Ann
Ipock
Humorist,
author, speaker
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Georgetown Times Column
What’s in
a post office box?
By Ann Ipock August 11, 2004
Have you ever wondered what’s in a post office box? (Kind of like
that saying, “What’s in a name?”) I don’t mean
what’s inside the box per se — but what’s involved in
getting a box number.
I simply love to receive mail from readers (who often live in small towns)
with a low-numbered post office box. As a matter of fact, my late mother-in-law,
Mary Ipock, lived in a town with a population of 495, and received her
mail at “PO Box 6” for over 50 years! That was it: 6. Not
60, or 606. Only one digit — plain and simple.
Russell’s cousin, in that same small town, secured PO Box 4, and
has had it about as long. People can be quirky about picking out favorite
names and numbers. For instance, I know that people go to great lengths
to secure certain domain names for Web sites, and the same can be said
for telephone numbers. I used to work at GTE/Verizon and people would
call us, nearly crying, begging for those final four digits to spell out
something, like BOOK, or SALE, or — I’d say — FOOL!
But if I could rent a post office box with only one digit, I’d do
it — except in my case, that wouldn’t be too wise, since I
already have another box number printed inside my current book
You see, when my first book of humor columns came out in 1999, one of
the first things I did was to secure a post office box. It made me feel
empowered, and it certainly gave me a more business-like impression with
the general public. I strolled right up to the counter here in the Pawleys
Island Post Office, feeling almost giddy: “I’d like a post
office box, please,” I cheerfully said, checkbook in hand. The sweet
guy at the counter gave me a form, I paid my money, and voila! I GOT MAIL
the next day. Sure, it was junk mail addressed to “occupant,”
but later, all kinds of good things followed.
Congratulatory cards from friends and family, letters from fans, orders
from readers, post cards, and eventually … a renewal notice. Hey,
since the experience had been so positive, I renewed for another year.
However, when my book went out of print, I gave up the box.
Jump ahead four years, when my second book of humor columns was being
published: I needed a box number to give to my publisher.
So, once again, I walked to the counter, requested a box, and they told
me that my old box was still available. Sweet! Was that karma or what?
I took that same number — but here’s the kicker: My box number
has four digits. I know it’s silly, but the higher the PO box number,
the less friendly and more impersonal it seems. Why, just look at big
cities to prove my point.
Some of them have six- digit post office box numbers, for heaven’s
sakes. That is really sad. Plus, the box holders must have to walk a mile
inside the post office to actually get to their box. I once worked for
an engineering firm that had a post office drawer.
Now that’s really the big kahuna! A drawer! Again, I prefer the
user-friendly, cozy, no frills, one-digit box.
Since my book’s publication, I spend a lot of time at the post office.
I could be the poster child for Eudora Welty’s “Why I Spend
My Life at the PO.” But to me, and I realize I’m becoming
a little emotional here (hand over heart, bugles blaring) — the
post office represents more than just a bunch of letters and packages
with stamps stuck on them. It’s more like an eclectic mixture of
interesting people coming and going, filled with exciting lives and mysterious
pasts, as well as memories, hopes, hurts, failures and celebrations. So
what if the copier has been out of order for several months — really!
And they don’t serve you coffee and donuts. (Who does?)
The line at the counter moves fairly quickly, and when your turn comes,
you always get a smile and a “Have a nice day!” (That comes
before “Is there anything perishable, liquid or hazardous?”
I recently met a book reviewer via email, who was recommended to me by
a bookstore owner. Imagine my delight when she gave me her post office
box (I wanted to mail her a book) and it was merely two digits: PO Box
68! I squealed with delight. Made me feel kind of stuffy with my formal
four-digit return address label. In fact, in this case, I decided to forego
the label, and went ahead and wrote in my street address.
It wasn’t a single digit number, but it wasn’t four digits,
either.
And that’s another thing: I love to read addresses with single digit
numbers. Like, for instance, an old friend I once that knew lived at #3
Victoria Lane. Who needs a post office box with an address that quaint?