By Rabbi Ben Kamin
ENCINITAS, California — The news that the US Postal Service, so stricken with economic trouble and hyper-commitment to its pension structure, is phasing out Saturday mail delivery brings a sweeter memory to mind.
When my father died suddenly in 1976, a young and unknown Jimmy Carter was quietly walking across the bicentennial America to the White House, the twin towers of the World Trade Center had stood for three years, and a first class postage stamp cost 13 cents. Today I again recall a postal services supervisor who had come to our house years earlier with a gentle admonition for my immigrant dad.
I remember now, in an era of economic anxiety, fear, and some xenophobia: My father’s spirit was buoyed by patriotic participation, ranging from baseball to voting to his excitement about posting a letter to a friend with a fresh new stamp. He got a little confused, however, late in the 1960’s, when he brought home a batch of green trading stamps after a shopping spree for his favorite things–automotive parts.
They were called, in fact, “Green Stamps,” and my immigrant dad put one of each of the four letters he was sending out that day.
Two days later, the uniformed U.S. Mail official came by with a twinkle in his eye but duty in his demeanor. My parents were nervous at first but the postman assured them that they were not in trouble. We all sat down in the small living room as the man spoke:
“Mr. Kamin, you have wonderful handwriting and I’m glad you printed your return address so clearly on these letters. But these green stamps are, well, not for postage. I know you meant well, sir. These are trading stamps that you put in books for use at a redemption center.” He explained about the redemption center and then presented my red-faced father with four 13 cent stamps. “Here. These are gifts from the United States Government. You are a fine citizen.”
They were called, in fact, “Green Stamps,” and my immigrant dad put one of each of the four letters he was sending out that day.
My father never looked more relieved or proud–even on the day he received his Master’s Degree in Aerospace Science from the University of Cincinnati.
Some forty years later, we grown-up naturalized Americans, many of whom have lost the parents who got us here, protect our own children from terror and hatred, governmental cynicism, and poor social manners that prevail in schools and stores and across the Internet. Writing a letter with a posted stamp is a lost art. Strange faces are often assumed to bring dangerous agendas. I hold on to my father’s journals of poetry, along with my respect for words, stamps, and salutes that inform me, along with my father’s memory.
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Rabbi Kamin is a freelance writer who may be contacted via ben.kamin@sdjewishworld.com An earlier version this piece appeared in The Los Angeles Times.