There is something special about being a postal worker.

I know I have 5 stamps. The problem is that I cannot find them. The time came today when I needed two. They are nowhere to be found. So, I decide that the time is right for a quick stroll to the local post office. I grab 75 cents and head out the door, envelopes in tow. I get there quickly enough—about 3 minutes travel time—and discover that this branch closed at noon; it is ten to four. I have time to kill, lately not much is going on, so I amble on over to the next post office. It’s a short walk and I take my time getting there. I arrive at 16:01. They closed at 4. The inside has a bunch of people in it. One of the in crowd is leaving and a postal worker lets him out as I arrive. “Sir, can I buy 2 stamps at the machine?” I enquire. “The post office is closed!” Who am I to argue? I briefly contemplate going to the next branch, knowing full well that it will be open but decide against it. I simply wasn’t up for navigating the throngs of gawking tourists.

The rain, thunder, and lightening have stopped. When they come to visit it is always entertaining as long as I’m not stuck out in their wrath. Thunder and lightening in the city sounds as if a cavalcade of angry marching bands staffed by bovine mid-western females paused in front of the building and plays on, complaining the entire time.

Where in the world is SM?

My week of silence should be shattered any time now. I’ll miss it, truly, deeply.