Skip to main content

You've Got Mail

In this episode - You've Got Mail . . .



What's in your mailbox today? No, I'm not referring to your email; I'm talking about what's become known as "Snail Mail." Remember Postal delivery? Like all other services, it also has an acronym, USPS - United States Postal Service. Think back - I'm sure there was a time when you were excited to get the Mail?


Recently I've discovered a renewed love for postal delivery. Yep, I hear you saying, "What, you must be losing it. Our mailbox is always full of bills, statements, advertisements, and junk that ends up in recycling." (Be careful; you might find an unexpected gem among all that junk.)


Junk mail, you say, yes, I understand - however, through the kindness, generosity, and love of an eight-year girl, our mailbox has become a treasured friend. Taped to my office wall is a growing collection of handwritten thank you letters we unexpectedly received for small gifts of Lego toys we've given this eight-year-old. What a sweet gift of joy and sincere gratitude.


My listening friends, these are not just scribbled words on a page, or a store-bought thank you note; each is unique and special. For example, this week's letter replicates a Henri Matisse-style painting bursting with color. This masterpiece is fully illustrated with a colorful drawing of a Bonsai tree, fourth of July fireworks sketches, hearts, stars, multi-colored words, and carefully crafted art. What a caring demonstration of civility and the humanities. This young lady is destined to become a scholar; you heard it first here, On the Fly.


And I'd like to believe it's not just me that appreciates this beautiful gesture.


Imagine this: our friendly mailman pulls up in his Grumman LLV USPS truck and grabs the tray of Mail designated for our community mailbox; he sorts through each box and notices the printed handwritten return addressed envelope scratched out by a child, then stops for a minute and smiles. He is delighted, knowing his job of delivering the Mail can still bring joy to folks when they open such an extraordinary work of art.


Maybe I'm dreaming, that's ok.


Anyway, this summer, encourage your youngster to craft a handwritten letter (or piece of art) to a friend or family member. I guarantee it will make their day when opening their mailbox. Oh, on second thought, maybe you should write one too.


Enjoy your summer.


I'm Patrick Ball; thanks for listening. See you in the next episode.

Comments

I m getting internet satellite dish . Talked to many companies .Vitastar from Carlsbad CA yesterday -Can you shed any light on who s good for the rural area . I m Cuba address , closer to Smithfield . 21971 N Lasswell Road , 61427 . Any help ? Thanks a million !
Roberta Sherman said…
Viasat -correct name
Patrick B. Ball said…
Yes, this would be a good option for Satellite internet. https://www.viasat.com

Most Popular of All Time

The Gopher Problem and the High Powered Solution

Vacationing in Maine this week, just a short drive down the coast from Freeport, it is hard not to think about the outsized impact one frustrated outdoorsman had on the gear we all use today. Bad equipment can ruin a perfectly good day on the water or the trail, but it takes a special kind of vision to turn cold feet into a century-old empire. This is the story of the company we now know as L.L.Bean, but more importantly, it is a masterclass in integrity, learning from failure, and standing behind your work. In 1912, Leon Leonwood Bean faced a persistent problem: returning from expeditions in the Maine woods with cold, wet feet. Instead of complaining, he got creative. He had a local shoemaker stitch waterproof rubber soles onto the flexible leather uppers of a hunting boot. He called it the Maine Hunting Shoe and mailed a flyer promising perfect satisfaction. Then reality arrived. Ninety of his first 100 pairs failed when the rubber separated from the leather. Not an effective product...

On Becoming Real

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...

Engineering Beef Stew

On July 2nd—Day Two of what I call The Great Un-Working —I sat down with my morning notebook to map out this new chapter of my life. One goal made the list in bold ink: Learn to Cook. At seventy, I was adding a skill most people master before they’re old enough to drive. Before you judge me, understand our household ecosystem. Lori is a phenomenal cook. For decades, she’s made meals so effortless and delicious that restaurants seem unsatisfying . My contribution to the culinary arts during my bachelor years–tuna mixed into Kraft Mac & Cheese. Let’s just say I wasn’t threatening her spot on the Food Network. But retirement changed the equation. I’m officially off the clock while Lori is still working. And I had a lovely thought: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she came home after a long day to find dinner waiting? She loved the idea. Then came the question that haunted me for weeks: “What do you want to make?” I had no idea. Apparently, the first step in learning to cook is deciding wh...

When the Universe Calls in Sick

Take Thoreau’s Advice . . .  Four weeks ago, we stood on the shore of Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, trying to channel Henry David Thoreau. Before leaving, I bought a pocket-sized copy of his essay, Walking . It’s slim because nineteenth-century transcendentalists didn’t have notifications interrupting their urge to wander. Thoreau’s counsel is disarmingly simple: step away from modern life's machinery and let the landscape recalibrate your perspective. Back home in Vista, I took that philosophy straight into the backyard. Thursday morning, ink-black, pristine skies arrived. I aimed my refractor at Jupiter, whose light has bathed Earth since mastodons roamed the plains. It felt cosmic. Profound . I left the telescope mounted overnight, convinced the heavens were on retainer for an encore at daybreak. Naturally, the universe called in sick. By sunrise, a wall of coastal fog had rolled in off the Pacific, sealing the valleys beneath a damp, gray Tupperware lid. After about th...