What I Received at the P.O.: Priorities Change with the Mail and the Message Delivered

An American author, Eudora Welty (April 13, 1909 – July 23, 2001) wrote short stories, and the one I recalled from my college days was “Why I Live at the P.O.,” which was inspired by woman ironing in a rural post office’s back room.  My story is “What I ‘Received’ at the P.O.: Priorities Changed with the Mail and the Message Delivered.”

Sometimes I hit my saturation point with the images from the daily news, and “what about me” attitudes from others. This time the “what about me” attitude was about me. Then it turned to be about someone else.

I had two gifts to mail my dad for Father’s Day. One gift was a gag gift, and the other one was a useful one. It was all about me and the Post Office (P.O.), and how fast I could mark it off of my to-do list. I asked myself, “Which P.O. has the free parking?” The operative phrase was “free parking,” and the answer was easy: “The one off 23^rd Avenue in the Central District.”

 I parked my car on the worn asphalt parking lot outside of the P.O. The small P.O.’s door was propped open, where folks waited in a long line for the postal worker to weigh and mail their respective parcels.

A woman was bent down packing shipping boxes on the floor, and I heard her voice as I walked through the door.  She looked, smiled, and said, “Take the next spot in line. It’s going to take a while.”

The line moved slowly, and it allowed me to observe an elderly woman, who I dubbed Gladys because she radiated  "glad"ness. She resembled my Grandma Ruby – except her shoulders leaned forward with a hunch in her back.  She was impeccably dressed in a bright, colorful polyester dress with pantyhose and small wooden soled and heeled, open toed shoes from the 70’s.

Gladys’ smile emanated light. Her personality appeared similar to my Great Grandma Pearl Figert. She was seemingly pleasant and could draw people in. Gladys steadily stood as she decided on greeting cards for her sisters from the display, located at the left hand corner of the customer service counter.  Her voice was sweet and melodious as she read the verses to the young lady, who I named Ruth. She was Gladys’ companion, and Ruth offered a listening ear.

I was finally to the front of the line as Gladys made her last selection. Ruth began to lead Gladys to the back of the line. I suddenly vocalized, “Take my spot.”   I headed to the back of the line.  The people in the line spoke. “You stay in the line.” “Let her go in front of you.” “She’s earned to be at the front of the line.”

I returned to the second place in the line with Gladys and Ruth in the number one spot. The Postal worker behind the counter beamed as she shouted, “Next!”

I exited the P.O. and paused in the parking lot after my turn at the counter. A car drove past with Gladys in the passenger seat. Her little puff of hair had shone through the window.

“Thanks, Gladys for what I received at the P.O.  It was not the check mark on my to-do list that mattered. Priorities changed with the mail, and the message delivered.”