My mother started work at the Clancy Post Office in the late 1960s. In 1973, however, she and her family moved to Manhattan. At the time, President Nixon had put a freeze on federal hiring, so the local postmaster, George Battershell, would not be able to replace her. She agreed to continue working, making the trip from Manhattan at least once a week. She always had a two-hour break midday, and she would spend that time walking the roads and paths close to the post office.
Eventually, she and my father, Bob, moved back to Clancy. She continued to work at the post office, and to walk. After retirement, her walks continued, four miles a day. She left the house around 7:30 am and people could tell if they were on time going to work or school by where she was on her walk.
She loved working at the post office, and sharing in the lives of her customers there. She would compare her work to that of a bartender, listening to the stories told to her over the counter. But the job also was like a priest hearing confessions — and holding those stories in greatest confidence.
