“What We Got Here’s Failure to Communicate.”

“What We Got Here’s

Failure to Communicate.”

 

I receive my mail thru a cluster arrangement of twelve boxes, (three rows of four) placed about twenty- five feet from my house. The letter carrier places a parcel in an adjacent large box and puts the key to the parcel box in the recipient’s mail box. Last week I received a package and try as I might, could not open the parcel box with their key. My neighbor Danny happened out and I enlisted his aid to open the box. After several tries, he too failed to open it.

I drove to the Post Office and explained my dilemma to the clerk.

“I can’t open this box,” I said and pushed the key toward her.

“”Here, fill this out,” she said and gave me a form and pen.

I filled out my name and address and returned it to the clerk.

“The locksmith will change the lock tomorrow,” she promised and gave the key back to me.

“Don’t you want this?”

“No. I have no use for it,” she answered.

I took the key home and put a note on it “I can’t open this,” and left it for the letter carrier.

The following day, the letter carrier delivered my package to my front door. When I went out to retrieve the rest of my mail, my key would not open my personal mailbox. They replace the wrong lock!

Again I drove to the Post Office and explained the problem to another clerk.

“Sorry about that; I’ll get the keys for your new box,” she said and disappeared to the back. After about five minutes, she returned. “The locksmith’s not back yet. Come back later.”

I returned later that afternoon and got my new keys. Now I have trouble opening my mailbox. The key seems to stick. I wouldn’t dare return to the Post Office and complain. I put soap on the key (a trick I learned from my mother) and it opens the box okay.

In the meantime, the lock on the parcel box never got changed.

--- Mary Fahey

Nostalgia

On July fourth, I attended a concert in Arroyo Grande’s Heritage Park. As I sat on a lawn chair and listened to the patriotic songs of the Village Band, I felt transported to a bygone era. I remember as a youth, I loved the movies depicting the turn of the twentieth century and wished my birth took place during that magical time.

I wanted to live in small town America and spend leisurely pre air conditioned Sunday afternoons strolling the municipal park. I wanted to watch children roll wooden hoops with small sticks, the boys in knickers and knee socks, the girls in fluffy dresses and straw hats garnished with flowing ribbons. I wanted to carry a parasol against the summer sun and stop for ice cream at a shop with a mustachioed proprietor.

In my reverie, horse drawn carriages ambled by, and the driver tipped his stovepipe hat to fashionable ladies nearby. The handsome boy next door shyly offered his arm to me as we walked the fragrant paths between flower beds of sweet peas and phlox. We stopped to listen to the music of the orchestra playing Sousa marches in the band shell. A gentle breeze caressed our flushed faces. We smiled at each other and I quickly dropped my eyes. 

Back to 2017, I wear jeans and a red, white and blue shirt instead of an ankle length dress of summer linen. A peaked cap shields my skin from the sun instead of a parasol. I sit on a collapsible portable chair next to a group of "senior" friends instead of strolling on the arm of a handsome boy. But the band still plays Sousa marches in the Rotary gingerbread band stand. Children still scamper and wave small American flags. A gentle breeze cools our skin and mustachioed Doc Burnstein’s sells ice cream.

My dream has come true with some minor alterations.