The other day our youngest son, Harrison, came in the door from school and asked, expectantly, "Did I get anything in the mail?" Even in this age of e-mail, instant messaging, voice mails, cell phones, it is still cool for a kid to get something in the mail. When I was little, I would order just about anything the back of the cereal box featured from decoder rings to plastic cars as well as the extra-special, guaranteed-to-work x-ray glasses. The item itself rarely lasted for long once it was delivered but, frankly, the item ordered was almost secondary to the fun of getting something in the mail. I also sold seeds door-to-door, in the spring, in order to earn enough points to buy magic tricks or novelty items from the "Earn Neat Prizes" seed-seller's catalog. Over the years, I piled up enough foam rubber ham sandwiches for a company picnic, and plenty of "disappearing nickel" tricks, which, had they always worked, could've funded a space mission to Pluto...the former planet, not the cartoon dog. Speaking of dogs, the best item I ordered, several times, from that seed prize catalog, had to do with the digestive process of a canine. I do not want to get too graphic but for awhile our house looked a little like an Iditarod trail. No matter how many times I would strategically place the "item" in her path, my mom was always surprised and disgusted. Eventually our dog actually started to carry a sign around her neck, saying "It wasn't me." She had lovely penmanship...the dog, I mean.

One of the best deliveries I ever had the pleasure of waiting for, as a teenager, was a box full of Frank Sinatra albums. For many months I had saved my money from mowing lawns, shoveling walks, and bagging groceries so I could order, directly from the company, a bunch of Sinatra records. I'm talking about the old-fashioned 33 and 1/3 albums. This was in days before "boxed sets," so you really needed the individual recordings in order to have a good chunk of an artist's work. After what seemed like years, I got home from the pool one summer afternoon and there it was...sitting on the front porch...a white box filled with Old, Blue Eyes! I sat in my room for the rest of the afternoon and evening...which is how I spent most of my adolescence...but, this time with great music!

Today, I don't look forward to the mail so much. Our oldest sons get a lot of mail about colleges that want them. That's exciting. However, I do resent it when some of the schools include a column labeled: "Parents' Bank Account and Routing Number______________." Our daughter gets postcards from friends and the occasional pseudo-chain letter. The last one involved sending a pair of flip-flops to two friends and, eventually, she was to receive approximately 18 pairs for herself. Nothing, yet. Harrison does get mail from his grandma-at-the-lake regularly. We always know it's from her because it is covered with stickers and, sometimes, has a hurried update written on the envelope like "Just saw a big, fat turkey running from the mailbox!" or "I'm making cookies today!" or "Tell your dad, he's still grounded from 1974." Inside will be a pile of coupons, a newsy note, a dollar, and another treat or two. Once, she sent Harrison four sticks of Juicy Fruit gum asking that he share it with his three siblings. So, Harrison kept three of the four sticks and divided the remaining stick into thirds for his two brothers and sister.

All of the kids get some magazines, like National Geographic, Reader's Digest, Rolling Stone, and Sports Illustrated. My wife gets Good Housekeeping and teaching related materials. She used to get some other women's magazines but I got tired of them being left open on the coffee table to articles like "Why Your Husband is A Loser" and "Is Your Husband Holding You Back?" and "Men Named Joel Rarely Succeed at Anything...and Often Smell Funny."

As for me, the days of being optimistically anxious for the mail are long gone. Most of the stuff with my name on it consists of companies that are sure my garage needs organizing, my lawn needs aerating and my fence needs painting. And those are the good pieces of mail. The rest want money. I've always liked Sundays but now I love them just for the lack of mail delivery. Holiday Mondays are big for me, too. In addition to bills and solicitation for products and services which would then lead to more bills, the only other piece of mail I regularly receive is the Publishers Clearing House stuff. Whenever it arrives, I debate whether to ignore it or wade through the various stickers and secret pockets and flaps necessary to send it in. It is a very complicated process...in fact, I understand even Einstein used to scream "Who cares if E=MC-squared...I can't find my Super Bonus Sticker!" I've quit being impressed that they seem to know me by name but I still think I could possibly win. This also explains why the rest of my family gets all the magazines previously mentioned. I just know that one of these days that van will pull up to my house and a guy with a big check and balloons will knock on the door. With my luck, Harrison will answer, take the loot, keep all but a buck and a quarter which the rest of us will divide evenly. But, I won't be empty-handed. I think I still have some of that...uh... stuff left, that I ordered from the seed-seller's catalog.