This morning, I woke up thinking about something very strange: the postman. Probably because DD came into my office yesterday and started to bemoan her lack of competent postal service. It seems her old mailwoman was an old-fashioned, dedicated, through rain, sleet, and hail type of mailman. DD even knew her name. But DD has since moved -- I do not lie -- one block over, and now has sucky mail delivery. I read -- or perhaps I was told -- that when the USPS had to make cut backs a few years ago, one of the things they did was cut back on postal carriers which meant that old mail carriers who got the cushy job of behind-the-counter were pushed back onto the streets, territories were expanded so that mail deliverers had larger tracts to cover, and some routes didn't have a designated mailman at all. Those routes went into rotation. Meaning, John, Gwen, Estelle, and Danny all share a route taking it one week (or month?) at a time. This last scenario sounds like what DD is experiencing as she says there is always someone different delivering the mail. But that also creates the problem that the mailman doesn't know the route. Doesn't know the names. Doesn't know that John and Mary Doe moved two months ago and their Forward Request has lapsed, so s/he is now delivery John and Mary's mail to Jack and June Smith.
What's the big deal, you ask? I pay my bills online, you say. All I get is junk mail anyway, you gripe. Well, it made me think of my Great Uncle Larry. My Great Uncle was a postman his entire life. Right after WWII, he got the job and kept it until retirement. Yeah, so, you ask? My Great Uncle was a bachelor. He owned his own home and when his mother passed away, he lived by himself, quite frugally, and successfully, about twenty minutes from the rest of the family, all the way up until he had a stroke. Now, because my uncle was in prime health, rode his bike everywhere, and lived successfully and without complaint for years, no one in the family ever checked up on him. Didn't have to. He'd just show up on holidays and tell us that everything was peachy keen. So, when he had the stroke, no one was coming for him. The only person that my Great Uncle knew was going to stop by the house was the mailman. My uncle dragged himself to the front door and sat there, waiting for the postal delivery so that he could get some help. He did not recall when he had the stroke. He did not recall how long he had to wait for the mail. All he knew was that if he was going to have any chance of getting help, the postman was it. The mailman arrived and called 911. My uncle lived for another four to five years, but never fully recovered and had to have constant supervision. The doctors said that he would have surely died of starvation or dehydration if he was left alone as his mobility was severely limited.
Back in the police academy they said this scenario was common. In fact, it's usually the postman who calls landlords, the police, and social services as s/he is on the front line of elderly care. They are the person the elderly see every day. So, if Gertrude no longer meets them at the end of the driveway, or Gus's mail is piling up in a box, or -- god forbid -- there is a strange smell coming from Eunice's apartment, the mailman makes a call and emergency services go into effect.
I know I made a point about the MTA bar car several days back, and now I'm clanging the bell on the mailman, but I do feel like something is slipping away. And not just a former way of life, the Mad Men existence, but an idea that we're connected and that we all need each other in order to survive.
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