Address unknown

Walking to the post office was a highlight of each day back in the winter of 1967.

I was 800 miles from home, trying to adapt to a roommate from east of the Mississippi, and making necessary adjustments to a place with a population about the same as my elementary school and with real-life, white, frozen SNOW on the ground.

The anticipation grew each morning as I hiked the quarter-mile or so down Main Street. My tiny post office box was the only private space in my life at the time. Anything in that box was mine and mine alone. Well, it was mine at least in theory.

I was a Vista Volunteer -- part of President Johnson's War on Poverty -- and managing mail was one of many topics we had covered during a six-week training program back in the fall.

"You can be sure that anything written on a post card delivered to your mailbox will be common knowledge all over town before you ever see it," we were told.

So, I wrote a glowing postcard to a buddy back in San Diego raving about the wonderful people I was meeting and their having welcomed us "Vistas" with open arms. I was certain that I detected a bit of a smile on the face of the post office clerk the next time I saw her...

Anyway, since those days of literally hiking through the snow to get my mail, the arrival of every day's postings has continued to be a significant event in my life. When I have been in a situation where I can hear the mail drop into my box, I've responded as if the phone were ringing by jumping up and going "to see what I got."

I've camped out by the mailbox many times when I could see the carrier coming. I would rather stand around doing nothing for five or ten minutes so I could get my mail at the earliest possible instant than to retain my dignity by going inside and returning after the carrier had left.

Now that I'm on the road, I have nowhere to check for my mail. Oh, it's being forwarded to Jesse in the Wandering Dave headquarters; but I don't give mail a thought. When talking with my son, I haven't asked once about the mail. For the first time in 40 years it's out of sight and out of mind.

Interestingly, life goes on. My entire world, to some extent, now fits in the back seat and trunk of my 1995 Saturn. I am disconnected from the ton or so of personal possessions that have burdened me for years and I am disconnected from the dedicated lines of communication that once seemed to be lifelines.

The Internet and my wireless connections have replaced landlines and home delivery. Being away from my base doesn't seem to have created a communications crisis.

I don't even miss that daily surge of anticipation before the mail carrier's appointed round. I look at others who may ask, "has the mail come yet?" or who may gather in the lobby and watch with interest as pieces are sorted into individual boxes.

Mesmerized, they take note of the shape, color and thickness of each item, wondering before they are slid into place, whether one interesting missive or the other might be theirs.

Ah, yes. I feel pity for those who are still under the spell of the Postal Service.

True, I've lost the potential that today or tomorrow I may get that letter of letters -- perhaps announcing that I've inherited a fortune or won a prize or am being offered an unbelievable opportunity. I'm no longer in the game. I won't be able to enter the Publisher's Sweepstakes, meaning it's certain that I haven't already won 17 million dollars.

But I'm OK with that. Because I no longer check daily for potentially great news, I also no longer suffer the disappointment that previously struck me nearly every day: disappointment that no notice has arrived of my ship coming in; and disappointment because after sifting through the ads and offers and solicitations and notices and bulletins and other baloney I usually didn't receive a single item of real interest or value.

I've only been off the stuff for a few weeks. But there have been no withdrawal symptoms and my days are no longer divided in two. For me there no longer is a "before the mail arrives" and "after the mail has arrived."

There is no more "postage due," no more "to John Doe or current resident," no more "important message, open immediately," no more "please forward" and no more "we need your help."

I wonder if I could become a man without a mailing address. Could I abandon all zip codes? Is it possible for an American to opt out of the USPS entirely?

I'm considering the possibility of never going postal again.