Postal memories

Today someone mentioned the postal service to me. It made me remember my growing up years at the local post office. My father was a mail man for all the years I can remember. For most of that time he had the route that took him walking the entire way through the two main business streets in town and then over the course of several local residential streets.
Sometimes Daddy would walk to work even and be there at about 7:30 to start sorting the mail for his route. The back room of the post office was a busy area, full of bags of mail that had come in and boxes and packages. There were male voices deep and rich with laughter and pleasantness. The men my daddy worked with were always kind to my siblings and I. There was a dustiness to that back room as well but you knew the people that worked there enjoyed what they did.
Many days at the end of Daddy's shift I would be sitting in the little break room at the back of the post office waiting for him to be finished so we could go home. We kids knew that we needed to be quiet and respectful, but that we were allowed to do our studying or reading after heading there from our various afterschool activities. It saved Mama a drive into town to pick us up and then having to come back in for Daddy. We lived 3 miles from town central so it was a lesser walk to get to the post office and wait.
Sometimes as our bus was waiting for the junior high kids to get on in the afternoon we would see Daddy walk past on his route. Often my brother would jump off the bus and go walk the rest of the route with Daddy. He did a lot of the route with him on Saturdays as well. I know that it was good for them to have that time together. They were the only men in a housefull of women.
I know that times have to change but sometimes I wish it were like yesteryear when times were simpler and mail was delivered with a smile and a friendly wave. When people were not in such a rush and there was more respect for each other.

A Child's Gift

I was reading a blog of another person who spent many years in the town where I grew up earlier today and it caused me to remember something with a smile.
He was talking about picking Lady Slipper flowers, a wild orchid that is protected in the state of New York. Perhaps back in the years he picked them they weren't protected. I remember picking one that I found as a child. I was told after I picked it that it was against the law to pick them. I was terrified of being arrested for picking a flower. I was all of about 9 years old at the time.
I had just wanted to give my mother something I thought was so pretty and I had never seen one before. The usual bouquets that were picked for my mom almost every day they were in bloom were made up of wild violets with their delicate stems and dandelions with their yellow petals.
Mom would smile at each bouquet brought to her and put them in a little jelly jar or a shrimp coctail glass with a little water. She got many such bouquets and usually several times a day as there were five children of varying ages bringing them to her.
I can still see the bouquets put on the windowsill over the kitchen sink. They were picked with such love and desire to show that love. It was a child's gift to a loving mother.