My brother Greg, a carpenter, likes to tell of when he was working on a house in a retirement community. He would watch the mail truck drive slowly down the street, and as it stopped at each box, like falling dominoes house doors would open and the retirees would slowly make their way to their mailboxes. It seemed to be the highlight of their day.
I was reminded of that story when Becky told her sister Chrissy on the phone that we ordered a book for her. “Oh, boy! A package in the mail!” Chrissy said. At that moment, I knew the excitement she was feeling. I, too, love getting things in the mail. Packages are especially exciting although all mail is interesting in its own way.
In my hierarchy of mailbox items, packages are a No. 1 joy.
“Wow. Someone sent me something. I wonder what it is.”
I get excited even when a package arrives that I ordered for myself. It’s the thrill of opening a box, I guess. Even the faux gifts sent by charities—the cardboard mailers with cheap pens, calendars and those ubiquitous address labels—arouse a curiosity within me. (The irony of getting mailing labels with a name and address is not lost on me. These days communicating by “snail mail” has become as rare as taking one’s hat off at a restaurant, and still we are offered “free” address labels.)
Personal letters and cards from friends, relatives and others bring joy in the same way as packages. Maybe even more so. It’s that connection with someone. The knowledge that a person held this letter in her hand. What surprises await on that rectangle of information? What sentiments are to be found between the lines of those cards wishing us well? The good thing is, when I write a response, I have plenty of address labels.
Bills are often included in the daily mailbox mix. There are those who recoil and moan at the latest notices for utility charges, but I accept bills as part of the mailbox experience. I pay our charge card bills online, but I still like receiving the environmentally suspect piece of paper telling me how I spent money last month. I like holding it in my hands. I like putting a check mark next to each purchase as I match it to a receipt. I like remembering the situation when we swiped the card: that dinner date, that trip to the state museum with the G-Kids. Reconciling statements on a screen is not the same for me.
I’m not crazy about the come-ons for new charge cards, special deals on loans, fantastic offers on magazines subscriptions, investment seminars, insurance offers, political mailers and all the rest, but I’d rather have something in the mailbox rather than nothing in the mailbox. An empty mailbox is sort of sad. Still, it is somewhat annoying to have different sized cards and flyers slipping from the pile of mail in my hands and onto the ground.
Why does the mail give me so much joy? I think part of it is the hope of something new and different. It’s like a new toy for the G-Kids. “This is going to be the best toy yet,” they tell themselves. And aren’t we as adults caught up in this hope, as well? This belief that one new thing will make all things new and different? Our modern world tells us novelty is better. And even if it is not, well, at least it is new.
Living in the country, our mail is delivered by motor route. The mail carrier drives by in the afternoons. It’s a long driveway, but if I am outside I can just hear the door of the metal box slam shut as she drives off. That’s my cue to start moseying down the driveway.
