The Post Office Contradiction.
When my parents purchased our country house in 1988, the location was hardly much to write home about (pun intended). Tucked away on a hidden mountain in Nowhere, New York, discovered only by word of mouth (in our case, a long-time neighbor who vacationed there each summer), the coinciding town (where, presumably, we'd pick up last minute groceries or refill on firewood) was depressed and uninhabited. The empty hair salon on Main Street was identifiable solely by the loose leaf sign carelessly taped to the dusty storefront window pane. The deli on the corner, with promises of high grade steaks and prime meats for barbecue, was perpetually closed-until-further-notice. The coffee shop we came to associate with the last sign of (modest) civilization before dirt roads prevailed was filled with abandoned tables and a chain-smoking waitress who wore hair nets and a constant frown. And the post office, from which we retrieved hand-written correspondence from my siblings in summer camp, consisted of brass-colored mailboxes reminiscent of telegrams transported by the Pony Express. Enjoy!
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