The absence of snail mail from our post office during lockdown triggers memories of a romantic past.
Those conceived during World War 2, and still breathing, recall with fondness a colourful character and an essential part of suburban life.
The Postman. On his thick-framed bicycle cushioned on fat tyres, with huge leather bag overflowing with the day?s post fixed to the handlebars. He miraculously negotiates sidewalks without getting off the bike, feeding the letters into post boxes attached to front gates or wire fences. No high brick walls with razor wire then.To me the postman is someone special. Probably because he delivered my first love letter.
From Yvonne in my Grade 5 class. Petite, pigtailed blonde with a sexy lisp. Never shall I forget spotting the letter among the others. And it also caught Piet Possie’s eye. Uneven letters written with post box red lipstick filling the entire square blue envelope with my details. I give it a fat kiss. Piet Possie smiles, nodding knowingly.
It is my job to remove the letters from the box and arrange them on the sideboard. Couldn?t wait to get to mine. With feverish haste I tear it open, revealing a folded page torn from an arithmetic exercise book with small squares. “Deer Cliffie, I luv you with all my hart. I hope you also luv me”. For a nine-year-old spelling mattered naught.
I write back without Piet Possie. Couldn’t afford stamps, so I have it hand-delivered from desk to desk in the classroom. But reaching Yvonne’s cute little hands, Mrs Fat Fingers van Vuuren intercepts the missive, reading it out loud. “Deer Eevon, I lick you a lot, and I’m glad you licks me to”. I still feel my burning ears, and hear the guffaws from stupid kids.
After that I save every penny for stamps. Piet Possie remains part of my life. Every day I’d await his arrival for more passionate prose from my darling. Then alas, one day it ends. Yvonne falls for Dennis, the pimply guy with a baby face. My last letter says it all: “I don’t lick you anymore, because Dennis licks you”. Again it didn’t reach her. My mom found it in the pocket of my blazer. The family laugh and laugh.
And I no longer wait or Piet Possie. But he would’ve understood and empathised, unlike his modern-day counterpart who isn’t privy to emails. In any case, romantic epistles sent per PO snail mail would never reach love-starved recipients, causing a rift in relationships.
RIP Piet.
