In search of lost mail

The other night I lamented to Elaine how long it’s been since I visited the post office. I think I was last there in May. Our post office has no great charm: it occupies a small, newish, nondescript building on the edge of town. A classic-rock station plays in the tiny service area. But still: I like going to the post office. Doing so makes me feel that I’m Getting Things, or at least a thing, Done.

Thus I’ve never understood commercials touting the joys of DIY postage. ”I don’t leave the shop anymore,” one satisfied customer says. It’s nice leave the shop and be engaged with the world (and while you’re at it, help keep a postal clerk or two in a job). Even Langley Collyer left the shop, so to speak, going out at night for food and water.

Years ago, when I was working on my dissertation in Brookline, Massachusetts, it was a great pleasure to leave the shop, so to speak, for a midday walk to Coolidge Corner: the photocopy place, the stationery store, and, often, the post office. I would buy some stamps, or mail a letter. But now we’re full up on stamps, for a long time if not Forever, and no one writes letters. Letters, anyone?