Maybe I have been too task oriented lately. In my determination to "git 'er done," I haven't lifted my bent-over-pen-and-paper head long enough to smell the tea. Could be I'm too busy making tick marks on the wall behind my stacks to enjoy the journey of "catching up." So, I took a bunch of hours off to have a little fun. This is some of what I did:
Welcome to my other address? Why, oh, why, can't my other address be in Hawaii? In Colorado? Or even Italy? I'd settle for Galveston Island. I had to settle for reality instead. The postoffice really is my other address, and I've spent a lot of time there lately. Last week I was there 6 days out of seven days. And guess what.
Yesterday, it was four for four. Moanday through Hump Day. On Moanday, a regular clerk-- by regular, I mean she waits on me often enough that we're getting to know each other-- looks forward to examining every piece of mail I turn over that requires extra services. She asks about my incoming, and two days ago she expressed her disappointment over my disappointing out-going mail. Translation: None of my outgoing mail was embellished beyond a polite splash of color, or a new address label.
Can you believe it? She called to mind the first time I made a C in second grade. Mama said, "Oh, I have to show this to your father." Of course I thought it was something to be proud of. I'd never earned a C before.
Silly me, thinking Daddy would be happy, I was confused when he saw it after dinner, and said "BJ, I'm surprised at you." The emphasis was on "you," meaning he was used to my older sister bringing home Cs, but not me. What did I know. In our home surprises were good things. Daddy had never explained that surprised had two meanings before, so I grinned like I'd brought home a golden apple, or a trophy. Mama explained it to me later. Oh, the shame and disappointment a C can bring down on a girl's head.
Disappointment can do several things. It can make a person determined to do better. Or it can make them feel, "If you think you're disappointed now, wait until next time, 'cause darlin, you won't see my flair again until long after the barn doors are bolted." Meaning, some people don't cotton to being told they're a disappointment. Guess which category I manage to slip under. Rather unintentionally, though.
Then yesterday, day after Hump Day, I was given the pleasure of knowing I've been dubbed the Park Row Post Office's Inspiration. Seriously. My favorite clerk, "Char" told me I inspire them with my mail art, frequency in writing, the amount of mail I write, and by the beautiful, artistic, clever, original, interesting mail I receive. She confessed that SHE OFTEN READS MY MAIL!. By that, I hope she meant the postcards, but even that's a no-no.
Dose anyone recall me mentioning some of my mail had been opened and read? A letter from Wales was opened and read, and the postcard neatly placed on top. Two postcards from opposite sides of the world bore the same liquid paper drops, AND imprints from the bottom of the bottle? Since then, I try to glue, tape, and solder my outgoing mail seams. I think it was Rusty who asked what I used to glue my envelope flaps. LOL. I use bookbinder's glue.
I wondered why my stacks of mail are often put to the side, instead of being tossed into the big box on wheels, destined for the back. It's being critiqued, examined, and whatever . . . It's nice to hear those ladies are inspired to write and embellish on a regular basis, but have you ever wondered if they write more than the average person? I have, and what I've learned disappoints me. They're running campaigns to get Americans writing to save the post office. Well, what about them? I am going to start a campaign to get them, the postal employees to write letters, too. After all, it's only fair. Don't you think? They're like bartenders who don't drink.
. . . to be continued.