Posting about Post

There are a couple differences to the postal services of Germany and Canada, as well as some similarities. Now that Spring feels like it is budding forth more and more each day with still chilled mornings met with afternoon temperatures, at times, in the balmy double digits, the window in my office is opened and the sound of birdsong fills the air. Along with the metallic squawking of the pair of Magpies constructing a nest of twigs in the neighbours tree there is the familiar hum and squeak of the Deutsche Post’s uniquely made yellow cube-like postal vehicle. With electric motor and (maybe purposely) noisy brakes, the postman makes his rounds.

The dog, from a dead sleep, can hear the garage door opening, the foot falls of children returning from school and a cheese wrapper being opened in the kitchen at 2 in the morning. Yet, day-by-day the dog has yet to realize, as I do, the faithful sound of the postal truck and so he is rudely awakened most mornings by the ringing door buzzer like a hound stung by a hornet.

I have to admit that I have long held a great respect for the postal service, as in Canada they were people, which for the most part, were fit, friendly, and got to drive around in little right-hand drive jeeps that parked on the sidewalks. Perhaps the postal service was also idealized in my Richard Scarey books growing up, or that they always seemed invincible wearing shorts in any weather. As such, the tradition has long been that, come Christmas time, we usually left a small present out for the ‘postie’.

Now in Germany, I would hazard a guess and say that 98 percent of the time the arrival of a package is not for anyone in our home, rather for one of the other two apartments as our neighbours seem to do the majority of their shopping online so the parcels with grinning Amazon logos sit at our respective doorways after being signed for by yours truly.

I have, due only to the frequency of meeting, become more acquainted with the postal worker who, day after day, pounds the pavement (after parking his little yellow electric van) in our neighbourhood. There is usually a polite request over the intercom at the door asking if I would be so kind as to sign for the parcels that have arrived for my neighbours. I’m referred to by name — Herr Parsons — and told that “it is very nice of you to always do this!”. Recently, just after signing my signature on an mobile phone like device, and already being handed a few small packages and envelopes, I was asked to wait at the door for an extra package that was large. Looking from our front steps out onto the street the postman walked up to the bright yellow cube on four wheels, and after rolling up the rear door, proceeded to struggle with a cardboard box which looked incredibly heavy. Seeing the scarf-clad postman hauling and sliding a large box to the edge of the vehicle door it was like watching a mid-wife helping the postal van give birth to another little cube. I ran out in my bare feet and surprised the postman as I stood next to him so as to take one end of the crate. Taking hold of the package: it took the two of us a great deal of effort to manhandle it through the narrow doorway of the house. I’m still not sure what was in the heavy box, but in the past I have received everything from a set of winter tires to a plate-full of steamed broccoli in a Styrofoam box which was forgotten as part of a meal delivery, so your guess is as good as mine. With a glistening of sweat on our brows there was a polite thank you (we are on ‘Sie’ terms) and a handshake. The electric hum of the postal van as it drove down the street seemed to be less strained, less burdened, its yellow a bit more shiny, as if it was now a proud parent handing out cigars.

There are also some postal mishaps that can be frustrating either in Canada; like striking under-appreciated postal workers, or in Germany, as with postal agent who sent an important parcel to Edmonton via Hong Kong and Australia by surface.

Recently it felt like Christmas in February as a batch of Christmas cards were delivered, allaying my fears that I had unknowingly annoyed a great many people and had been struck from the list. As my oldest prepares for Confirmation, the letters of invitation and announcement were sent out weeks ago. We had one letter returned with a pencilled apology from a Canadian postal worker which said, “Sorry! I tried very hard to find this address but couldn’t in the end.”. We had, in our rush, forgotten to put most of the address on the envelope, but a valiant effort was seemingly made to find the recipient.

For a time I lived and worked in a neighbourhood which had an noticeably ugly house. A colleague said that he had devised a test for the postal workers, sending a stamped postcard addressed to something similar as, “TO: the Ugly Eggplant Purple bungalow with Bile Green trim on the corner of Arbutus Street and Broadway”. No numeric address and no postal code. A week later, passing the ugly house on the way into work he knocked on the front door and inquired if his postcard had arrived – it had! Soon afterwards we noticed that the house had been freshly painted with new colours.

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