My Kids Don’t Know Our Mailman


My point is, when I was growing up I knew my mailman. His name was Wally and he was a seemingly happy-go-lucky kind of guy. Granted, I only knew him until I was about 10 or so. After that, I really didn’t pay much attention. But prior to that age, I remember looking for him each morning. When I saw him coming, or was alerted by the sounds of barking dogs, I ran to the door.

If it was winter, our front door was closed, so he would slip our mail through the slot toward the bottom of the giant wooden door.

In summer, the storm door would be open and our screen door would allow a soft breeze to permeate our living room and hallway.

He’d always greet me with a smile and a tip of his head (always adorned with the classic postal-blue hat). Even if he didn’t have a card or letter for me, I was always excited to see him. Something about getting mail and feeling like you’re a part of things. But even more than that, I loved that he knew my name. He’d say “Good morning, Kimberly,” with a twinkle in his eye. *Note – I was known as and called Kimberly for the first decade of my life before I sort of demanded to be called “Kim.”

But I digress.

My larger point is that my girls have no idea who delivers their mail. And frankly, they don’t care. They just love getting festive packages with their names typed out in colorful fonts or handwritten in a special cousin’s unmistakeable handwriting. (I’m talking to you, Carol).

I think it’s just part of the life we live now. Everyone kind of does their own thing.

When I was growing up I remember knowing the old man that ran the corner variety store. The bank tellers. The police officers. The pharmacist. The crossing guard. And of course, the mailman.

With all the technological advances we’ve made in the last few decades and especially in the last few years, I hope it doesn’t insulate us further from knowing getting to know the people in our neighborhood.


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