A Mailman by any other name…

The mail has always fascinated me. From the time I was a small child, I wanted to be the recipient of mail I could hold in my hand, mail where my name appeared in the little glassine window proudly proclaiming that this piece of mail belonged to me and me alone.

Once after coming upon a postage paid advert card in one of my grandmother’s magazines, I carefully filled out the details, including my name and Mammy’s address and phone number then popped it into the mail box. I didn’t get mail from them, but my grandparents got some rather annoying calls for years from them trying to sell hearing aids to my perfectly hearing elders…and after all that, for me, still no mail.

It seems that no matter what town you live in, your Post Office is one of the first places of which you want to know the location . You actively hunt down that (usually) brick facade, the familiar Eagle insignia posted on the wall with the words United States Post Office. The grounds are well kept and nice shrubs usually skirt the front of the building.

The towns in our county are lucky to have some lovely examples of architecture. Chesterfield and Cheraw especially come to mind. It would be a pity to lose these buildings to progress. They have meant so much to so many people over the years, from the mail carriers to the workers behind the counter, always smiling always friendly and available to give information you might need.

They’ve even helped with directions to unfamiliar places. As a young Navy wife, the mail carrier was always someone I looked forward to seeing come up our walkway as he delivered mail from Mac who was often far from home aboard a ship. I wouldn’t wait to get inside the house to open the letters that arrived but would rip them open and begin devouring the words right there on the porch before I turned to walk back into the house, mail still clutched in ever tightening fingers. This was my link with someone I loved and missed.

The singing group Alabama had a song out about the rigors of mail delivery that covered the history of America’s mail service from the Pony Express right up through delivery in space. At the time no one had heard of e-mail or even dreamed of it.

In the cities I lived in here in the US they were letter carriers, in England they were Posties (and walked right in the front door to lay the mail on the entry hall table) and of course collectively they are mostly known as mailmen, whether they are male or female. I was in awe of our rural carriers who could sit in the middle of the front seat, drive the car while reaching for the mail bundle at their side as they pulled up to the mailbox without knocking it down.

Not Mad Nomad: My Deliverer Is Coming...

I began this blog in the fall as a way for all of you to follow my escapades as I drove across America. I loved almost every second that road trip. I loved that I was able to experience America in a whole new way. I was able to take pictures, both with my camera and my mind, that will forever connect me to the spots I had traveled. I read an article about something in Idaho and I see Idaho. I watch a news program about a bomber in Spokane, and my mind takes me to Spokane. I watch TMZ and recognize most of the filming locations as places I've walked around, eaten at, or tried (unsuccessfully, I'll happily admit) to also stalk famous people. Heck, I play Oregon Trail and now know exactly how far it is from Ohio to Oregon. (Thankfully, I never had to caulk my wagon and try to ford a river hoping that little Timmy was rested up enough after the snake bite that we wouldn't lose him but only 2 sets of clothes!) Mostly, though, I've loved this blog because I was able to take you with me. I know that you don't have all the same tangible memories that I have but maybe I was able to tell you enough about something that you are able to identify more as well. Maybe you now love Washington State a bit more because of my urging. Perhaps, you now want to visit Oregon and shop in their amazing sales-tax-free-ness.Or perhaps, you, like me, can now visualize a real buffalo when hunting on Oregon Trail. (too much Oregon Trail?) Because I've lived there. I know the cities. I know the people. I worry for friends. I worry for strangers. I worry for the homeless. I know what the cities are. I know that, as good ol' Midwestern cities, they are relatively used to and definitely know how to brace themselves for weather such as this. I've received photos from friends and family of inches of ice, feet of snow, and empty store shelves. I'm sure this is not much unlike your experience. (Even if it's not, it now can be...after all, you care about me, right? well, I'm stuck right in the middle of Chicago and Cincinnati with 6 inches of ice, snow, and our friend sleet. ugh.) In the fall of 2009, my mom and I had the unlikely opportunity to travel to land of the Pharaohs and stay for 3 weeks. We visited Cairo to marvel at the pyramids, experience the Cairo museum, and have dinner on the Nile. We ran played ultimate, real life Frogger as we ran across lanes of unyielding traffic. We hung out with Bedouins (one even offered my mom camels in exchange for my hand). We got to know Cairo.

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