More memories from the mailbox

More Act 2 readers share their fondest memories that came by way of the U.S. Postal Service.

My husband's voice

Ken and I met when I was 14, and he was 15. We went all through high school together. After he graduated and worked for a year, he decided to have his name moved up in the draft, so in November 1954 he was in the Army at Fort Dix. He found out he was going to be sent to Germany, so he wanted me to marry him before he left. In April 1955, on his 20th birthday, we were married. He left for Germany in May.

The mailman became my best friend, Ken and I promised to write every day. I would wait for the mailman, and he would come up the walk waving the red-white-and-blue letter. He said: "What do you have? I deliver to other girls and if they get a letter every two weeks they are lucky. You get one almost every day."

Ken would put the number of days that he had left in the Army on the flap of the envelope. The mailman would say, "Not long now, Doris, only 325 days left!"

Ken and I had 50 years together before he passed away at the age of 70. I came across all those little red-white-and-blue letters a couple of years ago. The memories that are stored in them are so precious. I read them and I can laugh and cry. There is nothing like the written word. Every time I read them, I hear his voice.

--Doris Conk, East Meadow

Hello from Vietnam

The best mail I ever received were the letters my brother George sent to me while he was stationed in Vietnam. I was only 12 years old at the time and receiving a letter from him just for me really made my day. I still have all the letters he sent to me, I will cherish them always.

--Jeannine Musselwhite, Centereach

Love from a war zone

Is there a letter, a letter for me? This was my mantra in 1968. I lived for the thrill of seeing the distinctive airmail envelope in our family mailbox in Milwaukee. My dear Richard had been sent to Vietnam that year during the Tet Offensive. He was a young Navy corpsman stationed near Da Nang, in a dangerous and hostile environment. Yet, almost daily, he found time to write the most beautiful and positive letters.

Besides those precious letters, Richard sent audiotapes, so that I could also hear his reassuring voice. This was the advanced technology of the '60s! Letters and tapes -- both delivered by the "mailman" (not mail carrier or postal employee.) Regrettably, I don't think I ever expressed my gratitude to this hardworking individual.

The mail became my lifeline to my future husband during that tumultuous year in which we saw the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy. I witnessed anti-war demonstrations at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee campus where I was a student. These were the disturbing realities of 1968. However, when I returned home, my spirits would soar with the sight of that unmistakable airmail envelope.

These memories are especially poignant to me now. They remind me of a youthful, hopeful courtship that led to 42 years of marriage. Richard passed away last year, but I will always cherish the love that was delivered in those letters.

--Barbara Des Rault, North Massapequa

Snail mail is tops

My Massachusetts friend and I corresponded by snail mail for 20 years.

I loved getting the mail and seeing if there was a letter from Sue. I told her there was no good mail unless there was a letter from her. She attempted to switch to email but it just wasn't the same. So we stuck to letters by mail. When Sue died in 2008, I had no writing partner.

Then my grandson Marcus stepped in. We started writing each other when he was in junior high, then high school, and he is a freshman at Duke University.

We communicate by mail, text, email and phone, but letter writing is still my favorite.

--Marcella Coleman, North Babylon

News from med school

My family lived in North Wantagh, actually Levittown. The letter carrier Mike came to the house. The mailbox was attached to the house, just to the right of the door. He was like a friend: come in for a cup of coffee and chat. I was applying to medical school, it was a Saturday morning in early December 1971.

I was studying for a physics exam. My father was home. Mike came to the front door and stated, "Got two letters." One was a very thin envelope. I panicked, I had had an interview at New York University just two weeks earlier and that thin envelope had NYU on the return address. I opened that letter first; I was admitted to NYU. It was one of the greatest days of my life, and my father's life.

My mother passed away in September 2011. Now, 40 years later, in Florida, 1,500 miles away, my wife and I upon cleaning the apartment came across the letter and envelope (8-cent postmark). It's now proudly framed in my den at home.

--Stanley M. Brown, St. James

The singing mailman

The first thing that came to mind when I read about U.S. Postal Service memories goes back almost 42 years in Queens (Laurelton/Rosedale). I wrote a song on large postcards for my Sweet 16 invitations.

The handwritten words included all the necessary details for my celebration, and I drew musical notes around the words with a little note in parentheses letting the recipients know the invitation should be sung to the tune of "Hello Dolly." Lo and behold, my friend Sharon's postman actually rang her bell and sang my invitation to her: "Hello Sharon/Well, hello, Sharon/It'd be so nice to have you at my Sweet 16 . . ." Sharon and I still laugh about it. Yes, those were the good old days!

--Lori Cohen, East Northport

International pen-pals

I have always loved receiving mail. In my high school English class, my teacher wanted all of her students to improve their writing skills. She insisted we all become pen-pals with foreign students. An organization called "Letters Abroad" helped us to find suitable adolescent correspondents. I decided to begin writing to a Canadian pen-pal named Terry, who lived in Peterboro, a small city near Toronto. (I was 14 and he was 19 when our correspondence began.) Our friendship continued. Finally, he visited me a few years later. We met in Manhattan for a wonderful day, including my only helicopter ride ever. (Eventually, Terry became a letter-carrier!)

Meanwhile, I enjoyed receiving his letters so much that I decided to become a pen-pal to a dozen other teenagers, including those from Peru, Nigeria, England and France. (Since I was studying Spanish and French, I wrote to my new friends in their languages; they wrote to me in English, hoping to improve their English skills.)

The years flew by, and my English pen-pal decided to visit. He was a sailor on the H.M.S. Ark Royal, England's largest aircraft carrier at the time. Two of my friends accompanied me. We went on a remarkable tour of the ship, where we were extremely well-received!

For many years, I looked forward to receiving these international letters. They always made me feel very special. My parents were quite amazed at the volume of letters I received. Unfortunately, I am not in contact with any of my foreign pen-pals anymore. Life -- and bills -- have intervened.

--Barbara Goldberg,Merrick

Community meeting place

I grew up in Wading River in the 1950s and remember three Post Offices ago. It was connected to the General Store across from the famous Duck Ponds. The post office was a very narrow room with boxes to the left and one window to the right. The mail came in twice a day and the community (only 500 people year-round in those days) would gather at 11 a.m. and 7 p.m. to get their mail and socialize.

The postmaster's name was Carl and he was the most important man in town for those two hours a day.

My second favorite memory is of Joe, my mail carrier for many years, here in Medford. We had a Rottweiler at the time named Corey, who was very friendly. One day I opened the front door and he ran out to the mail truck and hopped right in. From that day on, Joe bragged how he was friends with a Rottweiler. Each Christmas he would send us a card and include his buddy, Corey.

I hope the U.S. Post Office will be around for many years to come to give other people favorite memories, too.

-Marge Quinn, Medford

Where everybody knows my name

For the past 30 years, I am in the Smithtown Post Office every day to get my mail, and believe me it is like walking into "Cheers," where everyone knows your name. They are so pleasant and warm and friendly.

Also at my home address in St. James, I have such a great mailman, who is so caring and pleasant, he is like family. When I have packages, he actually gets out of his truck, and walks to my rear door to leave my packages there.

I could not imagine being without the post office. So everyone, just keep on mailing those cards and letters.

--Marie Radesco, St. James

Life change in an envelope

Sixty years ago, while on my college senior weekend, I was ice skating on Lake Sebago in upstate New York, when my date came running down the snow-covered hill to the edge of the frozen lake shouting, "There's a phone call from you from your folks, there's a letter!"

From the middle of the lake I raced to its edge, ran up the hill and grabbed the phone. "There's a letter for you from Downstate," my dad said. At my insistence, he tore it open and he told me it said I had been accepted to SUNY Downstate medical school. It was 1952, and with four years of backlogged applicants, due to the many GIs returning from the military and the great number of those returning from World War II who had gone to college on the GI Bill . . . getting into medical school was near impossible. Downstate had 22 rejections in 1952 for every one acceptance, and so that letter represented a life-changing event for me.

Being somewhat of a pack rat, I saved the letter and came upon it recently in my collection of memorabilia. It asked me to bring a $50 deposit signifying my intention to attend. When I got home that Sunday night (to a surprise party at my folks' home in Brooklyn), I borrowed the money and next morning raced to downtown Brooklyn to make the payment. After graduating I spent six more years training as a surgeon.

I have had a 55-year surgical career, was named "Master Teacher of Surgery" by SUNY Downstate where I serve now as a Professor of Surgery, participated in the training of 3,000 surgeons and 8,000 medical students, have been president of its alumni, been a member of the SUNY Downstate Board of Governors, founding editor of its alumni publication and also had a 50-plus year private surgical practice at five hospitals in Brooklyn, serving as chief at one. Also, I was president of the Brooklyn Surgical Society. Along the way I served during the Vietnam War as Chief of Surgery at a SAC Hospital in the U.S. Air Force where I also became a jet pilot. I'm a lifelong Giant fan, but was physician for the Brooklyn Dodgers, have been the appointee of three mayors of New York City as a NYC commissioner, founded and built a school for children in Brooklyn and have produced a number of medical publications, magazines and books.

Yes, a U.S. mail letter had a profound influence on my life. And by the way, in 1952 it had only a 3-cent stamp on it!

--Noel H. Kleppel, Lawrence

A place to meet your neighbors

Back in the early 1960s, Atlantic Beach was still mostly a summer community. It could be a lonely place in the winter for a young mother at home with small children and no car. Fortunately, I had one neighbor, Kathy, who also had small children. We had no home mail delivery at that time, and so the daily trip to our small post office came to shape my days.

The red brick post office on Park Street, just as you come over the Atlantic Beach Bridge, had a small counter, a wall of postal boxes, and a long time postmaster named John Frye, who also lived in town and knew everyone. Most mornings Kathy and I would meet outside about 10:30 to walk together the seven or eight blocks to collect our mail. Our babies would be bundled up in their carriages, with our toddlers walking alongside. Of course the little ones had to stop every few steps to examine a plant or interesting bug, or to run down the path at the bay ends to watch for a passing boat. The excursion to get the mail could easily take an hour or more, and then it would be lunch time when we returned.

There was always a sense of expectation as you opened the box and looked hopefully for a personal letter or card, a new magazine, or even a mail-order catalog to browse. John was sure to ask how the family was, or pass on some local news. It was a great place to bump into your neighbors and chat for a bit, since there were few other places to meet anyone in Atlantic Beach 50 years ago.

A few years later home mail delivery began and we were assigned new house numbers to regulate delivery. Now there were only occasional trips to the post office. The post office is still there and seems a busier place than I remember from the early days. Many people find it a convenient place to stop as they come over the bridge on their way to Long Beach and avoid longer lines at bigger facilities. But it's still a place to meet your neighbors, some of the same ones who used to make that daily trek years ago. I can't imagine our little village without it.

--Alice Wolfteich, Atlantic Beach

Thanks, boss

I have received two extremely memorable items in the mail. They are both very extremely special to me. I elaborate below.

The best letter I ever received in the mail was one from the POW whose bracelet I wore. I was a seventh grader back in 1973 when he returned to the United States. Receiving his letter meant the world to me. I was happy that the war was over but elated that my POW, Lt. Colonel Thomas J. Curtis, had returned safely home and was reunited with his family.

Although I still eagerly await the arrival of the mail carrier each day, I don't think there will ever be a letter delivery quite like the one I received all those years ago in the spring of 1973.

The best gift I ever received in the mail was a baby gift from my boss at my college job. I worked in the post office on campus during my four years as an undergraduate, and my boss was a retired postmaster. He taught me many things about the postal service and actually became like a surrogate grandfather to me. When I had my first child some years later, he sent me an old-fashioned postal box (just like the ones we had in college and that still exist in many post offices around the country) that had been converted into a bank. On the door, he had written the number of my last mailbox number in college. This was his gift to my first born, and the card enclosed read, "I have been waiting some time to send this." I cried when I saw that gift, because it touched me to my core. Several years after I had received the gift, he revealed to me that his wife thought it a very silly gift. To me, it was the best gift I could have imagined to mark the birth of my first child. Some 25 years later, it now sits on my dresser rather than my daughter's. I always think of my dear boss Tony Prezzano whenever I look at it.

--Linda Hildebrandt McIlravy, Floral Park

Cheers, Mr. Mailman

When I married, I moved into the house where my husband had grown up. Our mailman was a "hometown boy" who knew a lot of the residents of his route from his childhood.

On cold winter days many of the older men would tell Hutch, "come in and get warm," or on hot summer days, "come in and cool off." The area was known throughout town as Little Italy so the warmer-upper or the cooler of choice was usually homemade wine. Throw into the mix the Scandinavians like my father-in-law, whose choice was whiskey. Poor Hutch didn't have an easy time.

Ours was the last street on his route. Many a day I saw him in front of the mailbox holding the mail to and from his face as his eyes tried to focus. We often joked but I don't remember hearing anyone complain -- we just checked our mail before taking it inside and delivered it ourselves to the people addressed, if it was wrong.

The first time I went to the Lake Grove Post Office, the week we moved here, I was 60-some cents short of the postage to send a package. Clara said, "Give it to me the next time you come in. It's not like you'll be moving soon."

Can you give your computer an IOU?

--Nan Danielson, Lake Grove

Bob, Ed and 9:30 deliveries

My earliest memories of our wonderful mailman while growing up on Fourth Street in Glen Cove were of a man we called "Bob the Mailman."

He delivered mail every day at 9:30 a.m. in rain, sleet, snow, nor'easter, whatever the situation, mail was always at our door at 9:30 a.m. Always with a smile.

My grandmother, Antonia Grella, always invited Bob in for a cup of espresso, and on cold days, she would add a little anisette to it; she said it was to keep him warm.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table with them. Grandma only spoke Italian and Bob only English. I was sort of their interpreter He always had that 10 minutes to sit and talk, and she always had the espresso cup ready.

Years later when I got married, my husband, Ed, and I moved to Guilfog Street in Glen Cove. We had a mailman called Ed, a Glen Cove lifer. What a guy. Like Bob we always got our mail by 9:30 a.m. every day. He knew everyone by first name. If he knew someone was under the weather, he would ring the bell to see how they were. My son adored Ed and would wait by the door for him. Ed would take my son through Guilfog Street on his route and bring him home safely.

When Ed retired I would see him drinking coffee and chatting with the guys at South Ridge Deli always asking how the family was.

Ed has passed on. I'm sure Bob has, too. Those were the days. Oh, by the way, I don't receive my mail by 9:30 a.m. anymore.

--Phyllis Maleszewski, Glen Cove

Letters bring out memories

While organizing my closet recently, I found a box that contained hundreds of cards and letters written to me by family members and friends at various stages of my life. As I looked at their handwriting and read their words, memories came flooding back at each instance they wrote about. Some might say that I'm too young to remember the nostalgic feeling of receiving handwritten letters since I am only 23 years old, but I'd like to believe that I am an old soul at heart. In today's society, everyone is so accustomed to email and online social networking that the thought of actually picking up a pen and writing a personal message may seem foreign to some people. Although technology is an essential aspect of our world today, it's sometimes nice to sit down and express a particular emotion to someone in a handwritten letter. This takes me back to third grade, when my best friend moved away to England. Yes, there was dial-up Internet and our parents set up email accounts for us, but we both looked past that and wrote each other every chance we could. Some of the best days that I could remember from elementary school, middle school and even high school was when I received a letter from my friend in the mail. Our letters were rather lengthy and we discussed every aspect of our lives and included dozens of pictures. Even through college and graduate school, we still manage to write letters to each other. Not as often, but we still make the effort. As I look through the letters and pictures now, it's funny to see how we have lived on different continents for over 15 years, but we are still so involved with each other's lives simply through our letters. After all of that time, I'd like to give thanks to the U.S. Postal Service. My family has lived in the same home in Syosset for over 18 years and we have had a plethora of mail carriers, and we've never had a bad experience with any of them. Until this day, I love when a postal employee comes to my house because you never know what kind of treasure you may find in the mail!

--Anita Haridat, Syosset

Au revoir, l'amour

I had two great aunts who worked in the Davies Chocolate Factory, near the Brooklyn-Queens border. Whenever my birthday (and those of my siblings) came around, the mailman would bring a box of yummy goodies. Those nonpareil candies and delicious chocolates were such a birthday treat for a kid!

Years later, when I returned to New York after having studied in Paris, France, the mailman would deliver those thin, tissue-paper airmail letters from my French boyfriend! Alas! Distance did not make the heart grow fonder, and "toujours l'amour" became "au revoir, l'amour." I still have those letters, though!

--Linda R. Kay, Kings Park

You can't hold an email

Postal mail is always a welcome sight for me. I still feel a happy anticipation when I see the little white-and-blue post office truck on my block.

Aside from unexpected refund checks and sweet greeting cards, my fondest memory of a "special delivery" was when I brought my firstborn son home from the hospital. It was a beautiful sunny crisp and cold winter day when I walked through the door carrying him. On the kitchen table awaited a letter of acceptance for my very first article I had ever sold to a national magazine, Baby Talk.

Unbeknownst to me, the contract was dated the exact day my son was born.

In those days, the maternity wards kept you for several days after giving birth, so when I got home, the envelope was awaiting me.

The surprise arrival of that letter and contract heralded the birth of my writing career. I was already floating on air at the birth of my child -- and thinking of nothing else at that moment. To have yet another dream come true the same day, is a double joy beyond words.--Gloria Schramm, Bellmore

My best mail countdown

5. My grandmother (who died at 104) would send daffodils from her small town to my mother who was at college about 200 miles away in the 1930s via mail and the train.

4. My mother would go sit at the post office late at night with her friend who was the Postmistress. She had to get the heavy bag of mail that was tossed off the train and carry it across the street back to the post office.

3. Love letters I received in the mail from a boyfriend in my 20s.

2. Beautifully starched clothes lovingly packed by Aunt Ruth that her daughters had outgrown. Twice a year (winter and summer) I sometimes got two sets just alike in different sizes when they wore matching outfits.

1. Letters my daughter sends every summer from sleepaway camp. That's the best mail ever received by far!

--Mary Gould, Levittown