"Close the post office at Otis Chalk?" The question involuntarily escaped my lips as a news item in the local paper caught my attention. Aware of a feeling of discomfort, even of sadness, I pushed the paper aside telling myself that it was a logical step for the postal department to take. I knew only a dozen or so patrons remained — the oil companies had moved their offices to distant cities, and the oil field workers who had not been replaced by automation now commuted from town to the field. So, in the Post Office at Otis Chalk opened in February, 1939. closing in November, 1969. to me from childhood was to become a nonplace. I suppose that all former patrons hold a different set of memories of the post office at Otis Chalk, but, different though they may be, "getting the mail" was an integral part of life for most families of the community. Seldom did muddy roads or even "pulling tubing" interfere with going to the post office.

Since there were few telephones in the community other than those of the oil companies, mail time afforded an opportunity to call friendly greetings, exchange news, relay messages, or pass on a bit of gossip for some thirty minutes or so before the arrival of the Star Route carrier at the small shack which housed the post office.

Working men dressed in blue overalls or khakis talked shop. "Looks like the Mary Chalk will have to be pulled." "Had trouble starting the big Bessemer this morning; thought I might have to go get the roustabouts." The fresh starched dress of a housewife rustled as she left her car to join a friend and learn that: "The Jones family has the flu; maybe we should take some food in." or, "Mrs. Chester had a hard time with her baby ... another boy, wouldn't you know?" Or perhaps, on occasion, there would be a more exciting bit of news which would be whispered to make sure the children would not overhear. "Mrs. _ ran off with Mr. _." "Yes, it had been going on for some time." While through an open car window, a tall cowboy with one booted foot propped on the running board of a friend's car discussed the need for rain, and observed that the grass was "looking poorly." Pre-school children played tag around the parked cars.

The conversations ended abruptly as the red mail truck arrived in a cloud of dust. Some of the spectators crowded into the small lobby to retrieve each piece of mail as it was deposited in the box. Others waited patiently in cars for their turn. The call "mail's up" signaled the end of the day's gathering. Dust clouds swirled as autos and pickups headed for home bearing the daily paper and letters — links with the world outside the "oil patch."
 

While some few families may have been nonchalant about "getting the mail" — not my family. Two questions invariably awaited the arrival home of the messenger: "What did you get?" and "Who did you see?" The latter question also inferred, "What did you hear?" The trip to the post office became a ritual, and always the FORT WORTH STAR TELEGRAM crowded the box. Then there might be a letter from "the folks," along with poultry magazines and farm publications. Later, we even subscribed to MCCALLS. The arrival of mail order catalogs was always a special occasion. As Daddy drove up with the mail, sibling rivalry ran high. Shouts of "She had the funnies first yesterday!" "Moth .. er, I did not. She did!" greeted him. Sunday's funnies came on Saturday, and the arguments changed to "I want Dick Tracy first." Or "Hurry up; I could have read that three times!"

I was probably one of the most faithful postal patrons in the community. In the summer months, my goal was to receive one piece of personal mail daily. To achieve this, I mailed coupons, wrote for free information, and joined radio clubs. I am sure I raised the annual mail count for the office, for as one interest faded, I began another. Through the Dick Tracy Radio Club, I received an intriguing packet which gave instructions for vanishing ink. I confounded my brother and sister by writing secret messages to a girl friend who lived over the hill. I smelled of onion juice for days! My packet from the Little Orphan Annie Club arrived crushed, and the membership pin had a damaged clasp. The postmistress apologized profusely at my evident distress.

During another period, my interest centered on autographed pictures of movie stars. The photos would not fit in the box; I felt important as I went to the window to present the card advising that the mail was too bulky for the box. My collection grew until it included Clark Gable, Jean Harlow, Sylvia Sidney, Gene Autry, Jane Withers, and all the "Our Gang" stars.

An inveterate coupon clipper, I sent for as many free samples as I could wheedle stamps from Mother. And occasionally, if I could scrounge a dime, I would receive a really luxurious sample. The post office box disgorged an impressive stream of cosmetic samples, so dear to the heart of a twelve-year old girl. Yes, over the years I did my part to keep the post office in business!

As the seasons changed, the mail brought bulging blue-gray packages tied securely with grass string from Wards or Sears. Winter packages contained school clothes and new long under-wear, or perhaps flannel sheets or other household necessities. Spring parcels contained bright piece goods for Easter frocks, packets of garden seeds, onion sets, or rolls of wall paper.

Baby chickens always came in the spring. Perhaps the chicks did not actually come through the post office, but the Star Carrier brought them. While still at the office, the lid of the box had to be raised to see if there were dead chicks so a refund could be requested. During the ride home, the peep peep sound of a hundred baby chickens filled the car.

In our rural community, children began to drive as soon as they could see through the steering wheel. I can't remember how old I was when Daddy first let me drive the car alone to pick up the mail — possibly no older than thirteen. But I do remember my feeling of importance; I was hoping the whole community would be there to witness my skill and to see I was grown up. The distance seemed more like ten miles than two. The ditches were deeper and curves sharper than I remembered them to be on the practice drives I had made with Daddy. I was disappointed that there were few cars at the office that day, but an Uncle was there. So when he used my hated nickname, asking, "Sal, did Frank let you bring the car by yourself?" I did not frown as I usually did, for I knew he would tell the cousins.

Yes, Box 71, Otis Chalk, Texas — combination: three right, one left, and return — holds many memories. Letters were sent and received, marking the milestones of family life — announcements of births, deaths, marriages, graduations from high school; and simple notes from family and friends that say so much more than the words, "We are fine. How are you?" — each bearing the large circle postmark of the fourth class post office, OTIS CHALK, TEXAS.

Soon a change to Zip Code Manual, USA, will delete Otis Chalk, Texas 79771, but delection by government decree cannot erase the pleasures of "getting the mail," nor remove the memories that center around the rural post office. Gone is the pleasant social exchange with neighbors and the jesting raillery between the Star Carrier and postmistress, but I still look each day to the mail box with anticipation (in spite of the bills it sometimes contains). I don't really object to receiving junk mail as some do. There just might be an interesting free offer or a premium in return for a coupon, or even an undamaged Orphan Annie pin. Today, there is sure to be a letter from "the folks."

Written by Ozella Long