Replacement

In our neighborhood you get to know your mail carrier. Ours is named Heather, cool and friendly, uncomplaining and blond. It was always right to acknowledge your respect and gratitude and admiration at Christmas time by finding out your mail carrier's name and writing a religiously-correct holiday card with a check for a small but grateful amount. "Dear Heather, thanks for a great year." All we ever hear is how many billions of dollars the US Postal Service is costing us, us taxpayers. (I must say that when I've paid my taxes in April, I've never thought of the US Postal Service in a bad way. I've thought of my creepy accountant who never tells me what he really feels about me, and my income, and my declarations of monies but manages to send judgmental vibes all the same, every damn year. I've thought of Big Brother, whom I've fortunately never met but still am afraid of. I've thought of how little I know about money. But never once about the US Postal Service, or specifically the stalwart Heather, at tax-paying time.)

Heather, and Jeanne, her predecessor, and the fellow with the beard before that, are all grand. They are well-trained, courageous, unpretentious deliverers of my mail. And the poor souls, they don't even get to deliver much good stuff any more. My wife has packages delivered via UPS. I don't have one friend who writes a real letter any more. My son recently convinced me to pay my bills on line, it's better, dad, easier and saves paper (which translates to, you're old and stupid if you write checks and send them back in the mail with a stamp. I love stamps, their colors and shapes and surprising themes. John Wayne. Mid-20th century painters. Clipper ships. Obscure poets. Brave fighters for black freedom.)

I'm always aware when my regular carrier has taken a vacation day, or a vacation week. I lose track of the time of the day. Suddenly at 11 a.m. the mail will have already have been delivered, and I didn't see by whom. Or late in the afternoon, a skin-headed man in a light blue shirt will be visible through the screen door, a vacation replacement with no solid connection that I know of to my sidewalk, my lawn, my neighbors, my mail. But still, a worthy deliverer, a yeoman, cool and friendly, uncomplaining and bald. He moves on to my next-door neighbor's, and I loudly lift the top of my metal mailbox; he doesn't look back but I just know he knows I'm grateful.