I mentioned in the last post that 81138 aka Jaroso, Colorado is my home town. I've spent the majority of my life here and I've spent hours listening to stories about her past. Strangely, those stories I recall didn't have much to do with the post office.
Sure, I knew the post office was in the corner of the store building. That was something that had never been otherwise for me. As a small child I remember hamburgers grilling while people came in for their mail. I remember leaning against the counter and listening to the 'old' people get lost in their conversations - the post office was then and still is now the only place of social gathering in the small town. There are no coffee shops here, no gas stations either. The closest station is six miles east and then south, across the state line so as good as the news is there it's just not the same.
And sure, I knew the postal position was kind of an inherited position around here. I say kind of because I remember my Grandpa sitting at the post office desk and when he retired my mom took over the position. What I didn't know and only recently found out - was rather surprised at myself for not knowing - was that it went one generation more. I also discovered there was more history in that one little office than I ever thought to know. I guess we tend to take for granted parts of the past that are still here. They're not as interesting, I suppose, when they're still here. Stories of the train filled my imagination. Stories of the Academy, the bank, the hotels, the drag racing down main street and the trees the town planted to prevent it, the elevator - which still stands as a land mark to this day but does not have the lines and lines of harvesters sitting in front of its doors. All of those historical places captivated and held my imagination but the post office?
Yes, the post office.
Other than discovering that 81138 didn't come into the identification process until the late 60's I discovered some interesting facts about our little hub of rural society. In saving 81138, I learned my roots are more deeply planted in that little office than I ever could have imagined. And really...who would have thought...the post office?
I mentioned in the last blog that the post office took up one corner of the Anderson home, across the street from the train depot. What I didn't mention was that Fred Anderson was the very first post master of Jaroso. I said that the mail was delivered by train in those first years of postal delivery. What I didn't know when I wrote that article was how much the office traveled. Of course that travel was within the same block so finding it through each move was not too hard to do.
From the Anderson home it moved to the store building, took up a small corner of the establishment, and then was moved to a building just steps to the west known as the Pool Hall. From there it was once again moved to the Anderson home, made another stop back in the Store building, hit the Pool Hall once again then found its way back to the store building where it remained all the years after. Of course, I might have missed a move or two back to the Pool Hall somewhere in the telling.
There were mail boxes back then but what I didn't know until recently was that the USPS did not provide the mail boxes. In fact, the USPS provided very little in the way of support back then. Fred Anderson purchased those, buying them from a small town at the north western side of the valley, Creede, when their post office boxes were replaced. Those boxes still remain in use in the Jaroso post office. They are not key operated like most across the nation. Patrons who come in to get their mail use a three digit combination to unlock their daily treasures - okay, I know bills can not be considered 'treasure' but with every diamond discovered there must also be a lump or two of coal collected.
When the train was pulled from the southbound track, mail was delivered by truck. It was collected by the local patrons via foot, car, and sometimes horseback. I'd like to have said plane, too, but that particular pilot usually just came to pick up groceries from the store. Occasionally,however, that patron did drop a letter to be delivered into the office while he visited.
Little by little more of the town drifted away. The bank business died, the Academy closed, the implement dealer slipped into the past, but the post office remained. Farming continued to cling to the area - remaining as the farming industry will do when all else is gone. Through an inborn tenacity, the post office remained. Maybe it was because it was a farmer holding it down. Farmers, like St. Jude, don't ever quit a cause. You remember my blog about the duck? The 'intelligent' among us might say the same about the farmer but like the duck, the farmer will turn into a storm rather than hide from it.
Fred retired and his son, my grandpa, took over the office. There were times I don't think he was too thrilled about it but with the same tenacity as his father before him he stood firm and held it together. It was a necessary part of life in this rural community. There was talk about shutting it down even back then but Grandpa and the people fought to keep it open. So open it stayed. The store and the restaurant closed but still the eagle spread its wings behind the postal emblem and people gathered beneath that emblem as often as daily to collect word from the world.
The post office was only open for two hours a day six days a week. Grandpa gathered the mail from a locked safe outside at 7:30 in the morning, placed the mail into the boxes then opened and kept the counter open for delivery and collection of mail from 8 until 10. He was a farmer too, so those hours worked well for him. 81138 went from a 2 hour office to that of a 4 and even though there wasn't a hamburger to be had while collecting the mail there was plenty of coffee and conversation. The 30 below days of winter were made warmer when overall clad farmers gathered for a daily cup of joe and their newspaper before going off to feed their cattle and pull calves from the snow.
The challenges Grandpa faced as a post master might not be considered worth the pay of a two hour or four hour government post but Grandpa faced them. When he retired, my mom took over the office and through grit and grind has remained post mistress of our little home town office. There's been more than one challenge faced since then. Those challenges have been met and conquered like the ones before them. Yeah, she's a farmer too.
Backing the efforts to keep the post office open today are more than just the farmers of the area. We have 16 businesses, and a host of individuals, working together to see this fight fought. As valuable as discovering my own past, learning about those surrounding me has been just as priceless. Educators, photographers, bakers, potters, craftsmen, compost combiners (couldn't remember the correct name of that profession), technicians, artists, and yes, the ever present farmers have come together in the joint effort to see 81138 remain the numerical identity of our town.
And THAT's something to be proud of.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Save 81138
Normally I don't refer to people, places, or things by their numbers. I detest the reference of people by their birth date or social security number. Oh sure, like the majority of the population I've come to some sort of...shall we say acceptance...of the requirement of numbers instead of names. I have my social memorized and I definitely have my birth date remembered - though there are times I forget it as I get older. I have APHA and AQHA number identified horses - not memorized by the way but still there for identification purposes. However, I've never felt comfortable with the use of a number as an identification. I've always felt it cold, callus, and impersonal. A name will always carry with it more power than any number...so I thought.
Today, I realized just how important 81138 is to me and not just to me but to others who have relied on the number since the number was assigned. In fact, I realized that if no other number meant anything, this one was - as someone classified it - a cornerstone to my very existence.
"It will fade and eventually become nonexistent," a voice to my left said and I felt the breath leave my chest, my heart clench, and my throat tighten. The words were spoken at a town meeting, a meeting in which we discussed the possible closure of our rural post office.
81138 is the zip code for my home town - Jaroso, Colorado. It's a small town but no less rich in history than the bigger ones whose postal codes are not -yet- in danger of fading into nonexistence.
Over the years we've watched as smaller post offices - like lambs to the slaughter - surrendered their codes and fell into the categorization of the larger towns closest to them. We've watched as not only their postal code was absorbed so was their very existence. Oh sure...you can still get a letter to individuals and businesses from these towns but it's not their home town, it's not their post office that places it in their box. There is no longer the personal contact between a friendly face and the letter. It is a dreary site to see, those lonely stands holding boxes that may or may not have the letters hoped for. It's as dreary a site as the dust blown pictures of abandoned towns having lost their identities in the Great Depression.
Speaking of the Great Depression 81138 was around then and even before this countryside knew the possibility of such a devastating era. It wasn't classified yet as 81138. That form of government identification came along sometime around 1967 when the cartoon character Mr. Zip made his advertising debut in the USPS. Mail came during the Great Depression and before, the better years too by train. From there it was delivered to the Jaroso post office and delivered in person when patrons visited the - even then - centrally located building. It was then, as it is now, the hub of our rural community.
81138, the town I refer to as Jaroso, survived not only the Great Depression but the drought that hit this valley hard in the mid 50's. It's one most often referred to in the drought ridden days we've seen of late. It was then the train no longer followed the laid track to Jaroso. No longer was mail delivered via that route. The post office was a corner section of the Anderson home and mail was delivered by truck. Later, the boxes were moved into a corner of the Anderson store building, a building that housed a restaurant and store as well. Rural patrons could come for their groceries, mail, and a meal without having to make more than one stop when they came into town.
Jaroso has survived wars, rumors of wars, depression and recession. It's had its day, it's lost its way, and found it once again through the determined hearts of those remaining - decedents of the first generation who needed not the 81138 for use of hometown identification and those newcomers who've discovered her jewels and pushed her to thrive by laying down their roots and spreading their wings, drawing others into the community with them.
A town such as this, such as Jaroso - identified as postal code 81138 - should not have lived and fought for so long, remained alive despite nature and politics, rose like the Phoenix from the ashes of every force which struck both community and country should not simply fade into nonexistence. Such an action can hardly be considered noble. 81138 deserves much better than that.
We see too much of our culture swallowed piece by piece, more and more of our individuality removed...nay, stripped from us until we know not who we are or were. The culture I speak of is that of home and heart and home is where the heart is. Home is our community and the heart of every community is the building that has the zip code on the outside wall. It is the hub of an area, it is the cornerstone of a community. It is the one place where we can honestly believe the United States of America claims us - gave us that identification tag and therefore acknowledges our existence. Without that zip code, that 81138, we are merely a suburb of some distant town that can't honestly even claim to know we're here.
We CANNOT allow that to happen. We CANNOT simply fade. We CANNOT be forgotten.
So with all my heart I declare "SAVE 81138!" Save my home town, save my roots and the roots of others whose lives have stretched to the sky and blossomed here.
Today, I realized just how important 81138 is to me and not just to me but to others who have relied on the number since the number was assigned. In fact, I realized that if no other number meant anything, this one was - as someone classified it - a cornerstone to my very existence.
"It will fade and eventually become nonexistent," a voice to my left said and I felt the breath leave my chest, my heart clench, and my throat tighten. The words were spoken at a town meeting, a meeting in which we discussed the possible closure of our rural post office.
81138 is the zip code for my home town - Jaroso, Colorado. It's a small town but no less rich in history than the bigger ones whose postal codes are not -yet- in danger of fading into nonexistence.
Over the years we've watched as smaller post offices - like lambs to the slaughter - surrendered their codes and fell into the categorization of the larger towns closest to them. We've watched as not only their postal code was absorbed so was their very existence. Oh sure...you can still get a letter to individuals and businesses from these towns but it's not their home town, it's not their post office that places it in their box. There is no longer the personal contact between a friendly face and the letter. It is a dreary site to see, those lonely stands holding boxes that may or may not have the letters hoped for. It's as dreary a site as the dust blown pictures of abandoned towns having lost their identities in the Great Depression.
Speaking of the Great Depression 81138 was around then and even before this countryside knew the possibility of such a devastating era. It wasn't classified yet as 81138. That form of government identification came along sometime around 1967 when the cartoon character Mr. Zip made his advertising debut in the USPS. Mail came during the Great Depression and before, the better years too by train. From there it was delivered to the Jaroso post office and delivered in person when patrons visited the - even then - centrally located building. It was then, as it is now, the hub of our rural community.
81138, the town I refer to as Jaroso, survived not only the Great Depression but the drought that hit this valley hard in the mid 50's. It's one most often referred to in the drought ridden days we've seen of late. It was then the train no longer followed the laid track to Jaroso. No longer was mail delivered via that route. The post office was a corner section of the Anderson home and mail was delivered by truck. Later, the boxes were moved into a corner of the Anderson store building, a building that housed a restaurant and store as well. Rural patrons could come for their groceries, mail, and a meal without having to make more than one stop when they came into town.
Jaroso has survived wars, rumors of wars, depression and recession. It's had its day, it's lost its way, and found it once again through the determined hearts of those remaining - decedents of the first generation who needed not the 81138 for use of hometown identification and those newcomers who've discovered her jewels and pushed her to thrive by laying down their roots and spreading their wings, drawing others into the community with them.
A town such as this, such as Jaroso - identified as postal code 81138 - should not have lived and fought for so long, remained alive despite nature and politics, rose like the Phoenix from the ashes of every force which struck both community and country should not simply fade into nonexistence. Such an action can hardly be considered noble. 81138 deserves much better than that.
We see too much of our culture swallowed piece by piece, more and more of our individuality removed...nay, stripped from us until we know not who we are or were. The culture I speak of is that of home and heart and home is where the heart is. Home is our community and the heart of every community is the building that has the zip code on the outside wall. It is the hub of an area, it is the cornerstone of a community. It is the one place where we can honestly believe the United States of America claims us - gave us that identification tag and therefore acknowledges our existence. Without that zip code, that 81138, we are merely a suburb of some distant town that can't honestly even claim to know we're here.
We CANNOT allow that to happen. We CANNOT simply fade. We CANNOT be forgotten.
So with all my heart I declare "SAVE 81138!" Save my home town, save my roots and the roots of others whose lives have stretched to the sky and blossomed here.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Quip from "Heart's Armor"
This is a piece from the book I've sent to publishers. I think it needs polishing still.
“You are returned,” he heard his father say.
“Sire,” it was Lane that answered. “I have.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing, sire. They have vanished. It is as though the world swallowed them.”
He heard his father heave a huge sigh. “Airik?”
“He still searches,” Came Lane’s heavy reply. “He will not be called back from the search.”
A humph from his father and then another heavy sigh.
“I do not know how he is still alive, Sire.” It was the surgeon’s voice breaking through this time.
“The blade should have ripped through his heart or even pierced his lung. It missed all things vital.”
“The prince,” Lane’s voice was louder as he started to approach only to be called back by the surgeon.
“He is not out of the fire yet,” the surgeon said. “The wound is deep and may still have touched his heart. For now,” there was a pause as he guessed the surgeon to be weighing his words, “he lives.”
“Do what you must to bring my son back to me,” his father commanded. Then his voice changed as he turned to Lane. “Find her. Find her before he wakes.”
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