Photo Credit: United States Postal Service

The postal service has been with us longer than we've been a country. From 1753 to 1774, it was the British colonial mail service. In the early 1770s, underground mail networks were established so people could make secret plans to break free of the King's reign. In 1775, the Continental Congress brought the system above ground and officially declared it the Post Office of the United States. Facing collapse in the mid-1800s because of competition from private delivery services, Congress granted the postal service a monopoly to carry the nation's mail. In 1971, what was once a department represented by a cabinet-level position, became a government-owned company expected to earn enough money to pay for itself. Although other companies deliver packages, the post office remains responsible for the mail.   

Where I grew up, a mailman walked from house to house, picking up and delivering the mail. My first memory of a mailman was Joe. His uniform was almost military in its presentation. Long pants, a short-sleeved shirt in warmer temperatures, long sleeves in cooler, and a heavier coat in winter. The bag slung over his shoulder was worn but not neglected. What creases and spots there were spoke experience, not abuse. His face was always bright with a smile. Occasionally I would see Joe and his family at church. He exchanged the uniform for a Sunday suit and tie, but the smile remained. 

My next memory is of Charlie. He took to the streets in the 1970s, his appearance in contrast to Joe's. Not sloppy but casual. Charlie wore his hair long in a ponytail, and his uniform pants were short, his shirt untucked and wrinkled, his shoes scuffed and worn. The bag seemed out of place on him.  If given a choice, I think he would have carried the mail in a canvas backpack. Charlie didn’t so much smile as he always seemed to be in mid-laugh. Whenever I saw Charlie out of uniform, he was driving around town in a blue Corvette Stingray, wearing faded jeans and t-shirts. Joe gave the impression delivering the mail was a sacred duty. It seemed like a good way for Charlie to make money instead of sweating in a grimy hot steel mill or sitting behind a desk in a stuffy office.  But they both flawlessly delivered. 

All my mail carriers since have been a series of faceless drivers seated behind the wheel of a postal delivery truck. A quick stop and go. If there's any contact, it's a casual glance and a polite wave. The mail used to play a more central role in my life, but bills and payments are now mostly exchanged online, letters became emails, and vacation postcards were replaced by Instagram posts.  It now consists primarily of direct mail solicitations and seemingly endless stacks of Orvis catalogs.   

I rarely leave anything in the mailbox for delivery. On the rare occasion I have something to mail, I include a stop in an errand run and drop the envelope into one of the big blue metal mailboxes outside the post office. But recently I mailed something from home. The weather was lousy, the roads snow-covered in places, I didn't have any place to go, and I didn’t want to wait. 

Despite the ease of communicating electronically, I still pen the occasional handwritten note. There's something more personal in putting pen to paper rather than thumbing a text or typing an email. On Valentine's Day, my grandson Carter gave me a paper valentine with his name handwritten and a Paw Patrol Pencil to go with it. I wrote him a note, with the pencil, to let him know how much I appreciated the gift. He can't read, but Carter likes to get mail. Chris will occasionally send him a greeting card and stickers, and I will sometimes drop him a handwritten note or postcard whenever I travel. Jonathan will usually tell us when it gets there. After a couple of weeks of not hearing anything, I asked my son if Carter had received the note. He didn't. Although we live in two different towns, there's only a little over four miles between our homes. Someone dropped the ball…and the letter. 

Carter wasn't expecting a letter from me, so there's no disappointment on his end. But there is on mine. The joy in imagining him opening the note and having one of his parents read it to him was replaced by the nagging question of what happened to it. Was it stolen by someone looking for a check to cash? Did it fall on the floor of a delivery truck, fly out the window between stops, drop to a parking lot, or disappear into some crack or crevasse along its journey through the system? 

The loss of one piece of mail out of the thousands I've sent and received in a lifetime shouldn't be cause for concern. Anyone would be proud of this success ratio. And I don't know any person or organization that can claim perfection. Just because a letter I put in my mailbox disappeared, while everything I mail onsite arrives; doesn’t mean I can’t trust the mail person.  They may not be a Joe or a Charlie, but they took the oath.  Although it irritated me enough to obsess over it for a month and write this blog, I know I should get over it. And I will. 

Valentine's Day is history, but I can still send Carter a letter. I'll write him a note letting him know how special he is and tell him I used the Paw Patrol Pencil. Then on my way to the library, I'll swing by the post office to drop it in one of those big blue boxes. 

Hey, baby steps. Healing takes time.