Dear, Dear Post Office:

My earliest memories of you are not of letters sent by Uncles and Aunts, but of pen pals from far, far away. I would race home from school, shout, “Daddy. Did I get any mail?” and then listen for my father’s adorably predictable response. “Yes,” he always said. “You got a letter from Hong Kong.”

Sometimes there really was a letter. Usually not. Part of the fun was in the way he pronounced Hong Kong, as if the syllables were gloomy gongs struck off a giant bell. The rest of the fun was in the childish inky handwriting on the front of the occasional envelope, the exotic stamps, and messages exchanged between my pen pal and me, detailing events in our truly tediously lives.

And you, Dear Post Office … you made it possible.

There were also thrillingly addressed letters sent to friends at summer camp:

Miss. Diana Amberson

Wilderness Iroquois Indian Camp, Danson, Illinois, United States of America

Northern Hemisphere, Earth, Solar System, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe

Before we mailed them, we would kiss the envelopes with lipstick-smeared lips, and in big clumsy letters write SWAK (Sealed With A Kiss). And you delivered them, Dear Post Office, proving not only that you were competent, but that you had a sense of humor as well.