‘It was your dad that answered all those letters that the kids wrote to Santa every year’
Background: Tim Russert’s Wisdom of Our Fathers has hundreds of stories men and women tell about their fathers, including the one below. It’s a remarkable book–to learn more, see my co-authored column America’s Father Hunger (World Net Daily, 10/13/06).
The story below is “The Mail” from John Mooy, of Interlochen, Michigan, about his father mailman Nat Mooy (1905-1985).
“As a young boy, I sometimes traveled the country roads with my dad. He was a rural mail carrier in southwestern Michigan, and on Saturdays he would often ask me to go on the route with him. I loved it. Driving through the countryside was always an adventure. There were animals to see, people to visit, and freshly-baked chocolate-chip cookies if you knew where to stop, and Dad did. We made more stops than usual when I was on the route because I always got carsick, but stopping for me never seemed to bother Dad.
“In the spring, Dad delivered boxes full of baby chicks. Their continuous peeping could drive you crazy, but Dad loved it. When the peeping became too loud to bear, you could quiet them down by trilling your tongue and making the sounds of a hawk. When I was a boy it was fun to stick your fingers through one of the holes in the side of the cardboard boxes and let the baby birds peck on your finger. Such bravery!
“On Dad’s final day of work on a beautiful summer day, it took him well into the evening to complete his rounds because at least one member of each family was waiting at their mailbox to thank him for his friendship and his years of service. ‘Two hundred and nineteen mailboxes on my route,’ he used to say, ‘and a story at every one.’ One lady had no mailbox, so Dad took the mail in to her every day because she was nearly blind. Once inside, he read her mail and helped her pay her bills. And every Thursday he read her the local newspaper.
“Mailboxes were sometimes used for things other than mail. One note left in a mailbox read, ‘Nat, take these eggs to Marian; She’s baking a cake and doesn’t have any eggs, and don’t stop to talk to Archie!’ Mailboxes might be buried in the snow, or broken, or lying on the ground, but the mail was always delivered. On cold days Dad might find one of his customers waiting for him by the mailbox with a cup of hot chocolate. A young girl wrote letters but had no stamps, so she left a few buttons on the envelope in the mailbox; Dad paid for the stamps. One busy merchant used to leave large amounts of cash in his mailbox in a paper bag for Dad to take to the bank. On one occasion, the amount came to $32,000. It’s hard to believe, but it’s true.
“A dozen years ago, when I traveled back to my hometown on the sad occasion of Dad’s death, the mailboxes along the way reminded me of some of his stories. I thought I knew them all, but that wasn’t quite the case. (more…)
|
| More from Glenn Sacks
Stumble It!
June 13th, 2007 at 12:15 pm
And feminists say that fathers serve no special purpose, and can easily be replaced by another woman, or nobody at all.
For shame.