Our town isn't exactly a huge metropolis. Juanita and I don't know a lot of our townsfolk, because during the summer we are busy with guests in the lodge, or working with our horses. And during the winter... nope, not going out there. One of the folks we do know around here is our postmistress.
Early on, when we first moved up here I was standing in line forever (okay, there was one person ahead of me in line) when the gal ahead of me buying stamps at the counter told the clerk "Please give me some pretty stamps." When I got to the counter I said "Please give me the ugliest stamps you have, I hate having them feel left out." The clerk laughed and handed me some pretty ugly stamps, and that has been the way it has gone ever since. I'm not sure Juanita has ever forgiven me for the year our Christmas cards went out with BATS on the stamps.
It's very nice being on a first name basis with the post office folks, and has probably saved me from doing time in the federal prison system.
A couple years ago, back when I trusted my ford truck enough to pull horse trailers with it, I found myself parked on the shoulder of the road towing "GunDiva's" horse and waiting for the truck to rest enough to magically start running and travel another mile or two up the canyon before dying again. While I was cooling my hooves and cursing Henry's company under my breath, the mail lady pulled up beside me. "Bill, do you need any help?" she asked. "No, this d@mn ford just quits every mile or so some days, and needs a 15 or 20 minute break before it'll run again. Been doing it for months now. Dealer can't figure it out, and neither can I." I replied. "Okay." she responded, and drove on up the mountain. After an hour of intermittent travel, I made it the last 4 miles up the mountain.
Multiple trips to the ford dealerships service department left the problem unresolved. After one of my many expensive and fruitless trips to the service department, the ford Motor Company customer service department sent me a customer satisfaction survey.
I opened the letter right after pulling it out of my P.O. box and gazed at it incredulously. Without thinking I blurted out
"There isn't NEARLY enough room for a letter bomb in this return envelope!"
"BILL! YOU CAN"T EVEN JOKE LIKE THAT IN HERE!" came the shout from behind the wall of P.O.boxes. Chagrined I said "No, no, it's okay, it's from ford." "Oh. Okay then." came the voice, and we all went off on our business with no call to the FBI.
Today, I walked to the post office with a hand full of thank-you cards Juanita was sending out that needed postage. I asked for some ugly stamps, and asked the clerk if she would meter the postage on the cards and send them off. Then I picked the up the mail from our box, and headed out the door and down the road.
"Hey Bill! Did you take those cards you wanted mailed out the door with you?" came a shout from the open post office door.
"That would be dumb! Why would I do that?" I replied and I looked at the thank you letters held along with our mail in my hand. I walked back to the door and mumbled my thanks at saving me another round trip.
These folks put the us in US mail.