My Mailman

Strange. I can remember things seventy-five years ago but after a couple weeks absence, I had to think twice how to upload something on my computer into la la land. Maybe you don't remember la la land but it's easier than remembering cyber space or the Internet (with a capital I).

I also remember the huckster (who delivered vegetables to our neighborhood), the ice man who delivered chunks of ice for our icebox because we didn't have a refrigerator or freezer). I also remember the Colonial Man who peddled bread and donuts. And I remember the mail- man. He walked house to house and as a kid, I didn't pay too much attention. There was rarely anything shoved through the slot in the door for me.

Now, the Mailman (or Mail lady) drives up to our mailbox along the curb (which we don't have) and rarely misses a day without delivering something. Christmas aside, we rarely get a personal letter, not even bills (they arrive on the computer). But a lot of what we call “junk mail. Junk I guess sounds better than trash, debris or rubble I suppose. But we still look for it every day and wonder why when the box is empty.

Now, this didn't happen when I was considerably younger. I don't know if the Postal Service broke even in those days but it sure is in economic distress nowadays (that sounds better than broke or deeply in debt). Either my wife or I get the mail and we sort it out: his, hers, maybe. No doubt you do the same or similar. We look for a personal letter or postcard, usually in vain. Then we look at the ads just in case . . . Occasionally I will peek at the postage paid which often is not visible. But now and then a piece arrives: postage is perhaps 5 cents (costs me 45 cents). But it might take nine solicitations of every imaginable kind to equal one personal letter.

Occasionally, a box arrives. Maybe its some ink cartridges for my computer or a gift we ordered for a grandkid which we repackage and send on (gotta have a ribbon, right?). Then the mail person brings it up on our porch, rings the bell and hands it over. Better than some of the other delivery services which may ring the bell but leave the package, rain or shine, and are on their way. So, we seldom see those people unless we owe money or . . .

When I think back, way back, to those ol' folks who were my age back then, how they looked forward to the mailman, hoping he'd (not many if any she's then) have something, anything, to brighten their day. And maybe he'd have a minute or two to chat or accept a cup of coffee.

Would I wish those days back? Yeah, I would. I think I could enjoy a cup of coffee with the mailman if it wouldn't earn a reprimand from his boss. Memories. Hang on to 'em because someday they may elude you. And me.