POSTMARK
By Ray Marks

Today we are going to talk about me. Oh, yes, we are. It's my typewriter. Mine and Jimmy Warren's.

The only reason I want to talk abut me is that I want to talk about the postoffice and I work at the postoffice so naturally we just simply have to talk about me.

The postoffice has become the hub in the wheel of industries, society, and activities that exist within the rim of our city.

One of the most popular fellows in town when he brings the right letters from the right people to the right people, the postman makes enemies with great speed when he fails, even if only for a day, at this oh-so-important task.

Letters are the links in the chains of love and affection that in some cases have to stretch for thousands of miles. Letters are important. Letters are no laughing matter.

But sometimes the mailman is. I know. I'm a mail man. And sometimes people laugh at me.

Unfortunately, I was absent the day they passed out the tallness. When I get that mail sack on my shoulder -- and sometimes that's half an hour's job in itself -- I have to lean so far over to the left from the weight of that thing that to the casual passerby I seem like a new specie of crab. Then when someone asks for their mail at least three blocks before I'm supposed to be at their house and I answer them in my own polite way, the c.p. is certain that I'm a crab. But I'm not. I'm really one of the most polite, sweet and obliging young men you have ever had the pleasure of meeting. But so help me, you'd better wait until I get to your house before you ask for mail or something drastic is awful apt to happen. Unless of course, you happen to be bigger than I am.

It has been said that the postman walks at two speeds, and only two speeds. They are, in the order of their appearance, slow and slower. That statement, friends, is untrue. The postman actually has three gaits: Slow, slower, and the way we usually walk. I trust this will clear the matter up.

I don't know of a more interesting occupation, than this one of carrying the mail. You meet such nice dogs.

Letters come from all parts of the world. They are handled by at least twenty different clerks before the local clerks get hold of them. So if one of your letters miscarries, it isn't always our fault. When the local dispatcher receives the mail, he, or she, makes the first rough sorting. And if they stayed out too late the night before, rough the sorting certainly is. Then we, the manglers, (carriers to you) case the mail, or break it down to streets and numbers.

Contrary to popular belief, we do not deliberately put Mr. Jones' mail in Mr. Smith's box, nor do we take the mail intended for one place to another place just because it is shadier on another street.

Consider. On my route, City 2 is it's designation; Louis Brand, the exuberant young catcher for the local Red Sox -- we play again next Sunday, folks -- has C-1 and Oscar Anderson has C-3, the longest of the three city routes) where was I? Oh, yes, right here, on my route, I have eight Smith families and some of them live right across the street from each other. I have innumerable Andersons and four Greens. I have J.G. Bell at 15 J street, and D.H. Bell at 105 J street, or is it the other way around? This gives you an idea of what we work against. But have patience, patrons. Everything will eventually right itself. The war can't last forever.

If I had more space I'd tell you more about the postoffice.

What's that?

You've heard enough?

O.K. We'll cancel the postmark for now, but I'll be back.

What's that?

You doubt it?

So do I brother, so do I.

FROM THE AUBURN (WASHINGTON) GLOBE-NEWS, AUGUST 2, 1944

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