'Going postal' is a good thing

By Linda Wright

A recent news report in our evening paper was headlined "Postal worker commits crime." The crime had nothing to do with the workplace, yet the person's occupation was named. Why don't we read these teasers: "Carpenter rams bus" or "Nurse steals cosmetics" or "Executive molests child"?

For some years now, it's been great sport to bash the unassuming postal employee. We are maligned in the press and are the butt of jokes by the four L's: Leno, Letterman (no pun intended), Liddy and Limbaugh. "Going postal" has entered the lexicon, and Mr. Liddy's daily reference to "snail mail" has grown tiresome.

Just who is this miscreant known familiarly as a "postal worker"? Well, many of us are teachers outside the classroom. We're Pee Wee and Little League coaches. We're also writers and artists, pilots and volunteer firemen, dancers and jazz musicians, guitarists and pianists, choir members and ministers. We're your brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers. We're your next-door neighbors.

Let's take a look at what "going postal" means to a letter carrier. It's starting work while many of you are still in bed. It's standing for hours, sorting and sequencing letters from your friends and loved ones.

It's walking five or six hours delivering those letters, in weather from a 50-below-zero windchill to a heat index topping 100 degrees.

"Going postal" is delivering cards written by a child's hand, addressed only to "Grandma Smith on Parnell Avenue." Or a letter written with a shaking hand and addressed only to "Mabel in the yellow and white house on St. Joe Boulevard." Believe it or not, many times those letters get there!

It's delivering Social Security checks to anxiously waiting recipients, welfare checks to those unable or unwilling to work and disability checks to the unfortunate. Many are delivered, door to door, in areas you avoid as "unsafe."

"Going postal" is helping lost motorists, pedestrians, children and pets find their way again. It's receiving stitches every year or so because of a bite from Fido. You know, the one who "wouldn't hurt a flea." Then returning, with trepidation, the next day to deliver your mail again.

It's saving lives each year by rescuing patrons from burning homes and helping the elderly who have become so ill they cannot reach the phone. It's kind words to people who have been forgotten by their families.

"Going postal" is creating and managing one of the largest food drives in the nation, collecting millions of pounds each year for our local food banks.

It's scrapes, bumps, bruises and torn clothes from going up and down icy porches and steps to pick up mail at your door, even when there is no delivery, so you won't have to walk to your local drop box.

It's moving mountains of letters daily, locally and across the country, for less than the cost of a candy bar, on time, and to the correct address.

Yes, what American, besides Messrs. Leno, Letterman, Liddy and Limbaugh and our media editors, wouldn't be proud to be "going postal"? I for one know that I am.