Topic 11: On Waiting for the Postman

Carol:

Please, Mr. Postman

Our mailbox is looking pretty shabby, the black paint faded from the sun at 5000 feet altitude. The numbers on the box have been replaced several times because neighborhood kids (maybe even the Hammond kids) used to pull off one of the four numbers to leave “666.” The address itself is our fourth in 27 years although we have never moved, evidence of the growing population of our community. The first mailbox was out on the main road along with about 15 others on a long post built by the county, Our mailing address was simply our name and “Camp Wood Route,” not even a number.

Eventually, the county gave us an official house address and notification put up a mailbox at the end of our driveway. I felt a leap in my heart in a Steve Martin “Hey, the new phone books are in” kind of way, the same excitement I felt when the Costco was built and we didn’t have to drive down to Phoenix anymore. Our own address, our own home delivery, and by golly, we would actually see a postman. Of course, out here the postman is somebody hired by the postal service who drives around in a little truck, no uniform and pouch, no dogs nipping at his legs.

During those 27 years, the mail has changed along with the addresses. The chatty letters, birthday cards, even the bills have disappeared as the older loyal letter writers died and the cards and bills replaced by e-vites, e-mails, e-cards and egads…paperless billing. I miss those letters, full of little tidbits of family news and neighborhood gossip, political rantings. As I pour over generations of letters saved by various family members, I appreciate the history—and love—captured in the hand-written notes:

“Dear Grandma and Grandpa—

We received your letter and am sorry Buster is dead. We have a Agora kitty and paid a dollar for it. I shot three sparrows a few days ago and the kitty sure did like them” Love, Edward (from Los Angeles, 1920)


Dear Mother—

This is the first chance I have had to answer your letter. Sol phoned me early Thurs. and asked if I wanted to go to Mexico with no expenses, so here I am. We are about 75 miles from Cananea or 120 south of Bisbee. It is a mining proposition and Mr. Guth is the owner. We are having a swell time if we don’t get anything else. I will get a letter off soon. Love, Edward (from Mexico, 1935)

Dear Mother—

It is getting close to time for me to go out in the hills again and I will get my letter writing done so that it can get on the boat. I received your letter on the 10th. We had been up the coast on a job and when the boat came after us it had our mail. That is one of the things we live for up here—the mail. Love, Edward (from Alaska, 1938)

I guess the postman was always the best friend of lovers and mothers, both of which I have been. Nowadays, I save the e-mails with the family news and political ravings in an electronic folder, ready for archiving to keep the family history trail going. But, I still get a little pang of excitement when the dog starts barking at the approaching postal truck. I run for the door, “Hey, the new Netflix is here.”


Megan:

Last week a friend called to say that he’d sent me a letter. So far, it hasn’t turned up, and I’ve found myself doing something I haven’t done since the advent of e-mail and Facebook, -- waiting for the postman.

Most days, Milo lets me know when the mail has come by barking at the white jeep that stops in front of our driveway. I’ve always encouraged this behavior by taking him with me to get the mail – an impromptu ‘walk’ in the middle of the day. For him, it’s a quick chance to re-mark his territory unencumbered by a leash, but for me, it’s a daily dose of disappointment.


When I left England, I didn’t get around to forwarding my mail, or even really informing anyone that I was leaving. Since I’d paid all my bills and loans, I didn’t really see the point. And since I’ve returned, I haven’t done much to lay down postal roots. I don’t have a bank account or any bills to pay. I subscribe to two professional journals, but I’m not sure how often they come, and I have a hard time remembering to read them. So, getting the mail has mostly been a favor for my parents – although how much of a favor is questionable. Since they don’t have a designated place to put the mail, I usually lay it down … wherever. This is the sort of thing that led to the electricity getting shut off when I was a kid. They had the money but couldn’t find the bill.

My point is, I don’t receive mail very often. So, when I hear that a real-live-actual-hand-written-letter is en route, I get pretty excited. So, what’s taking so long?