Please Mister Postman

When I used to work in a book warehouse, our Human Resources guy had a postcard taped to his door that bore the banner: "No mail days are sad days." The scene below the banner depicts the consequence of not sending a letter to your sweetheart at some distant Army base who is anxiously awaiting news from home. The grief is palpable, with his face in his hands, the young G.I. sits on the step of his barracks, a picture of sorrow.
I have never actually broken down on those rare occasions that I have found my mailbox empty, but I still find it life-affirming event to bring in the mail. When I was a kid, I relished those opportunities to be the one who got to gather up all the envelopes, magazines and circulars and carry them into the kitchen counter. There I could sort it more carefully and look for anything that by some odd chance might be addressed to me. On a good day, there might be a card or, better yet, the latest issue of "Famous Monsters of Filmland." One of the primary reasons for me to get a subscription was to get a sure thing once a month. And once a week there was TV Guide. On Sundays, I shook off my impulse to check the box. On those occasions when I had ordered something that took four to six weeks to arrive, that impulse became all but unbearable. And now it may all be coming to an end.
Not an absolute end. The Postmaster General says that mounting deficits may force the post office to cut out one day of mail delivery. They say it won't necessarily be Saturday that gets the hook, but rather one of the slow mail days like Tuesday. As if that would make it any easier to bear. Picking up the mail is one of the things that makes us know that we are still alive. Think of Charlie Brown and that great big empty mailbox. It's a self-esteem issue. It's a money thing. It's a sad day.