GOING POSTAL!

After viewing a recent story on a local cable news channel about a U.S. Postal worker that only wears his uniform shorts when making his rounds it made me wonder. It is not so unusual that a postal worker might wear shorts if they work somewhere around the Equator. This guy however worked in the upper Midwest of the U.S. As I remember my geography from Mrs. Miller’s third grade class for the short and geographically challenged, I seem to remember that Minnesota is quite a few degrees north of the world’s belt buckle which as everybody knows is its regular hot spot especially on Saturday night after doing the cha cha with some other hot worldly mamma planet. Of course the day they did the story on the postal worker there was snow on the ground, and it was 20 degrees below zero. He still delivered the mail in his uniform shorts. What a knucklehead….er….character!

Given all of the hoopla and reputation hits that the Post Office has taken in the last two decades is it any wonder that the phrase “going postal” has become a regular part of the vernacular? This former U.S. Governmental Agency which is now a quasi-private company has quite a collection of lunatics within its walls yet its make up is by and large of normal everyday citizens like you and me. They’re the folks who like you and I have no problem playing especially when it comes to making sure the mail goes through….through all kinds of torment before it gets to me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had mangled letters, crushed packagers and fractured fruitcakes thanks to the mail system. As far as the fruit cake goes they could have incinerated that as far as I am concerned, just as long as they don’t tell crazy Aunt Rita that I never received it. I think she grows every fruit by hand on her windowsill and somehow gelatinizes them to make each tasty morsel the consistency of rubber suitable for retreading tires on a 1957 Buick.

As far at that lunatic comment regarding postal workers, I think I am eminently qualified to comment especially on the changes. My father, brother and cousin all worked in the much maligned organization. What once was glamorized and romanticized by the pony express and a reputation that the mail must go through no matter what, saw the tide begin to change after the 1960’s. It was an especially turbulent time for psychedelic indulgent postal employees. The revamping of stodgy uniforms with the addition of shorts and the pith helmet might have confused some, but if there were ever a contingent of postal workers on the Serengeti of Africa chasing big game at least they would be properly dressed for the hunt.

As someone who spent quite a number of years in an entertainment industry one half of a step above gutter level I can honestly say that we use to joke that if we ever got fired that at lease we could work in the Post Office. How funny that is the case with some postal workers. The organization has become the employer of some of the dregs of society who could not make an honest living based on tangible skills. The souls I am talking about not only use to work in the Post Office but their acts within its inner sanctum earned them the right to have their wanted poster hung in front on public display.

When you are willing to hire the unskilled to perform manual labor that the average marsupials could perform in his sleep and put some of them at the helm of the machine is it any wonder that there might be a banana peel or two to slip upon? The once proud organization has slid into a tri-annual postage raise groveling society that is out to get your money in order for them to compete with more competent less bloated commercial organizations. In the Pony Express days the outlaws use to steal from postal riders. Now some of those very elements are running the show and seem to be within the organization. When my mail from across town comes in three weeks instead of three days, this post modern organization has me doing a double take and thanking my lucky stars that I received anything at all. Of course when I notice that it always seems to be some sort of junk mail or a bill I entertain my own postal eruption in my mind. Then I calm down and think well if I ever get fired I might still end up working there. Then I see the postman coming down my street in his shorts and “World of Commander McBragg” style pit helmet. This sets me to giggle to myself and “whew” a small sigh of relief. It’s enough to make me tell the postman “thanks for the service!”

I thought that, on the anniversary of his birth, I would honor the man who inspired this column by publishing it again. It may be one of my favorites.

It is true that time bestows upon us wiadom. Overcoming the turbulance of our relationship during my adolecence, he later told me he was my best friend. Perhaps, I was his only one.

In retrospect I know he was correct. For the words I left unspoken, for his dedication to loyaly and the generational consistancey the universal impact of the parent-child relationship imparts, there is an eternal quality that cannot be underestimated. My children will thank you for the lessons. In them your immortality is assured, and so is mine. Happy Birthday to you, Daddy-O!

PETS!

What is the fascination of children toward pets? GI Joe and Barbie are good enough to hold the average scurrying rug-rat but only for a few years. Invariably the subject of having a pet arises. You can run but can’t hide! Having a pet is apparently a prerequisite to becoming an adolescent! It is accompanied by that whiney, grating, noisy, flopping up and down, thrashing on the ground, holding ones breath until you get what you want scene, and that’s just me protesting!. Oh yeah, this is the same behavior youngsters have in the pet store in an effort to persuade you that having a pet is a good idea!

Pets come in all shapes and sizes, but it’s usually the big ones they want first. My daughter’s first request was for a pet elephant. If I remember correctly I think “peanut” was her first spoken word. It didn’t help that my wife is a fancier of such humongous, largely overweight animals. That’s why I’m the apple of her eye! She likes elephants too. This elephant desire was not easily squelched in our house because of the often watched episode of The Simpson’s where Bart wins a pachyderm in a radio station contest. “No honey,” we’d tell the youngster, “that’s just a cartoon! Elephants belong in the circus or the Republican party”. Come to think of it isn’t that the same thing?

When I was a kid I wanted a dolphin. I figured all you needed in the back yard was a pool and some kind of water tight truck to carry it up the highway from Sea World. Can you imagine the rear end of such a vehicle swaying as it drove up the highway? As a kid I could actually visualize it. Another clarion call was for my very own horse. Not such a big deal if you live on a farm or a place with a lot of land. We however lived on a postage stamp sized lot barely big enough for the house that sat upon it. Nevertheless it didn’t stop the yearlong nagging I put upon my parents. It wasn’t until I realized that they had invested heavily in the earplug market that I gave up the ghost on that idea.

Kids are funny but they grow up and then the real pressure for a less wacky domesticated animal comes into focus. The dog is a prime example. How many times can one parent say no to such a normal household pet? The older members of the family try the logical approach. “It’ll be good as a watchdog and make mom feel safe.” However when you end up with a dog that has a high pitched yap instead of a deep throated baritone growling bark that benefit flies out window. As I think back on my childhood I’m hearing the same arguments I heaped on my poor parents. My daughter is trying them out on me. “I’ll take care of it! I’ll feed it! I’ll walk it. I’ll clean up after it!” To this day when I review the family scrapbook I always come across that picture of my father with a pooper scooper in his hand, and he is not smiling! Children take as much care of the animal on the lowest rung of the family ladder as they would a brother or sister. Good heavens that would be considered animal cruelty!

Having a pet is like perpetually having an infant in your care. They can’t feed themselves. There are particular needs when cleaning up after them. They tend to chew on everything and create quite a mess of your shoes when they are growing (and that’s just the kids). You can’t leave the house or leave town without “special arrangements” or taking Fifi on vacation with you! The idea of spending 2,500 miles of highway time with a lap sitting Pekingese, their tongue flaps in my face from its necessity to stick its neck out the driver’s side window, isn’t overly appealing!

Man’s best friend? My family lineage consists of a long line of postal workers, utility company employees and various assorted other entities which required a work uniform. There’s nothing a watch dog likes more than to sink his teeth into the soft part of your tush when you wear one of those coordinated ensembles. It’s like waving a red flag at a bull. I never knew that postcards could fly until I saw them do just that out of a postman’s mail pouch. He was doing the 25 yard dash and high jump out of a neighbor’s yard. Postmen have to be very athletic or get used to spending time lying on their stomach as the family physician sews their wound in the shape of the Liberty Bell. If you know a postal delivery worker you can bet there is a bell on their butt!

Much has been made of being a “cat person,” versus being a “dog person.” These pet owners fancy their animals as extensions of their own personalities. I know more people that are dogs than are cats, I can tell you, and usually they are men! Some pet owners are merely confused folks because they treat “Fido” or “Twinkie” like they are the people of the house. There are complete pet wardrobes including sweaters, pants, and accessories (diamond studded jewelry). My favorites are pet eye glasses and dental braces. Not to be outdone there are equally delusional individuals practicing pet psychiatry! I can hear the conversation now:

Dr.: I know you were the seventh in a litter that had a mother who could only service six at a time but that doesn’t mean you should be pooping in your neighbors front yard!

Rex: I know it doc but sometimes I can’t help myself. I think I’m addicted to a swat on the nose from a rolled up newspaper!

Doggie psychiatrists are sure to confuse a pup. “How will I ever get him to stay off of the couch at home if the doctor requires him on it in his office?” Exactly what university in this country educates veterinarians and qualifies them as shrinks? There is a group of professors somewhere who needs to have their heads examined!

Alas no matter how much my objection, the tide eventually will turn against me. Since I want to be remembered as a dad that was a kind, soft-hearted, loving, gracious, father, instead of my true identity, eventually I know I will lose this battle. Mind you, I could go a whole lifetime without knocking the pet bowl of water all over the kitchen floor and still live a fulfilled satisfying life. I’ll be the one that has to clean that up too I’m sure. However, to be sure, I’ll be overrun in the family’s zeal to add another mouth to feed to our household one way or the other. I can see how this will all end.

Our beautiful little home will forever have a keepsake on the mantle over the fireplace in the living room. The family portrait will display us all together, including me, with a special look on my face, and a pooper scooper in my hand!