By Charlotte Byus
Twenty-two days before Ike hit is when we began to call Bolivar our home for the first time. If you live here on Bolivar you go to the Post Office as much as needed for your mail. Having to pick up your mail at the Post Office was foreign to me. Now don’t get me wrong, as a child, we had milk delivery weekly but our mail was delivered by Fred the Post Man. Fred would come into the business my Mom & Dad owned and hand the mail to whoever was at the counter. Fred would let you know which bills had come due and if you had a post card from friends or family, he would tell you how their trip was coming along.
After I was married, we still had milk & cold stuff delivered. It was not unusual for my husband, on a Saturday Morning, to head for the kitchen for his first cup of coffee and find his wife & the Milk Man sitting at the kitchen counter having coffee. (That’s another funny story.) But even back then, my trips to the Post Office were for stamps and parcel pick up. Sometimes, mail drop off, if I had forgotten to give it to the postman who delivered my mail to my home every day.
Now that I’m so used to living here, I’ve discovered that the Post Office is your daily radio, TV, and/or gossip station. Yes, I always said Good Morning to people, whether I knew them or not. And yes, I would chat with the Mail Lady about current “Goings Ons,” whether the hummingbirds were back, and other necessary information.
Yesterday, I discovered I may be a Bolivarite, as I stopped by the Post Office and chatted with several neighbors, friends, and new people. I was actually there for quite some time – Not to pick up my mail, but simply enjoying the morning with friends.
[9-28-2015]
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