The Postal Service and Me.

June 25, 2010.

Inside the mail box, atop the familiar glossy invitation from a local car dealer to "Scratch and Win," there is an unusual piece of paper. It is slightly off-white and printed with green lettering. It is a form. At the top are two drawings of mail boxes, such as you might see lining the streets of any suburban or rural road. One is forlorn and rather decrepit. The other is spruce and chipper. They might be pictures of the same box, one drawn in some happier time, when life seemed full of hope and promise, the other, after years of toil and weather, in it's old age, filled with despair and dark thoughts of death. The legend asks, "Which one looks like your mail box?"

The implication, of course, is clear.

The form is designed to register complaints about the state of one's mailbox, with two columns of check boxes, each box accompanied by a curt description of some possible potential grievance. "Your box is not an approved box." "The door needs attention." "Box must be located so carrier can serve it without leaving vehicle." "Your box is not waterproof." "Your box should be raised (blank) inches." CHECK.

The check mark is further annotated, in an impressive cursive script, at the bottom of the form. "20. Other faults.  'Box must be 42 " from road to bottom of box.'"

First thing to do, obviously is look at box. It's old. The house it serves was built in the 1960s, and is located in a rural subdivision in North Central Florida. Cattle and horses are still being raised nearby. The roads are kept paved by the homeowners association. There are five houses on a street about one half mile long. Two of the other houses are contemporaries of this one, while the other two are products of the early stages of the recent housing boom/bust. Beyond this house, the electric power line extends one more pole and then ends abruptly at vacant lots that run to the end of the street. It is, as I say, rural.

One of the things I noticed shortly after buying the house 15 and a half years ago was the number scratched into the dull aluminum of the mail box. It is a date, 1972.

So, for 38 years, the box has stood by the side of the road, faithfully discharging its Postmaster Approved duties, through hurricanes and hundred degree temperatures in the summer and freezing temperatures and gale-force winds in the winter. It has been there almost since the establishment of the U.S. Postal Service in 1970. Richard Nixon was president, running one of the most corrupt administrations in American history. Every month back then about 1,000 U.S. service men were being killed in Vietnam. Ah, good times.

Now, the box is an outlaw. OK, it's thirty-four inches from the road surface to the bottom of the box. So what? It's been there 38 years. Nobody has complained about it in the last 15 years. Why now?

July 1.

My weekly trip into town. 18 miles round trip. Everything I need to do for the week, that cannot be done at home -- grocery shopping, banking, prescription filling, gassing up the car, everything, has to be done that one day. It's that way every week. One day a week, for two hours. I decide to add something to the usual to-do list: Visit the Post Office and ask about The Notice.

The first clerk I speak to throws up her hands and says, laughing, "You aren't going to talk to me about that!" The two other clerks also laugh. She does take The Notice. After reading, she gives it her best shot, basically repeating what is on the page. She then tells me that the Postmaster is not here, but I can speak to the Supervisor, if I want. I want. She goes away into the back of the building and, in a minute of so, the Supervisor walks to the counter.

He reads The Notice. He explains, using pretty much the same wording as The Notice. I  inform him that the box has been there 38 years. "Why is it so important now to raise the box?" He explains that the Postmaster has been trying for three years to get boxes in the area up to Standard. He has sent out notices. The Supervisor has driven around and sent out notices. I object that I have received no such notice prior to The Notice. The Supervisor says that the previous notices were given to the Carriers. Perhaps, he suggests, the Carriers, for their own reasons, did not deliver them. This time the Postmaster has personally put The Notice in my box. I suggest that the fact that the box has worked just fine for THIRTY EIGHT YEARS indicates that there is no need to change it now. I further suggest  it is not exactly good public relations, when the Postal Service is running a 6.7 billion dollar annual deficit, to waster time and money antagonizing customers. The Supervisor demurs, but says that the Postmaster, his boss, makes the final decision. He, the Supervisor, cannot reverse the Postmaster. He gives me the telephone number and the name of the Postmaster. I should call that afternoon. I observe that it sounds unlikely that the Postmaster will change his mind. The Supervisor offers that, on occasion, the Postmaster has been known to reverse himself. I wish the Supervisor a Happy Independence Day.

That afternoon, I call the Post Office, hoping to speak to the Postmaster. "This line is busy," the voice of Ma Bell informs me. I try again later. "This line is busy," Ma Bell repeats. I give up.

July 7.

The Federal holiday is over. I am, like the country, a year older. Sheer coincidence, but I am feeling not happy. The Notice has been a magnet for my eyes and thoughts. I have been stewing. I decide that, failing to meet the Postmaster in person, and being unable to reach him by telephone, the Devil's instrument, I shall write a letter. I write a letter. It is brief. I enclose photographic evidence of the date on the box. I argue that the simple fact of long usage is sufficient to demonstrate that the box is serving its purpose adequately. I make the deficit point. I am courteous but firm. I mail the letter.

July 9.

Deadline day. Nothing.

July 10.

D-Day plus one. Nothing.

July 12-16.

Nothing. I begin to notice Nothing.

July 17.

I put a letter in the box. At the end of the day, it is still there. Perhaps I missed the Carrier. She sometimes arrives early.

July 19.

I put the letter in the box. Early. At 3:00 p.m. it is still there.

I call the Post Office. Surprisingly,  I get through. I ask for the Postmaster.

We go over the familiar ground again. By now, I am a bit annoyed. I point out that there are others, perhaps hundreds, of mailboxes on the route, many of them much lower than my own. The Postmaster suggests that the owners of those boxes will be noticing that they, too, are not receiving their mail. I suggest that this is highly irresponsible, as there are people who depend upon the U.S. Mail for their pensions, their medications, who pay their utility and mortgage bills through the postal service. Is the Postmaster willing to put the incomes, homes and even the lives of those people at risk? Apparently, so. It is not his fault. When I reach the end of my arguments, the Postmaster is unmoved. I play what I believe to be my trump card.

Why did he not reply to my letter of protest before discontinuing mail service?

"You didn't include your telephone number. I couldn't reach you."

I burst out laughing.

The Postmaster could not reach me without my phone number.

I had to apologize for my outburst, but I was still laughing when I hung up.

The Man had won again.