Post Office: Maine vs. Home Town

I’m back in my hometown to celebrate Chanuka with my children and revert temporarily to babysitting duty.

It’s been quite a culture shock.  So many people, and all of them in such a hurry! Traffic! Lines!  I’ve been to a mall (no parking left!) and the library (ditto!).  The density amazes me which is kind of ridiculous because my home town is a fraction of the size of NYC or LA.  But it’s ginormous compared to rural Maine.

I had a very difficult encounter at the local post office in my home town.  I waited in line for the standard 25 minutes but I was at the counter itself for 45 minutes, and there was no shmoozing at all.  I was attempting to mail a package while trying to keep a smile on my face and maintain a pleasant demeanor as the clerk, bless her, made it the Day From Hell.  ‘Nuff said, but it made me reflect on my last day in Maine.

I had gone to our rural post office to pick up mail from the PO Box, and told “H,” our postmistress, that I would not be seeing her until January.  In case our mail forwarding request back to our hometown was not going to work properly, I apologized in advance for the possible avalanche of mail she’d receive and have to hold aside for us, especially since we rented a teeny-weeny box that holds less than bubkes.

“Ill tell you what,” she said, “how ’bout if I hold the mail for you until the middle of December, and then I send whatever comes to you here in Maine to  your home town address?”

“That would be great, ” I said, “but how will I know how much postage to give you to do that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” H said, “I’ll cover it out of my own pocket, and you can pay me for the postage when you get back here in January!”

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