Trips to the post-office punctuate slinky summer days, when even clouds take a respite from the suffocating starkness of 105 degrees. In our small town, there’s more to pick up than your mail. There are tidbits of whoever came and went, although mysteriously, because people come and go quickly, like unseen spirits on their way to something better-or so they think. Junk mail, such as coupons and magazines, is left on the small table in the lobby just outside the office, not out of forgetfulness, but because, with a vestige of thrifty German immigrant history, someone else might benefit from what others would discard. I always look through it, sometimes taking the fliers with toy ads and picturesque scenery of places I’d someday like to see, for school and church projects.
And inside the office awaits the exchange of the everyday as you purchase your postage. But just like a treasured stamp collection, you may collect a bit of information (from where to dump your tree branches, to who might need a babysitter or some housework) or some tidbit of wisdom from Mae, the Postmaster, who sees people come and go so quietly and as quietly absorbs their stories. Photos of her children and grandchildren decorate her bulletin board and, if you aren’t in a hurry, you may hear the story of the discarded Cabbage Patch Doll, or an adventure in Mexico, or recommendations for a great read. How much she’s gleaned from mundane interactions that have been saved, and, like the mail left on the table, might be useful to the patrons of the post-office.
A chubby hand reaches up above blond curls in hesitant anticipation. “What do you say?” ask both Mae and I simultaneously, each glancing up with a twinkle.
My 2-year-old boy, Christopher, mouths the words first, then, taking his index finger out of his mouth, “Please…can you.. can I have a sucker?”, he replies in his gruff yet sing-song boy-voice.
“Yes, you may have a sucker. Here you go.” Mae hands him a tin full of suckers, the kind that may contain a mystery flavor.
He chooses “a red one”, presumably cherry, but his eyes grow wide as soon as he pops it into his mouth, “It’s a wa-ermel one!” he exclaims, his tongue working the syllables around the sucker. He does a shuffly little dance on white Velcro light-up shoes in celebration of his unexpected find. We both chuckle and forget to prompt his gratitude.
“He’s growing quickly. Where is the other baby?”
“I left him taking a nap at Nana Mary Lee’s”.
“Oh, you got to come here just you with Mommy?” she says to my boy. He nods, then beckons me to bend down, “One for Cookie?” he asks, his name for his 7-month-old brother.
“I think he’ll be ok. We’ll bring him back tomorrow,” I whisper.
“Oh, he wants a cookie! I don’t have any of those,” says Mae.
I laugh, “No. He can’t quite say ‘Keaton’. He wants a sucker for him, but it’s ok.”
“Well…how nice, Christopher, here take one for him.” He plucks through the little tin of suckers, looking for another red one and beams a slobbery smile when he finds it. His little heart knows joy is best when multiplied.
Mae leans over the counter, looking right into my eyes and, smiling, delivers something I didn’t know I’d come for, “You know, you can just tell the well-loved ones. There’s something special about all kids, but the ones who’ve been well-loved you know will be ok…no matter what.”
“Thank you,” I reply, taking this tidbit as a compliment, at least for now, and add it to my collection of cherished words and images–a collage of memories saved that would unwittingly be tinged in hardest tears.
“Thank you,” echoes Christopher, as with surprising strength he pulls me joyously by the hand toward the door, and out into the sweltering day. Laughing, I hastily say goodbye to Mae, but not without grabbing my mail–tidbits, “junk” and all.