So, almost two weeks ago I told a long and somewhat prosaic story about a trip to my local post office.
I shall now follow-up with a similar story about my local post office. Since I love the people who work there, and I love my little post office.
Here’s a visual example why I love this place:
I just think it’s so cute that they make a hand-lettered sign for that. On top of that, this “Trainee” was so freaking nice to me!
Fast-forward to yesterday when I mailed a bunch of letters, including one of my Star Wars postcards (it’s a project…such as it is) to a friend in Canada. I just put stamps on them and put them in the box during a dog walk in the morning.
Later that day I was driving and I realized I had put the wrong postage on the card to Canada. I’d put a Forever stamp on it, but postage for that kind of thing to Canada requires $1.15. I usually know this, since there are a couple of folks I write to in Canada. I’d just forgotten since I was sending a bunch of mail.
Crap. This was a postcard. And one of my really cool Ralph McQuarrie postcards, dangit. Which means no return address. Which means either the person receiving it will have to pay the extra, or it will just…what? Disappear?
So I go to the post office right before closing and sheepishly ask the woman working the register (not the “Trainee” this time) what will happen. She is exasperated. It’s the end of her day. But she can see I’m all worried. I really want this card to get to this person. She needs it. Sometimes people just need to get something in the mail randomly and you can tell. And she doesn’t need to be asked to pay the make-up postage.
“When did you put it in the box?” the woman behind the counter asks me.
“Before the 2:30 pickup. At around 2:15. But that was two hours ago. So it’s probably been picked up.”
She smiles. Her name is Dulce. She says, “It hasn’t been picked up yet. Because I haven’t done it yet.”
Then she runs to the back and asks her co-worker Jerry to come cover the counter and hurries up with her keys to the blue boxes up on the hill, above the parking lot. I show her a picture of the postcard I sent. I take pictures of all of them on my phone, because…well…it’s a project.
She pulls out the postcard and shows it to me, leads me back into the post office, takes my dollar (seventy-one cents actually), and says it’s taken care of and not to worry about it.
I love my post office.