Mailboxes were sometimes used for things other than mail. One note left in a mailbox read, "Nat, take these eggs to Marian; she's baking a cake and doesn't have any eggs." Mailboxes might be buried in the snow, or broken, or lying on the ground, but the mail was always delivered. On cold days Dad might find one of his customers waiting for him with a cup of hot chocolate. A young girl wrote letters but had no stamps, so she left a few buttons on the envelope in the mailbox; Dad paid for the stamps. One businessman used to leave large amounts of cash in his mailbox for Dad to take to the bank. Once, the amount came to $ 32,000.
A dozen years ago, when I traveled back to my hometown on the sad occasion of Dad's death, the mailboxes along the way reminded me of some of his stories. I thought I knew them all, but that wasn't the case.
As I drove home, I noticed two lamp poles, one on each side of the street. When my dad was around, those poles supported wooden boxes about four feet off the ground. One box was painted green, and the other was red, and each had a long narrow hole at the top with white lettering: SANTA CLAUS, NORTH POLE. For years children had dropped letters to Santa through those holes.
I made a turn at the corner and drove past the post office and across the railroad tracks to our house. Mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table when I heard footsteps.
There, at the door, stood Frank Townsend, Dad's postmaster and great friend for many years. So we all sat down at the table and began to tell stories.
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