The joys of snail mail

I am a fan of paper. I finally gave up getting the newspaper, although I do read the “print edition” on my iPad each morning–it looks just like the printed paper as I scroll through it, no clickable links or anything. If I want to share a story, I take a screen shot and text it to my family. I prefer reading actual books, which are stacked up around my house–I’ve given up keeping them organized and allow them to pile up as a visual homage to my habit. And I like mail. Real, actual, physical mail. Not the catalogs and bills so much, most of which are filed in the recycle bin before I even get them indoors. But magazines (they still exist!). Letters. Cards. Postcards. I regularly send notes and cards to friends and family, hoping to bring them a smile and a purpose for checking the mail. It makes ME smile each time I write one.

Because of this habit, however, I am reliant on the post office. And regularly frustrated by it. I was musing on this frustration last night as I prepared to mail the announcements for my youngest son’s high school graduation. I wonder how many will be returned as non-deliverable? This is not just idle conjecture–I have extensive experience with returned mail. A package I sent to friends in Romania a few years ago was returned to me NINE MONTHS after I sent it. Two years ago, a Christmas card to my aunt in Florida, who has lived in the same place for over a decade, was returned to me well into the new year. The address was correct, and was even typed, so my terrible handwriting was not to blame. My aunt believes it was returned because she’d been on vacation and her condo mailbox was full. So now that’s a reason to return to sender? Last year, I sent three Christmas cards to the same address. (Long story, involving adult kids moving homes…) Again, the addresses were typed, and to a location to which I successfully have sent many, many items over the past several years. Two of those cards were returned to me with a handwritten note on each envelope saying “no such address.” The third card was delivered. To that address. The one that doesn’t exist. Sigh.

My favorite returned mail story, however, wasn’t the fault of the post office. I usually keep the returned mail and check it against my list each year to make sure that I update the list prior to printing that year’s address labels, but apparently I missed one last year. This year, the card to that family came back with a note from the new residents of the house, written in black Sharpie: “These people moved years ago. Why don’t you know that?!” It made me laugh out loud. I toyed with the idea of sending a card back to these residents, because I feel like whoever wrote that note needs something that brings THEM a smile, but decided that next year I’ll just send a card to that house addressed to “resident.” Of course, it probably will be returned.