Errands
Just had one of those midday excursions from work that I absolutely love. When the sun shines on Wrangell, there is nothing better and if I had a camera with me, I’d want to capture every corner. Even the post office with the totem pole in front was picturesque. I would serve well as proof of how much the weather affects one’s mood – the sun feeds you. When the sun is out in Wrangell, the idea of falling in love with Alaska, the idea of falling in love in general, doesn’t seem that far off.
Going to the bank here, an errand that has, for most of my life, always been done in a rush (what errands aren’t done in a rush? It seems that the definition of the word would contain the phrase ‘done when one is in a rush’), has become one of leisure and conversation. I realized that early on when I attempted to make my first two visits to the bank take under ten minutes each and failed horribly. I recall being a bit annoyed during my first visit but that disappeared quickly when the clerk who had opened my account ran home and came back to give me a welcome gift of fresh fish. At my second visit, it quickly dawned on me that the woman in front of me wouldn’t hurry up her small talk with the teller no matter how much I willed it in my mind. And once it was finally my turn at the teller, there was no way to not answer her questions politely, fully, and eagerly. I learned it then, there is no such thing as being in a rush in Wrangell. Life is slower and happily so.
Afterward I went to the post office where everyone in town must go to get their mail – all P.O. boxes, no mailboxes at the end of your driveway, no mailman. I guess that’s a sign of a small town. Some years ago, the town supposedly voted on whether or not they wanted proper mailboxes and they voted against it. If you have to go to the post office to pick up mail, you’re bound to see other people and you’re bound to talk to them. Going to the post office becomes a social outing of sorts.
I have a key for my box. It’s a throwback to Trinity days, except we had a code for those boxes. In fact, in other ways, this town with a population of 1,800 seems like a small college campus. When you give someone your number (a landline number – the majority of Wrangellites have not converted to a mobile lifestyle), you give your four-digit extension. Up until 1992, all you had to do was dial those four digits when calling someone else. There was no need for the 874. Likewise, when you give your address, you merely give the number of your box. But, unlike college where in-campus mail was circulated without the need of a stamp, if you post something to someone in town, you still have to put postage on it, which seems silly to me. I put a letter in the box and I know someone is just picking it up and walking a few feet to deliver it in someone’s box. I don’t even think they stamp it with the date or anything.
My number is 4350. My address is 1260.
Going to the bank here, an errand that has, for most of my life, always been done in a rush (what errands aren’t done in a rush? It seems that the definition of the word would contain the phrase ‘done when one is in a rush’), has become one of leisure and conversation. I realized that early on when I attempted to make my first two visits to the bank take under ten minutes each and failed horribly. I recall being a bit annoyed during my first visit but that disappeared quickly when the clerk who had opened my account ran home and came back to give me a welcome gift of fresh fish. At my second visit, it quickly dawned on me that the woman in front of me wouldn’t hurry up her small talk with the teller no matter how much I willed it in my mind. And once it was finally my turn at the teller, there was no way to not answer her questions politely, fully, and eagerly. I learned it then, there is no such thing as being in a rush in Wrangell. Life is slower and happily so.
Afterward I went to the post office where everyone in town must go to get their mail – all P.O. boxes, no mailboxes at the end of your driveway, no mailman. I guess that’s a sign of a small town. Some years ago, the town supposedly voted on whether or not they wanted proper mailboxes and they voted against it. If you have to go to the post office to pick up mail, you’re bound to see other people and you’re bound to talk to them. Going to the post office becomes a social outing of sorts.
I have a key for my box. It’s a throwback to Trinity days, except we had a code for those boxes. In fact, in other ways, this town with a population of 1,800 seems like a small college campus. When you give someone your number (a landline number – the majority of Wrangellites have not converted to a mobile lifestyle), you give your four-digit extension. Up until 1992, all you had to do was dial those four digits when calling someone else. There was no need for the 874. Likewise, when you give your address, you merely give the number of your box. But, unlike college where in-campus mail was circulated without the need of a stamp, if you post something to someone in town, you still have to put postage on it, which seems silly to me. I put a letter in the box and I know someone is just picking it up and walking a few feet to deliver it in someone’s box. I don’t even think they stamp it with the date or anything.
My number is 4350. My address is 1260.
posted by Siapiau | 2:03 PM
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