Parcel Post

I’ve had this photo in my memory for a long time, but I never had a copy of it. It still hangs in the Lemont, Pennsylvania post office. At a recent family gathering, we ended up chatting about my dad and his role in securing a new post office for the town. Yesterday, a photo of the photo showed up in my inbox–thanks to my brother, Selden!

The description reads: Energetic Excavating.  Warren Smith, chairman of Concerned Citizens of Lemont, uses elbow grease powered by enthusiasm to turn soil at groundbreaking ceremonies for the new Lemont post office last night.  The new post office will be built on Mary Street.  (Photo by Dick Brown.). August 6, 1981.  

Dad died just a few years after he jumped on that shovel, and the post office was part of that story, as I remember it. Here’s a snippet from a longer essay, part of my never-ending work in progress.

…..

It is mid-February and I am standing in Dad’s study, breathing in the smell of him though it has been some months since he worked here. Mom is standing beside me. 

“This is where he is,” I say. She nods, then leaves me alone with my memories and my grief. 

The crematorium has phoned to ask her how she wants Dad’s ashes delivered. They are in a city an hour’s drive away, and they offer a limousine service for a minimal fee. For a further additional feel, they can deliver the ashes in a ceramic urn or a wooden box.

“I told them no,” she says. “Dad felt very strongly. He didn’t want anything costly.”

“How costly is it?” I ask.

“That’s not the point. He wanted the least expensive.” She reminds me that Dad was a founding member of the local memorial society, dedicated to simplicity in death. 

“So, how will they be coming?”

“In a cardboard box. Parcel post,” she says.

Some years earlier, Dad had led a successful community protest against closing the local post office—a rare victory for local action that resulted in a new post office in the village of Lemont, population fifteen hundred. As I approached the post office counter, I looked up at a large framed photo of Dad, jumping on a spade at the sod-breaking for the new building, his grey hair flying, a grin on his face. He was a Lemont Post Office hero. 

Behind the counter Charlie, the postmaster, met my eyes with a sad nod. “Good morning, Paula.” He still knew me, after all those years.

“You know my Dad died a few days ago,” I said. It wasn’t a question. Of course he knew.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. He was a fine man.”

“Yes, well.” I was still having trouble holding back tears. “His ashes are being sent by parcel post.” 

“He deserves better,” Charlie replied, shaking his head.

“It’s what he wanted. But I don’t want my mom to come down for the mail alone and find them here. Can you hold them until someone else is with her?”

“Of course. Be glad to.”

In fact, he did more than that. When the parcel arrived, Charlie lowered the post office flag to half-mast (contrary to federal regulations) and closed the post office long enough to deliver the ashes in person. Only Mom and Jack were home; I should have been there. I returned to my Dad’s remains in a cardboard box on the dining room table. About the size of a child’s shoebox and surprisingly heavy.