The Mystique of the Mail

Half a century ago, Mail Trains thundered across the plains - screaming thru small town America night and day. Sacred rights and flashing lights kept others out of their way. One thousand tons of messages—100 miles per hour. Questions begging answers—answers good and bad. Promises and payments. Tidings glad and sad.  Mail clerks braced in swaying cars, sorting thru the stacks, hooking mail from wayside stations, throwing out their sacks. 

What an instant to remember, when the mail train passed—flattened back against the station by its steamy blast. 

Climbing up into the mountains, speed was sacrificed. Mail train engineers were proud but also loved their life. Letters for The San Juan Mountains left Grand Junction station and arrived in Ridgway on the Montrose combination. Letters  addressed Telluride were transloaded here to the backside of the station and a creature queer—locals called the thing “The Goose,” and they spoke with pride —said the mail sack, that same day, would be in Telluride. So it was—that’s how it worked—not three score years ago. People met The Goose if they were all that hot to know. 

Now the mail is all electric: signals out of space bouncing off a satellite that’s hung up there someplace. Answers come ahead of questions. Nothing’s ever late. Trouble  is the questions and the answers don’t relate—most of it is information that you didn’t want. Then the burning question: “Did it  print in proper “FONT?”

Younger generations call the older ways “snail mail.” They were never trackside for the passing of The Mail—breathin’ steam and powdered steel and lookin’ for their hat, yellin’ at the station agent, “What The Hell Was That?!” Nor inhaling fragrant vapors from the gasping Goose tipping over Dallas and about to “Let Her Loose!” 

Younger generations say today’s ways are the best. One thing is for certain—The Mystique is put to rest.