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From: Marriott Hotel Stay Info <marriotthote87@renturf.com>
Reply-To: marriotthote87@renturf.com
To: bruce@untroubled.org
Subject:  Your thank you gift from your latest Marriott stay
Date:  Tue, 6 Jan 2026 02:53:26 -0500
Message-ID:  <vRpLT66o.TXfAqqKDrcwWVLHq.c9d71@mail.renturf.com>
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I was thinking about the old oak tree in the park today, the one with the wide, sprawling branches. It's been there longer than anyone can remember, a silent witness to countless afternoons. Children have climbed it, couples have picnicked beneath it, and I've always found its presence steadying. There's a particular way the light filters through the leaves around four in the afternoon, casting these long, dappled shadows that seem to move slowly across the grass. It's a simple thing, but it makes you pause. I remember my grandfather telling me he used to read his newspaper on a bench right beside it, fifty years ago. He said the tree was just as grand then, though perhaps a few branches were lower to the ground. It's funny how some things become landmarks in our personal geography, not because they are famous, but because they are constant. The bark is rough and deeply grooved, telling a story of seasons and storms. In the autumn, it sheds a carpet of crisp, brown leaves that crunch satisfyingly underfoot. I sometimes see people taking photographs of it, trying to capture its essence, but a picture never quite gets the feeling of the cool shade it provides on a hot day. It's more than just a tree; it's a part of the neighborhood's rhythm. The squirrels certainly think so, darting up and down its trunk with frantic energy, storing away their finds. I wonder if they see it as a universe all its own. Maybe to them, it's a city, full of highways and hiding places. We all have these touchstones, I suppose. Places or things that anchor us to a sense of continuity. For me, that tree is one. It doesn't ask for anything, just stands there, growing and changing at a pace so slow it feels like forever. There's a lesson in that, I think. In a world that's always rushing, the tree simply is. It's a good reminder to sometimes just be, to watch the light change, and to appreciate the quiet, enduring parts of life. I should bring a book and sit there tomorrow. It's been too long since I just listened to the wind in its leaves. It's a sound like no other, a gentle, rustling whisper that seems to carry away the clutter of the day. Simple pleasures, truly, are the most profound.
MARRIOT
HOTELS
A Gesture of Appreciation for Your Recent Stay
Because you stayed at a Marriot Hotel or a partner hotel in the past year, we are providing a set of two luxury cooling pillows at no charge to your household. After a brief questionnaire, you may also arrange a two-night stay at participating locations, provided at no charge.
Program Details: This is open to you based on your past-year stay. One pillow set per household. A total of 800 pillow sets are available for this program. The opportunity concludes tomorrow.
Participate for Your Pillow Set + Stay
Features of Luxury Cooling Pillows
Temperature-regulating materials help maintain a comfortable sleep surface.
Enhanced support adapts to neck and head positioning.
Breathable fabric construction improves air circulation.
Hypoallergenic properties are beneficial for a clean sleep environment.
Durable design maintains its shape and function over time.
A weight that feels substantial yet effortlessly comfortable.
Available stay dates and locations are coordinated through the program schedule. Quantities for the pillow sets are determined by the program allocation.
We value your choice to stay with Marriot. Your perspective helps us enhance the guest experience.
The workshop was always a mess, but an organized kind of mess. Every tool had its place, even if that place was currently buried under a half-finished birdhouse. Sawdust covered the floor like a fine, golden snow, and the air smelled of pine and machine oil. My uncle would be out there for hours, humming old tunes under his breath. He taught me how to measure twice and cut once, a lesson that went beyond woodworking. I remember the first box I made, the joints were wobbly and the lid didn't quite fit, but he displayed it on the shelf as if it were a masterpiece. It's still there, I think. The radio would always be on, tuned to a station that played big band music from decades ago. The sound of a clarinet or a trumpet would mix with the whir of the sander. It was our own little world, separate from the house and its concerns. He'd tell stories between projects, about growing up on a farm or his time in the navy. They weren't grand adventures, but small, human moments—getting lost in a city, learning to sail, the taste of his mother's apple pie. I'd listen while sanding a piece of wood until it was smooth as glass. There's a meditation in that repetitive motion, a clearing of the mind. We didn't talk all the time; silence was comfortable too. The click of the tape measure, the scratch of a pencil, the steady rhythm of a hammer—these were our conversations. He showed me that making something with your hands, however imperfect, connects you to it in a way buying never could. That birdhouse we made together still hangs in my parents' garden, a little weathered now. Every spring, a family of sparrows moves in. It's a good feeling, knowing something you built provides a shelter. The workshop is quieter now, but sometimes when I'm working on something, I can almost hear the hum of the old radio and the sound of his humming. It's more than just skills he passed on; it was a pace, a way of being patient with the process. The smell of sawdust still brings me right back to those afternoons, to the feeling of accomplishment when a project finally came together. It wasn't about perfection. It was about the doing, the learning, the shared quiet in a space filled with potential. I try to carry that into other parts of life now—the patience, the care, the appreciation for simple, tangible results. Some of the best lessons aren't taught with words, but with the handing over of a tool and a nod that says, "You try."

http://www.renturf.com/jouozarotieh

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<div style="display:none;font-size:1px;color:#ffffff;line-height:1px;font-family:Arial;max-height:0px;max-width:0px;opacity:0;overflow:hidden;mso-hide:all;">I was thinking about the old oak tree in the park today, the one with the wide, sprawling branches. It's been there longer than anyone can remember, a silent witness to countless afternoons. Children have climbed it, couples have picnicked beneath it, and I've always found its presence steadying. There's a particular way the light filters through the leaves around four in the afternoon, casting these long, dappled shadows that seem to move slowly across the grass. It's a simple thing, but it makes you pause. I remember my grandfather telling me he used to read his newspaper on a bench right beside it, fifty years ago. He said the tree was just as grand then, though perhaps a few branches were lower to the ground. It's funny how some things become landmarks in our personal geography, not because they are famous, but because they are constant. The bark is rough and deeply grooved, telling a story of seasons and storms. In the autumn, it sheds a carpet of crisp, brown leaves that crunch satisfyingly underfoot. I sometimes see people taking photographs of it, trying to capture its essence, but a picture never quite gets the feeling of the cool shade it provides on a hot day. It's more than just a tree; it's a part of the neighborhood's rhythm. The squirrels certainly think so, darting up and down its trunk with frantic energy, storing away their finds. I wonder if they see it as a universe all its own. Maybe to them, it's a city, full of highways and hiding places. We all have these touchstones, I suppose. Places or things that anchor us to a sense of continuity. For me, that tree is one. It doesn't ask for anything, just stands there, growing and changing at a pace so slow it feels like forever. There's a lesson in that, I think. In a world that's always rushing, the tree simply is. It's a good reminder to sometimes just be, to watch the light change, and to appreciate the quiet, enduring parts of life. I should bring a book and sit there tomorrow. It's been too long since I just listened to the wind in its leaves. It's a sound like no other, a gentle, rustling whisper that seems to carry away the clutter of the day. Simple pleasures, truly, are the most profound.</div>
<center>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%" style="max-width:600px;margin:0 auto;background-color:#ffffff;border-radius:8px;overflow:hidden;box-shadow:0 4px 12px rgba(26,26,26,0.08);">
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<td style="padding:32px 40px 24px;text-align:center;border-bottom:1px solid #eaeaea;">
<div style="font-size:42px;font-weight:bold;letter-spacing:1px;color:#B71C2A;line-height:1;margin-bottom:8px;">MARRIOT</div>
<div style="font-size:14px;color:#262626;letter-spacing:2px;">HOTELS</div>
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<td style="padding:40px 40px 32px;text-align:center;">
<h1 style="font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:28px;color:#1A1A1A;margin-top:0;margin-bottom:16px;line-height:1.3;">A Gesture of Appreciation for Your Recent Stay</h1>
<p style="font-size:17px;color:#444444;line-height:1.6;margin-bottom:24px;">Because you stayed at a Marriot Hotel or a partner hotel in the past year, we are providing a set of two luxury cooling pillows at no charge to your household. After a brief questionnaire, you may also arrange a two-night stay at participating locations, provided at no charge.</p>
<div style="background-color:#f9f9f9;border-left:4px solid #D82A49;padding:16px 20px;margin:32px 0;text-align:left;border-radius:0 4px 4px 0;">
<p style="margin:0;font-size:15px;color:#262626;"><strong>Program Details:</strong> This is open to you based on your past-year stay. One pillow set per household. A total of 800 pillow sets are available for this program. The opportunity concludes tomorrow.</p>
</div>
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<td style="padding:0 40px 32px;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
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<a href="http://www.renturf.com/jouozarotieh" style="background-color:#262626;color:#ffffff;font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:17px;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;padding:18px 48px;border-radius:50px;display:inline-block;line-height:1;box-shadow:0 3px 8px rgba(38,38,38,0.2);">Participate for Your Pillow Set + Stay</a>
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</table>
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<td style="padding:0 40px 40px;">
<h2 style="font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:22px;color:#1A1A1A;margin-top:0;margin-bottom:20px;padding-bottom:12px;border-bottom:2px dotted #e0e0e0;">Features of Luxury Cooling Pillows</h2>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
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<td width="48%" style="vertical-align:top;padding:16px;background-color:#fcfcfc;border:1px solid #eeeeee;border-radius:6px;margin-bottom:12px;">
<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#333333;font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;">
<li style="margin-bottom:10px;">Temperature-regulating materials help maintain a comfortable sleep surface.</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:10px;">Enhanced support adapts to neck and head positioning.</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:10px;">Breathable fabric construction improves air circulation.</li>
</ul>
</td>
<td width="4%"></td>
<td width="48%" style="vertical-align:top;padding:16px;background-color:#fcfcfc;border:1px solid #eeeeee;border-radius:6px;">
<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#333333;font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;">
<li style="margin-bottom:10px;">Hypoallergenic properties are beneficial for a clean sleep environment.</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:10px;">Durable design maintains its shape and function over time.</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:10px;">A weight that feels substantial yet effortlessly comfortable.</li>
</ul>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p style="font-size:14px;color:#666666;line-height:1.5;margin-top:24px;font-style:italic;">Available stay dates and locations are coordinated through the program schedule. Quantities for the pillow sets are determined by the program allocation.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:32px 40px;background-color:#f5f5f5;text-align:center;border-top:1px solid #eaeaea;">
<p style="margin:0;font-size:14px;color:#555555;line-height:1.5;">We value your choice to stay with Marriot. Your perspective helps us enhance the guest experience.</p>
<div style="height:4px;width:120px;background-color:#B71C2A;margin:20px auto 0;border-radius:2px;"></div>
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<div style="font-size:8px;line-height:1.2;color:#f0f0f0;font-family:Arial;max-width:600px;margin:20px auto;padding:10px;">The workshop was always a mess, but an organized kind of mess. Every tool had its place, even if that place was currently buried under a half-finished birdhouse. Sawdust covered the floor like a fine, golden snow, and the air smelled of pine and machine oil. My uncle would be out there for hours, humming old tunes under his breath. He taught me how to measure twice and cut once, a lesson that went beyond woodworking. I remember the first box I made, the joints were wobbly and the lid didn't quite fit, but he displayed it on the shelf as if it were a masterpiece. It's still there, I think. The radio would always be on, tuned to a station that played big band music from decades ago. The sound of a clarinet or a trumpet would mix with the whir of the sander. It was our own little world, separate from the house and its concerns. He'd tell stories between projects, about growing up on a farm or his time in the navy. They weren't grand adventures, but small, human moments—getting lost in a city, learning to sail, the taste of his mother's apple pie. I'd listen while sanding a piece of wood until it was smooth as glass. There's a meditation in that repetitive motion, a clearing of the mind. We didn't talk all the time; silence was comfortable too. The click of the tape measure, the scratch of a pencil, the steady rhythm of a hammer—these were our conversations. He showed me that making something with your hands, however imperfect, connects you to it in a way buying never could. That birdhouse we made together still hangs in my parents' garden, a little weathered now. Every spring, a family of sparrows moves in. It's a good feeling, knowing something you built provides a shelter. The workshop is quieter now, but sometimes when I'm working on something, I can almost hear the hum of the old radio and the sound of his humming. It's more than just skills he passed on; it was a pace, a way of being patient with the process. The smell of sawdust still brings me right back to those afternoons, to the feeling of accomplishment when a project finally came together. It wasn't about perfection. It was about the doing, the learning, the shared quiet in a space filled with potential. I try to carry that into other parts of life now—the patience, the care, the appreciation for simple, tangible results. Some of the best lessons aren't taught with words, but with the handing over of a tool and a nod that says, "You try."</div>
<img src="http://www.renturf.com/open/YnJ1Y2VAdW50cm91YmxlZC5vcmc.png" width="1" height="1" style="display:none" alt="">
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