Please Mr. Postman

Yesterday something happened that never happens anymore. I was excited about something I had received in the mail. 

I remember when I was young and I would anxiously await the mailman’s daily arrival, anxious to see if there was a letter for me and sometimes there was. Those were the pre-computer days and I had pen-pals with whom I practiced my French. I belonged to a “Book Of The Month Club” and was always on the lookout for my latest Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys or Encyclopedia Brown book to arrive. Whatever came in the mail for me back in those days was always thrilling to me. 

That’s not the case anymore. Since the inception of personal computers, email, online banking and paperless billing, the only thing that I usually find in my mailbox now are tons of junk and stacks of out of control medical bills that I can barely keep track of, let alone pay.  As an adult, the excitement of the mailman’s daily visit has not only lost all of its charm, it’s turned into a chore that I dread. I don’t beg the postman for cards or letters, I just secretly wish he’d stop coming around altogether. Pretty soon I’ll be a guest on Maury Povich getting some exposure therapy due to an envelope phobia, I know it. 

When I peeked out the window yesterday, I was surprised to see not one, but two packages being dropped in my mailbox. Our mailman isn’t what I’d call “on the ball” and it’s not uncommon for me to receive things that actually belong to my neighbors. While getting ready to yell a loud “Wait a minute, Mr. Postman!”, I glanced down at the delivery addresses and discovered they were both addressed to me!

What could they be? I hadn’t ordered anything and even if I had, I use UPS to deliver my packages so, you know, they don’t end up at a neighbor’s house never to be seen again. 

When I opened the first one, I discovered a letter and a bracelet. This bracelet: 

A while back, I had made a donation to Malaria No More. I don’t have much money these days, but my very small donation went towards buying a mosquito net, vital to helping stop the spread of Malaria. I certainly expected nothing in return for this donation, but I received this handmade bracelet, woven in West Africa. It’s beautiful and yellow is one of my favorite colors. 

Like the kid I used to be, I tore into the second package. It contained a book “Bridge Of Birds: A Novel of an Ancient China That Never Was” by Barry Hughart. I hadn’t ordered this and looked at the packaging receipt. It was sent by one of my cousins that I had recently reconnected with on Facebook after losing touch probably close to thirty years ago after my father passed away. He remembered how I loved mystery books and this one was one of his favorites. I was touched. I was not only given a gift of what I’m certain is going to be fine reading material, but bestowed once again with a reconnection to that kid still inside of me. 

It was nice to feel that way again and remember that good things actually do sometimes come in small packages.  

I don’t expect that to happen again anytime soon, but who knows, maybe this will ease my mailtruckaphobia! Now if I could only get a handle on those darn cotton balls. 

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Tagged as: Books, Bridge of Birds, childhood, mail, Malaria No More, TV