I don’t know them, the people with the US mailbox, but I nod in the direction of their house each day when I walk by — my acknowledgement traveling over the bush that lines the road, the iron gate, up the tree-lined gravel driveway, past the sleeping dog that can’t muster a bark in the heat, and the aloof cat (that won’t admit it is our gate she will be sleeping on later, just because she can), up the three stairs to the screen door, and on a long awaited breeze whispers, “Hello in there.”
We barely even get mail anymore. I used to see the mail car pass when I was out walking. Now I never do. But the mailbox still connects us — the mailbox that stands hopeful for connection. Ready to give an open mouthed “Ohhhhh” when it does! And I suppose it’s not really the box at all, but the feeling. Perhaps we all know that desire to connect, to gather in, with words and hearts and gesture. Someone is always reaching out, saying, “Does anyone else feel this way?” And it doesn’t take much. We worry about doing the right thing, saying the right words, so we do nothing at all, when all it really takes is just an acknowledgment, a simple heart nod to say, “I’ve been on this road before, hello…”
We don’t get a lot of mail. To be honest, the mail carrier rarely slows down in front of our gate. So yesterday, when I saw the glimpse of white through the slot, it was already a surprise. But then to see my name…this was something! Not only had the letter traveled across the ocean, it transported me back in time to when I was six.
It was never lost on me, this beginning each letter with “Dear,” — because certainly it must be, I thought. From the moment Mrs. Bergstrom taught us the salutation, all I wanted was to write a letter, and what would it be like, (I barely could let myself think of it) to receive such a letter…to know that you were in fact, dear.
I don’t recall the cost of stamps. I barely understood the value of money, other than the quarter I received each Thursday for doing my weekly chores. I’m sure it didn’t come as a surprise when I told my mom that I wanted to forgo my allowance until I had enough to buy some stamps. She smiled and opened her purse. She unlatched the coin pocket and pulled out a stamp. She was glorious, I thought (and that didn’t come as a surprise either)!
Not fully understanding how it worked, I wrote my first letter to the one I found most dear, sealed the envelope, licked the stamp, put it in our mailbox and raised the flag. It was the only address I knew, having memorized it before riding the school bus for the first time. I watched the mail carrier pull up to the boxes in front of our house. He put the car in park so he could retrieve the letter. He looked at the address, then saw me out of the corner of his eye. He smiled. Put down the flag. And placed the letter back in our mailbox.
I paced the driveway nearly the entire afternoon waiting for my mom to return from work. She stopped at the mailbox, pulled the envelope to her chest, and before opening, she knew she was dear.
It wasn’t surprising that my mother had to drive Phyllis Norton at full speed down Van Dyke road to Douglas County hospital to have her baby. The surprising part was that she only had to do it once. Mrs. Norton did have five girls after all.
I’m not sure if they were rules of law, or just the rules of the neighborhood, but people respected them either way, and drove slowly on the gravel. On the rare occassion that you saw the billowing of dust behind a vehicle, you knew something had to be wrong. It was this sort of knowledge that was the firm structure on which we based our youth. We knew our neighbors. And for better, or worse, we counted on them. And not just to do the heavy lifting, or make the hospital run, but to be who they were. Each of us had our roles. The Norton girls could fill out any team — softball, kickball, kick the can — they had the numbers, and the ever willingness to play. The Schulz boys guarded our behavior. In hindsight, they weren’t bad, but probably just a little wild, and served as a threat if we did something wrong — “Do you want to go live with the Schulz’s?” We didn’t. So we behaved. Our stunt grandparents, both Dynda and Mullen, served as stability. Open screen doors and plates of cookies. Clothes hanging on the line. Constants. The Lees provided our future — our last pick-up on the school bus, they were young and sparkling clean as their mother, Yvonne, with her movie star looks and shift dresses waved us all goodbye. The Spodens came to fill in our missing pieces and hold together the movement that kicked up the gravel one last time.
Does it matter? I can answer this by a dream I had the other night. It was really in the early stages of the morning. The kind of dream that comes after a rough night. The kind of dream that stays with you. In my dream, we lived in a replica of my grandparents’ house here in France. Our house was filled with unknown tourists, struggling with their cellphones. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw someone familiar. I flung open the door and raced toward her yelling in delight for all of France to hear — “Phyllis Norton is here!!!!! Phyllis Norton is here!!!!” I screamed it through our yard. Through our house! And woke up with such joy. Such comfort.
So it did matter. It matters still. We built something. Together. And it remains. Even a lifetime and country away, it supplies a structure of support. A stability of goodness. I carry it with me daily. Count on it. Guard it with my heart. And go to sleep each night, waiting for Phyllis Norton.
