The Stamp Box

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 days of John’s and my

marriage when with elation and pride we mailed out announcements of first

Jimmy’s and later Francy’s births.

Francy 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 Jimmy dutifully wrote “thank you” notes to

Grandma after Christmas and birthdays. With a little prodding, they addressed

and stamped the envelopes for mailing.

During their younger years Jimmy showed little concern for correspond-

ence, but Francy happily counted out stamps when sending invitations to

birthday parties or notes to a pen pal.

Later on Jimmy began making furtive trips to the little box. This began

one summer after he returned from camp. Francy soon suspected something

unusual, and when accosted, Jimmy sheepishly admitted that he had met a girl

at camp who had asked him to write to her.

As Francy 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). Francy suffered much teasing about

that from Jimmy when he sneaked a peek at it as it fell out of one of her

schoolbooks before she had had a chance to mail it.

As Jimmy and later Francy began sending applications for college

admission, sometimes a little trepidation 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 Francy, at home on vacation,

wrote an angry letter to a 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 Jim (now no longer known as Jimmy)
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 Francy’s wedding, the invitations were sent out. These indeed were happy events, but with them came the assurance that the nest was permanently empty.

In John’s and my middle years we used an entire roll of stamps at

Christmas time. 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 postoffice for stamps, particularly at Christmas time, but

with the convenience of e-mail the little box isn’t so often used. But it continues

to stir memories each time I lift its cover.

Wanda Bates

Story ID:	313
Written by:	Wanda Molsberry Bates (bio, contact, other stories)
Location:	Manhattan KS USA
Year:	2006