(Original Publication Date, 10 November 1990)
My master plan was that after mom left for work, I would go down to the mail collection box way before 11:00 am and wait for the mailman. When the time came I could hear myself arguing, “Just a few more minutes of sleep. You will wake up way before 11:00 am.” It turns out I was right. I woke up at 10:58 am. I ran down to the mail collection box and said to the mailman, “Excuse me! Wait! (Puff, gasp) I put a very personal letter in there, and I hafta have it back!!” I know what you are thinking. I should be trying to present myself with authority and I should not be saying, “hafta’, but “have to.” It turns out it didn’t matter with this mailman.
I don’t know if you are aware of the history of mailmen in our town of Milborough, but my mother often tells me that if you see one with buck teeth, then most likely they are not a client of dad’s, but they are almost entirely recruited from dairy farm workers and don’t make enough money for proper dental work or for that matter, conversations that do not involve cows. This mailman was one of those.
He said, “Sorry, son.” I responded brilliantly with “But!...” Then he told a cow story. “Once it’s gone into the system, it has to be processed and go through all the proper channels. Yes, sir. Puttin’ a letter into Canada Post is like knowing a cow just swallowed yer car key. They only way to retrieve it…is from the other end.”
I was sad. Sad because I didn’t get my love etter to you. Sad because I had to endure a terrible cow story about the Canada Post. But most of all sad because my mother turned out to be right about mailmen. He certainly was not like the mailman I remember growing up.
Thanks for reading,