You’ve got mail
I love the U.S. Postal Service. They work miracles every day. They can decipher and deliver nearly anything.
You’ve got mail.
“My dad kept all these cards and letters. I’ve stumbled upon them in random places since he passed away more than a decade ago. Tucked into books, boxes of photos, wherever.
They seem to find me on days when I need to be reminded that life is fleeting, generations pass quickly, and things are really ephemeral.
But this, too, emerges: Reminders of love are always present, even after those we love - and who loved us - are gone. “
About 54 years ago, the four kids in my family were traveling across the country with my mom, but without my dad. He was working on big stuff related to Army flight test activities at Edwards AFB in the desert of Southern California. It was the summer of 1969. Everything felt big and uncertain. Two teens, a tween, and the annoying little sister (that would be me) piled into an International Harvester, hauling a camping trailer that was a perfect little home. The tiny dinette set folded down into a bed, and that’s where I slept each night, staying awake long after the others had fallen asleep, clutching my Teddy and staring out into the darkness, my eyes catching the flash of stars.
It was an epic road trip across the country, and even into Canada and up to Alaska, where we drove on the ALCAN highway. It was a time of endless adventures, with sights and people that filled me with wonder, and which I still vividly recall. I missed my dad, and wrote to him frequently from the road, mostly postcards, but also letters.
The image you see is the front of an envelope, clearly addressed without assistance from my siblings or mom. I did my best! And the postal carrier did his best, too, successfully delivering this birthday letter to the right dad on a street full of dads with crew cuts who were worried about the war in Vietnam, their families, and the world.
The back of the envelope held the promise that I’d “send you present later.” It was something little that I bought at Stuckey’s, which had things that fit the budget of an 8-year old. My dad met us for about 10 days during the trip at my grandparents’ home in Mississippi. Together, three generations of our family watched the Moon Landing. My father returned home, and the rest of the family continued on our journey.
That summer changed the country, and that summer changed things in my life, too. Within a handful of months after our return, my parents divorced. My siblings and I moved off the base into a small community nearby. That summer trip is still golden in my memory, though, one of the best (and last) good things in my life for a very long time.
My dad kept all the cards and letters I sent him, not just from this trip, but over the years. I’ve stumbled upon them in random places since he passed away more than a decade ago. Tucked into books, boxes of photos, wherever.
They seem to find me on days when I need to be reminded that life is fleeting, generations pass quickly, and things are really ephemeral.
But this, too, emerges: Reminders of love are always present, even after those we love - and who loved us - are gone.