photo: Gillian Shaw-Pichalo at a Post Box in Oxford-------------------->
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As I understood it, computers were supposed to say, "You've got mail" when a message popped up. Mine, instead, has a perky voice which chirps, "Mail Truck!" It sounds as though she is announcing the sale of the decade. During most of my childhood, I was homesick for America. I didn't have a home to come home to; it was a general feeling of wanting to be someplace with tuna melts and milkshakes and Macy's basement. My trusty connections were the Voice of America on the tall brown radio and postcards from my Uncle Henry. He liked the Hudson River School of artists and Indians of the Plains. He worked for the postal service in some way that involved railroads. Therefore, I received the most up to date commemoratives, pre-stamped envelopes, and vistas of Yosemite with numerous National Wildlife Federation stickers. He quoted poetry which he recommended I memorize, "...in case you are ever in prison." When my brother went away to parts unknown, he sent postcards with stamps in languages I couldn't read and sketches of his whereabouts. Sometimes, there would be a mangled photograph of a sunset (in black and white) on the isle of Skye or geraniums in a Spanish garden. I have over 200 of his postcards in my Roberto niche, along with newspaper reviews and art museum programs. I was a horrid correspondent. I never wrote back but perhaps my dad wrote to Uncle Henry and said, "Christine is carrying your postcard around inside her uniform over her heart. It's having a near-death experience. The postcard. Not Christine's heart." For one reason or another, Uncle Henry never gave up. Now, in the age of e-mail, my thrill is that voice from out of nowhere. "Mail Truck!" In Eureka, the mail carrier was delighted I was on his route. He would wave a card and say, "Roanoke Central!" when Dian would send a heavily decorated letter addressed to various people such as, "The best little faerie in all of California." Or when Susan sent one with a drawing of Gone CoCo elaborately enscribed. Snail mail, e-mail. All mail is good mail, except maybe statements mail. Oh! I just heard, as we speak..."Mail Truck!"
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May you have letters full of clippings and your postcards carry a taste of their origins...
As I understood it, computers were supposed to say, "You've got mail" when a message popped up. Mine, instead, has a perky voice which chirps, "Mail Truck!" It sounds as though she is announcing the sale of the decade. During most of my childhood, I was homesick for America. I didn't have a home to come home to; it was a general feeling of wanting to be someplace with tuna melts and milkshakes and Macy's basement. My trusty connections were the Voice of America on the tall brown radio and postcards from my Uncle Henry. He liked the Hudson River School of artists and Indians of the Plains. He worked for the postal service in some way that involved railroads. Therefore, I received the most up to date commemoratives, pre-stamped envelopes, and vistas of Yosemite with numerous National Wildlife Federation stickers. He quoted poetry which he recommended I memorize, "...in case you are ever in prison." When my brother went away to parts unknown, he sent postcards with stamps in languages I couldn't read and sketches of his whereabouts. Sometimes, there would be a mangled photograph of a sunset (in black and white) on the isle of Skye or geraniums in a Spanish garden. I have over 200 of his postcards in my Roberto niche, along with newspaper reviews and art museum programs. I was a horrid correspondent. I never wrote back but perhaps my dad wrote to Uncle Henry and said, "Christine is carrying your postcard around inside her uniform over her heart. It's having a near-death experience. The postcard. Not Christine's heart." For one reason or another, Uncle Henry never gave up. Now, in the age of e-mail, my thrill is that voice from out of nowhere. "Mail Truck!" In Eureka, the mail carrier was delighted I was on his route. He would wave a card and say, "Roanoke Central!" when Dian would send a heavily decorated letter addressed to various people such as, "The best little faerie in all of California." Or when Susan sent one with a drawing of Gone CoCo elaborately enscribed. Snail mail, e-mail. All mail is good mail, except maybe statements mail. Oh! I just heard, as we speak..."Mail Truck!"
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May you have letters full of clippings and your postcards carry a taste of their origins...
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