would like to send them $50 or maybe I would like to sign up for a regular monthly donation. Several highly regarded charities must have figured out the state of my age and health and say they would be delighted to tell me how to write them into my will.

To all of these appeals, I turned a cold and guilty shoulder and sent them nothing — or almost nothing. One organization sent me so many of those personal address labels that I finally mailed off the smallest cheque and suggested they save either part of an eastern wolf or a couple of whistling marmots.

(If I slip up and send them another tiny cheque, I plan to focus on the marmots. I was out in the woods one night this winter and I heard the eastern wolf howl. Stirring and mildly terrifying. I would much rather have heard a marmot whistling.)

Of course, it is not only charities and worthy causes that fatten your mailbox. Think for a minute of magazines and books. I have always been a voracious reader, but I subscribed to magazines through my office and when I wanted more — which I always did — I bought heaps of them at stores and newsstands.

But when I moved deep into the country, I found the magazine selection at my local convenience store and bait shop limited. There, sandwiched between the worm cooler and the beef jerky stand, you could find magazines on juicing up your snowmobile, or cutting the best quilt, or 110 ways to cook with ketchup. So, I sent off subscriptions to a selection of notable magazines; and shortly thereafter, they started coming my way.

But they were not alone.

They cast a long shadow and out of it crept a whole tier of magazines offering to educate me, or keep me informed, or teach me how to make money. They offered discounts and deep discounts. I think the best was 70% off the newsstand price. That was their professional discount and I was one of the lucky ones to be offered it — although they never did specify just what I was professing.

And if the professional discount wasn’t enough, several magazines offered to throw in either a Palm Pilot, or a cellphone, or some kind of microchip organizer well beyond my powers to operate. Let me tell you, I was tempted and I almost was seduced by the Times Literary Supplement, which promised to make me au fait at the farmers’ market.

But I was strong and threw their offer — actually, offers — into the fireplace. At the same time, I almost signed up for a selection of books recommended highly by Robertson Davies (who doesn’t seem to have let death get in the way of his preachments). As I am trying to get my book collection under control by quietly donating books to the local library, I passed on Rob.

@page_break@So far, I am being strong, uncharitable and careful in my reading and penurious of purse. But it’s been a long winter and I might weaken. I usually do. IE