The postman delivered mail -- and memories

Ever since I can remember, the post office has been a friend to me.

When I was growing up on an isolated Missouri farm, the delivery of the mail was a break in routine, a highlight of every day except Sunday. Our mail carrier brought it in a Jeep. My grandmother was able to send her sister many a complete guinea hen dinner in the next state over, Kansas, because the Jeep was fairly open to the weather and central heating of post offices was not what it is now. I still have grateful letters sent by Aunt Dora.

So the thought that mail service may be cut on Saturdays (and then, doubtless, on other days) is cause for lament.

One of my earliest and most cherished memories is of the baby chicks that would arrive at the post office, cheeping in their broad, one-chick-high boxes in the spring.

My sources of cash were extremely limited, but I would save my pennies and send away for offers of "free" seeds, 5 cents to cover postage. The arrival of the seed packets gave me something to look forward to -- perhaps there would actually be something in the mail for me. And the seeds became colorful beds of zinnias in summer.

Much can be said for the Internet, and I do look forward to things I order that way. But I defy you to find a 5-cent packet of seeds online. (The closest thing to it might be a packet of #209, Oakleaf lettuce, 95 cents from Pinetree Garden Seeds, superseeds.com. Or spring for #52, Long Island Improved 85-day heirloom peas, $1.25.)

In my girlhood days, the postmaster and his wife lived in quarters behind the office, and occasionally we had Sunday dinner with them there. This was boring for me, as grown-up dinners so often are for children, but not nearly as boring as it would have been without proximity to the inner sanctum of the office, with its locked slots for boxholders.

Eventually, the post office in our tiny town got smaller and became a substation post office, and in recent years, it disappeared altogether. It was one of the last things that had given the town an identity. Even then, I guess, cutbacks were beginning.

Back when the post office existed, my mother went there one day and heard a little boy say in a wistful way that there was never anything for him. After that, she became his secret pen pal, occasionally sending him little notes and cards so he would be able to think happily that there might, just might, be something for him that day.

When that post office was gone, I went to nearby offices on visits back to Missouri. In one, I noticed a photo of long-ago pupils at the defunct Happy Hill School.

In the photo, which I had never seen before, were my father and his three siblings, and I got in touch with the owner of the photo who emailed me a copy. I'm pretty sure I would never have found that picture on Facebook.

During a lonely stretch, after I had stopped working full time, I recall a day when I thought of putting off a postal errand until the next day and then thinking to myself: "No, I'll go today. That will be my only contact with any actual human being."

It was from Maria at the Middle Island Post Office that I learned to turn each cupcake into a small layer cake by splitting it and frosting the middle, the way her mother always did. They often had sing-along music from the '50s playing there, too.

When I went to the Riverhead Post Office, the nearness of Snowflake Ice Cream Shoppe made it absolutely necessary to stop there for a hit of butter pecan.

When I parked at the Calverton Post Office for an errand, I could walk the few steps to Farmer Dan's farm stand next door to pick up fresh corn and, in the fall, cauliflower. Let's see you do that on the Internet.

And at the Wading River Post Office, I always stopped to "smell the roses," exquisite flower arrangements freshly placed each week by the local florist, Forte. Sure, you can order flowers over the Internet, but you can see only photos, not the real deal.

At the end of last year, the post office nearest to where I live now was closed. Now, it's four more miles to get to one, but I like to think that my mail is practically winging its way to its destination, because the office is near an airport.

Kids nowadays may grow up remembering nothing about Saturday delivery, penny postcards and wonderful secondhand clothes sent from a cousin in faraway California.

I text slowly, if at all, but I've got mail, real mail.