The Mail Box
by John Mooy
When you grow up in a small town with a father who is a rural mail carrier there are a number of things that happen. You become familiar with the people on the mail route. You probably have the experience of riding along on the mail route, and when you do that, you have the assignment of opening the doors on the mailboxes and putting in the mail.
As I’ve traveled around the country, I’m always on the lookout for interesting mailboxes. Right down the road from where we live there is a two-by-eight board which has an entire lineup of mailboxes attached to the board. This isn’t particularly unusual, but you immediately notice the colors of the boxes. Each box is painted a different color. They are bright colors: red, blue, green, orange and yellow to name a few of the colors.
We’ve all seen those mailboxes mounted six to eight feet in the air with the sign “air mail” attached to the pole. These are just decorative; not for the mail carrier to figure how to get up high enough to deposit the day’s mail.
If you’re a fisherman, you probably enjoy what appears to be a largemouth bass mounted on a post in which you put your hand into the mouth of the bass to open the door to the box.
While there is the standard gray box with the red flag on the side that meets postal requirements these requirements have many variations which might be the design of the person the mailbox belongs to.
The mailbox also has requirements in terms of what can be placed in them. I recall on my dad’s route; boxes were often used to give Dad a message that he should deliver to someone else on the route. My favorite note left in the box was accompanied by two or three fresh eggs. The note read, “Nat, Marian is making a cake, and she doesn’t have any eggs. Please deliver these eggs to her and don’t stop to talk to Archie on the way.”
Often times depending upon the time of the year, Dad might find everything from a hot cup of chocolate to sweet corn to a package of Archie’s homemade sausage. Not sure this is what the postal department had in mind, but it seemed to work just fine. Christmas time found the mailboxes filled with cookies, baked goods and even the occasional bottle of Jim Beam.
Mrs. Hattie Roggelien on Dad’s route didn’t even have a mailbox. She was nearly blind, lived by herself and each day Dad pulled in to her driveway and took the mail in to her. I should mention she did have two dogs, Jiggs and Boots, black and white Boston terriers who I would describe as being wonderfully annoying.
Someone along the way had a mailbox that the patrons could see from the house although it was a bit of a distance. When Dad opened the box, a spring-loaded flag would pop up and this would let the folks know the mail had been delivered.
Another patron had an old, junked car parked along the road in front of their house that would simply open the door to the car and leave the mail on the front seat.
The mailbox also served as a gathering spot on Dad’s route on Saturday mornings when kids would wait for Dad to arrive at their mailbox. Depending upon the number of kids, he would divide up the mail, put a rubber band around the mail, give a bundle to each kid and then ask them to race as fast as they could to the house.
I remember Dad recalling that with the advent of the television and Saturday morning cartoons the kids didn’t come out like they used to. He found that to be somewhat sad but time marched on.
And while we should enjoy each of our days in many respects, those were the “good old days” which now provide us with many fond memories.
Have a great week, Marcellus.
You’re the best.
My favorite number is 49067.
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