Since Firth had a population of approximatley 400, there was no mail delivery service. Rather, there was a small old Post Office sitting right in the middle of Firth (currently the south end of Anthony's Auto Parts). It was rather unremarkable in appearance but nearly every resident in Firth visited it daily. My mother was a working woman and had little free time so she would send one of us children to retrieve the mail. Our mail box number was "Box 32" and it sat rather high in the row of mail boxes. It also had a combination lock on it which mattered not to me as I couldn't reach the mail box anyway.
The Postmaster at that time was a man by the name of Glenn Pratt. As I recall, he had white, balding hair, wore a work apron, and was a grump! Now I'm sure that family and friends of old Glenn would disagree with me--but these are my recollections and they are what they are. Glenn did not like to see the little McCracken children peeking over the top of his counter as he knew it would interfere with his reading of the daily newspaper. He deliberately rose from his chair, got our mail, tossed it on the counter with a stern "admonition" something to the effect of "Tell your mother to come and get her own mail." And that was it! I dreaded getting the mail, I knew the dialogue would always be the same, and I knew I would once again be asked to "go get the mail." Children--just pawns in the game of life, eh? (Happy Lisa?)
very happy!
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