Raising The Red Flag
(Page 3 of 3)
July/August 1989
By Alfred Meyer
Nor did the mail itself help much, initially. One piece was an ad, another a notice from the postal service, addressed to "Rural Customer, Local." It informed me that "Mailbox Improvement Week" was right around the corner. Aha, I thought, there was glory to be gained yet. I envisioned an entourage of beribboned postal inspectors cruising up the county road in an open stretch limo. Then I heard the chief thunder to his underlings, on a megaphone and while pointing to my box, "Now, there, you clods, is a rural receptacle the service can be proud of. Stop the car. Get its address, Smithers. I intend to see it receives the Neither Rain Nor Shine Award at once."
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"Anyway," I said to Arthur as we trudged back to the house. "Anyway, maybe tomorrow the guy will raise the flag."
He didn't, not that day or the one after that. Finally, I collared him and asked, as politely as I could, why not.
"Excuse me, sir," he answered, equally polite but with a tinge of forbearance. "You're the one that's got to raise it."
"Me?"
"When you've got something to mail and want me to pick it up, you put it in the box and raise the flag. Then I know to stop, even if I don't have mail for you."
"Right. Of course. Makes a lot of sense, doesn't it? Well, what I really wanted to talk to you about was this Mailbox Improvement Week stuff:"
"Oh, don't worry about that,"
he said. "Yours is just fine. Clean, straight lettering, too. Our people will like that." Locked in the house, Arthur barked his head off: You could hear him all the way down by the roadside.
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