Night Owl Cards

My guilt overcame me yesterday and I went to the post office. I haven't been to the post office in weeks, intentionally keeping my distance and keeping card mailings to PWEs I can drop off at the mailbox. But the packages kept coming. I got four in the mail Monday, plus a couple of envelopes. Obviously, somebody is still going to the post office, I thought. So, I'd better get these long-delayed packages out of my house. So I ventured to the one post office in town and I can honestly say I will not do that again until things calm down. I'm not sure -- because I'm not prone to such things -- but I think I had an anxiety attack when I was there. By the time I was done, I felt p.o'd. Not pissed-off. Post-officed. The face covering thing, I think, is just too much for my senses. I get why people say they're necessary, even for a place where I am that has among the fewest positive COVID-19 cases in the state. But I can't get over the sight of seeing eve...

First things first. I ran into Tommy John today. I was minding my own business, racing out to mail off some card packages before the post office closed. It's a small office. The space behind the counter is probably 10 feet-by-40 feet. There were a lot of people waiting, a collection of them off to the side and I didn't know if they were really in line or not. So I was in a state already. An older couple was at the front of the line talking to the post office worker. The man, tall with graying hair, was very animated, cracking jokes. Almost non-stop. When I walked in, he was talking about the dance "The Hustle" for some odd reason. And then he'd riff onto a totally different reference. And then another one. Then he turned to face the woman he was with, and I knew instantly: "That's Tommy John!" Suddenly I became uncomfortable. I wanted to be 11 again and run up to him and tell him that he was the first person I ever saw on a baseball card and...

I pulled an envelope with my own writing on it from the mailbox the other day. In the giddy old days of my first foray into TTM autograph hunting, that would mean someone had signed a card for me and returned it. But I decided TTM really wasn't for me -- the disappointment was just too much for something that's only a hobby. So I rarely receive envelopes featuring my own writing anymore. Besides, this envelope was different. It was wrapped in a clear plastic bag, like those that you see wrapped around newspapers. There's the bag now. Look at all the festive words leaping off the plastic. "Damaged," "Inconvenience," "Apologies," "Regret," "Constantly Striving," "Milwaukee." Ah, I feel like a party. How 'bout you? I attempted to read the message intended for me, the "dear postal customer," but I couldn't remove the white sheet inside the plastic. It was attached to the plastic, and the ...