The Stamp Box

The top drawer of my desk holds a little box – a worn, dilapidated container for postage stamps. It has a scratched red bottom and a cover once shiny gold, but for some years the lid has been taped together at the torn corners. It has been in the desk for at least 50 years – perhaps longer. If it could speak, it would tell of holding stamps with single digit numbers and watching the arrivals of new ones with values moving ever upward. And it would tell of the lives of those who have reached into it, sometimes with joy, sometimes with sadness and grief, or even trepidation and anger. It might begin with the early years of John's and my marriage when with elation and pride we mailed out announcements of first Charlie's, and later Judy's births.

Judy was three when she found the box and gleefully pasted a row of the pretty little squares on the coffee table before she was discovered. Later on, after she learned to write, she and Charlie dutifully wrote thank-you notes to Grandma after Christmas and birthdays. With a little prodding, they addressed and stamped the envelopes themselves.

During their younger years, Charlie showed little concern for correspondence, but Judy happily counted out stamps when sending invitations to birthday parties or notes to a pen pal. Later on, Charlie began making furtive trips to the little box. This began one summer after he returned from camp. Judy soon suspected something unusual, and when accosted, Charlie sheepishly admitted that he had met a girl at camp who had asked him to write to her. As Judy grew, she in turn met interesting people at summer camp, including a special boy who received a number of letters with at least one of them marked "SWAK" (sealed with a kiss). Judy suffered much teasing about that from Charlie.

As Charlie and later Judy began sending applications for college admission, sometimes a little nervousness accompanied the stamping of the letters. Inevitably, John and I were faced with the empty nest, and we sent frequent letters to the children at the colleges they were attending, while at home we watched for something good in our mailbox. I collected clippings from the local paper to send and sometimes used more than one stamp on my thick letters.

Occasionally, it seemed like a good idea to include a few stamps inside a letter as a hint that it would be nice if they would be used. However, phone calls were so frequent in those years that refilling the stamp box was not a major concern. There was one occasion, however, when Judy, at home on vacation, wrote an angry letter to a then-current flame following a quarrel, and the postage stamp received an extra strong thump from her fist.

During these years, some of the trips to the box were made with sorrow. John and I each lost parents and regretfully sent word of their deaths to friends with whom they had corresponded. Other notes went with messages of appreciation for kindnesses shown to us at these sad times.

The approach of the marriage of Charles (now no longer known as Charlie) brought happy days when there was considerable correspondence regarding that event. Even more mailing was done when, after some months of discussing and finalizing the plans for Judy's wedding, the invitations were sent out. These indeed were happy events, but with them also came the realization that the nest was permanently empty.

In John's and my middle years we used an entire roll of stamps at Christmastime. But, as years passed, we crossed out names in the address book as we lost friends and relatives, and the list became shorter and shorter.

We had our turn at mailing invitations when we joyfully celebrated our golden wedding anniversary. But all too soon it was my sad task to write the news of John's battle with and death from leukemia.

I still go to the post office for stamps, particularly at Christmastime, but with the convenience of email the little box isn't so often used. But it continues to stir memories each time I lift its cover.

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