Reliving the legacy of the mailman

Sean Pearson
As I sat on the roof of my house the other day, enjoying a nice breeze and the beautiful sunset, I got to thinking about the U.S. Postal Service. (I could tell you how I got there, but I’m kind of working off a word-limited basis here, so I’ll just forge ahead.)
I often wonder if I should have become a mailman. It’s not so much the glory of wearing the spiffy blue uniform or the excitement at becoming an avid philatelist that gets me thinking about my career choices. (And let me make it perfectly clear here that I think philately rocks!)
For me, it’s all about driving on the wrong side of the street. Now that’s something I can do.
(Gimme a break. Did you really think I was going to get all poignant on you and talk about the joys of bringing cards and letters to people? Do you see a tear rolling down my cheek at the sense of fulfillment that comes with seeing the delight on someone’s face when they receive a “magical birthday card for that special someone in your life?”) Do I look like a Hallmark card?
Hmmm. Perhaps that was a bit harsh.
Let’s try a different route.
For those of you still in shock at the idea of having your mail delivered to your home, I feel your pain. I know how hard it is to watch all those city folk get their mail. Mail carriers come tooling up in trusty little jeeps, maneuvering expertly around basketballs and doll carriages strewn about the cul-de-sac. I’ve even heard rumors about carriers who actually walk up the sidewalk, onto your porch and put mail in a slot in your door. I envision someone like Mr. McFeely of Speedy Delivery Messenger Service. He lives in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood – or so I’ve heard.
The truth is, all three of my grandfathers were postmen – and I feel somewhat obligated to carry on that “postal torch,” if you will. From all accounts so far, each grandpa had a lengthy and reportedly enjoyable career as a mailman. And all three were so used to driving from mailbox to mailbox, it was often a bit nauseating to ride in the car with them during long trips. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of three Coney Islander coneys loaded with diced onions and cayenne pepper lurching back and forth in your stomach with all that stop-and-go driving.
So I have to wonder sometimes if I dropped the legacy ball by not picking up the whole post office thing and running with it. Who is left now to carry on the family crest?
Of course, who’s to say the postal service would even hire me. That’s almost like saying someone should give you a job at their chicken factory if your last name is Tyson.
OK, maybe it’s not quite the same thing.
But I do I think I’d be good at the whole mail thing. I was pretty speedy when it came to sorting those little plastic blocks that you had to push through the different-shaped holes in kindergarten. And I remember doing a pretty darn good job as class messenger in the fourth grade.
Still, I’m not sure I’m emotionally mature enough to deal with jokes about “going postal.” And I have to wonder just what it was that caused so many postal workers to snap back in the ‘80s and ‘90s that someone felt it necessary to coin a phrase. You never hear of any drill-wielders going “dental” or overworked and underpaid teachers going “educational.”
I’m guessing that’s a good thing.
Maybe I should just stick with my day job.

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