“I married my mother, you realize that, don’t you?”

That question always makes Farmer Gary chuckle. Just like Mom, he absolutely loves to get mail. Every morning – like clockwork – he checks the mailbox here at home and then the one over at the farm.

… except on federal holidays, of which there are “too many” this time of year, apparently.

Lately, Gary’s noticed the delivery rate speed has dropped, right in line with the cost of postage increasing. I believe the term for this is inversely proportional, right?

So today, when he stopped by the post office in Ferdinand to mail a book (it’s on the way, Linda! Be sure not to miss the bookmark I tucked inside – it was one of Mom’s), he asked to speak with the person in charge.

For those of you who haven’t met Gary in person, let me assure you he’s a gentle soul. He always starts off a complaint with “I know you’re not the one at fault” and other kindnesses. He just wanted to get to the bottom of why the electric bill arrived at the farm on Saturday and was due (in Texas) yesterday.

The long explanation included new sorting hubs farther away than before and storage warehouses packed to the gills with undelivered mail. I’m relieved Gary didn’t faint. There was no end in sight to the delays.

When I greeted Gary with the following news a week ago, he caught the wordplay with a grin:

There is no deJoy in Washington!

Whether the new Postmaster General will get Gary his February farm magazines in February henceforth remains to be seen. But it would be much appreciated. Especially The Milkweed, that’s a particularly good one.

Mom loved walking down their driveway to pick up the mail, too. And she gave as good as she got. Dad used to say she kept the postal service in business with all the stamps she bought over the years.

She even wrote a poem about her happy mail receptacle:

The Dancing Mailbox

One two one two three
how I adore what’s jollying me
travel reservations and a flower pot sale
cherries and berries in the catalog mail
Easter eggs ordered and candy canes checked
names and addresses all neat and correct
love letters baited with lavender scent
party invitations that came and went

No wonder my mouth is exceptionally wide
it matches my appetite just inside

~ joan vayo May 3, 2001

Here’s Mom as a teen, getting ready to check inside a rural mailbox:

Of course, nowadays there’s email and online banking. But for Gary, there’s nothing like pulling down the door on our mailbox to see what’s inside. So I guess we’ll keep it that way.

And I know Mom would approve.

“The Dancing Mailbox” © 2001 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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