A brisk walk up the main street in the early morning sunshine. All the shops are closed. But as I approach a red brick with white trim one-story building, I see men entering the post office. Once inside I overhear the small talk. One customer, his friend and the Post Master converse: "Here's my friend. He's from Georgia." "Like the new stadium?" "I helped build it. Only could work on it weekends." "Do they let you into the press box?" "Yup." "Better than the one we got in Geogia." "Yup. I got a VIP pass." "Heard the Lions are going to practice here." "Yup. When they get around to it." ""Sixteen to Zero. Hard to break a record like that." "Yup."
Small town talk. I hate to break it up by asking for stamps. But I do.
As I exit, a second contingent of citizenry enters. Silver-haired women in cotton knit tops, polyester pants and white tennis shoes. I wonder if they join the conversation or just collect their mail.
I like being in a small town post office. I like being in all the small town establishments we encounter on our Harbor to Harbor adventure. The hardware store, the ice cream store, the drug store. But now we're off to an Art Gallery in Douglas. Or maybe we'll just board Speakeasy and head north. We don't have to decide for another five minutes.
Speakeasy? She's "rassig." That's racy in German!