Neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor retirement...

The other day, I received, among the usual junk in my mailbox, a photocopied, handwritten note from my mailman to the effect that he was throwing in the towel after 46 years with the post office.

Only recently, maybe a few weeks ago, I was standing by my mailbox when he pulled up, so he handed me my mail. I don't remember another instance of having met him or any other mailman (if indeed there has been another mailman in the 33 years of my residence here)and I would not recognize him again from this brief encounter and would not have recognized him then were it not for the fact that he was delivering my mail and driving the mail truck. Even then, I could not be sure it was the same fellow. I don't think he is a Cal Ripkin-like figure who has faithfully delivered the mail every mail day for the past 46 years and there may have been many other mailmen in my life, unbeknownst to me.

Right now, I am mulling over my response to his messsage and have sort of decided to buy a card for someone embarked on retirement and maybe leave him a bottle of wine as a token of my appreciation for his unobtrusive devotion to increasing the amount of paper garbage generated by my household, which, by the way, has led to my familiarity with the recycling team with whom I am only slightly better acquainted.

The whole scene with my mailman here in the country is in stark contrast to my experience decades ago in Manhattan. I lived in a six story apartment building with about 48 apartments and there, I was very well acquainted with my mailman. Probably because he would spend about half an hour a day in our building, sorting and placing mail in the individual mailboxes; and while a whole coterie of building residents waited for him to finish, we became his friends.

I remember the scene vividly. A little after 8:30 in the morning, a small crowd would gather in the area of the lobby which contained the mailboxes. They were located in an ill lit area behind the stairway and contained several rows of individual mailboxes with hinged doors about 4 inches wide and maybe 8 inches high. each mailbox had a unique key and was assigned to a particular apartment. Above these boxes was another single hinged door which ran along the top of the mailboxes and could be opened with a master key, which revealed, when opened, the open tops of the individual mailboxes. The mail was inserted into the individual boxes and the large door was locked by the mailman and all was secure.

The mailman, carrying a sack of mail and later using a trolley to carry it, would show up, get comfortable, fill his pipe with tobacco and get it going with a few aromatic puffs. He would then open the master door and reach in to the leftmost mailbox and pull out an electric light bulb which he screwed in to the socket above the boxes, enabling him to do his job. Then the fun would begin . Correspondents were supposed to write the apartment number as part of the address but this was not always done. He would pull a stack of letters out of his bag and taking each individual one, look at it, tap the bottom edge of the envelope against the edge of the mailboxes, either to see the address clearly if it was in a loose window envelope or maybe just as a habit, sort of like someone saying "eh" when contemplating his next words. He did need time to process where to put the mail, especially when the address did not show an apartment number. Sometimes he would hand mail to one of the waiting crowd whom he recognized. He sometimes had to struggle to get a large or bulky envelope into the narrow sheath of the mailbox (not a patch on the struggle by the subscriber to get it out)and sometimes he was baffled as to where to put the mail. He once complained, after the neighborhood had become more hispanic, "There are five Gonzales' here and they say to me 'watch!'." When I came home in the evenings there were always letters laying around near the mailboxes which apparently had been misdirected.

When he finished delivering the mail, he would unscrew the light bulb, put it in its place, slam the large door with the key in the lock which was attached to a long thong connected to his belt. We would say good bye, everyone would scramble to get the mail out of their box, and the crowd would disperse with their bills and dunning notices, until the next day.

Ah, how I love the country.

Out of the Fog

I was driving this morning on the Tappan Zee bridge in a very thick fog. As I toodled along, I thought that the drive was a good metaphor for life. I was on the long, low part, completely covered by the fog so that I couldn't see the water at all, and I couldn't see that far ahead either. So here I am, just going along with just the people around me, with no ability to see the future. Just like in life, we go on surrounded by the people around us, all heading into the future on faith. We assume that there is a road ahead of us, and we drive towards it expecting a good outcome.

Then the sun came out, and I just kept going.

Missing in Action

I know that I have not been posting lately. This is largely due to me being blocked at work from access to my blogger account, and no (real) internet at home. I am working to remedy the situation at work, but today I have the trusty laptop and access to the internet through the Court systems wifi in the courthouse. (Your tax dollars at work!). Well, they are about to call the calendar, so I have to get off now.

Until I get access or appear in Court again.

An Allegory

Many decades ago, I was invited to my brother's new suburban home for a Sunday barbecue. When my sister-in-law needed to purchase some hamburger buns or rye bread - I forget which - I volunteered to drive to the bakery and make the purchase. I was unfamiliar with the area at the time and, while willing to go into town, I didn't know where to go.

The bakery was designated by the locals as "Mrs. Frank's". To ease my way - this was before GPS - my 15 year old nephew was designated to ride shotgun and tell me exactly where to drive. He assured me he knew exactly what we were looking for. We got into my car and sped away in the direction of the center of town. As we neared the center, I asked him where to turn and he told me to just keep on going. Following his direction, I continued on past the main intersection in town heading towards the east end. I was certain we had missed the place and kept asking him if he was sure he knew where to go and he told me, "of course I do, I go this way every day," which, while slightly encouraging, didn't mean that he knew where I wanted to go. We continued in this vein for another mile or so and I was sure he had no idea. Suddenly, we approached a run down building that at one time was a private house and now boasted a sign "FRANK'S SUPERETTE."

My nephew pointed it out and told me that this was the place. Okay, I didn't know what I was to expect and he seemed so sure that I skeptically pulled to the curb, again asking him, as we got out of the car, if he was sure that this was the place. He again replied in the affirmative. I went in to find a small grocery store with a deli counter at one end. The price list showed an array of products, including pork chops and ham sandwiches among more innocuous fare. Now I knew I was in the wrong place and shamefacedly, we left the premises and returned home sans baked goods. (We didn't have cell phones then, either.)

I subsequently moved to the same area and in the ensuing years, whenever we passed Frank's Superette, we recalled the incident which had become a family joke. Over the years, Frank's closed and the building was abandoned and thereafter was razed. The property stood empty and unused for many years, the grass growing tall and finally being overcome by weeds.

This morning I chanced to pass by and to my surprise a brand new building in the style of Rite-Aid or CVS with a paved parking lot, stood on the site.

Sic transit gloria mundi.