- May 5, 2024
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In a rush out the door one morning, my wife thrust an envelope into my hand and asked if I could put it in the mailbox. Before I could ask any further questions, she had peeled out on the way to take the kids to school.
Like any man, I always follow my wife’s orders with exactness, so I spun on a heel and strode to the driveway immediately.
Then I noticed it was a plastic-windowed letter, probably a bill or promotion of some sort. My wife had written the words, “Wrong address,” across the front.
Seems to happen all the time, so I proceeded to the mailbox. But then I took a closer look and saw that the address was that of my next-door neighbor. I imagined the mailman (mailwoman? mailperson?) collecting this letter, hauling it back to the Post Office, sorting it and hauling it all the way back to my neighbor’s house. Terribly inefficient. And for someone who believes in You. Your Neighbors. Your Neighborhood? Pathetic.
What kind of a neighbor was I? One that wasn’t even willing to hand-deliver a letter that was mistakenly delivered to my house? What is this world coming to? I’ve heard stories that people in the olden days used to wave hello to their neighbors. There was a time when people learned their neighbors’ names by talking to them, rather than spying on their mistakenly delivered mail.
I decided that I would change the course of history. I would walk 20 yards and ring the doorbell and look my neighbor in the eye.
A woman opened the door a moment later. She had been cooking. I explained that I had a letter for her and tried to explain the situation.
“Well, thank you,” she said.
“It was nothing, really,” I said, beaming with pride.
“We’ll do our best to come,” she said and closed the door.
I lingered on the doorstep for a moment. When she gets around to it, she will open the letter and realize it was only a bill, not an invitation to a party at my house.
Hm.
Well, I suppose I better break the bad news to my wife: She has a party to plan. And pronto.
