Change is constant

This is the front of the Reading Post office. I grew up in Reading, MA and a high school chum told me it was to be sold. Built in 1918, it is not a historical site, but could be . . .  any sale is to include preservation of the front paragraphs in the agreement. As a child I thought it a pretty building, a forever thing.

I have my own memories of the fountain burbling in the middle. Of being told to buy 103 cent stamps by my mother and given $3 (rates have changed) doing so then being too embarrassed to return them for for 100 three cent stamps with no change to keep. Eight year olds don't have a lot of courage for this sort of thing and my mother did it for me, letting me see how easy it was.

When I was engaged and my fiancé was at the Naval School of Music in Washington, DC we used to write each other every day. I had all colour and designed stationary with different colour inks. When I didn't get a letter in the morning mail around four in the afternoon I'd go to the post office. Bunny Clarkson (Bunny was male and I have no idea why he had that name) worked behind the counter and would check. More often than not he would appear with a small white envelope with my fiancé's neat printing. Of course, that meant no mail the next day, and the cycle continued.

No. 1 son here in Corsier has been told our tiny commune post will close in the fall. For all my complaints about our OCD postman, I'll miss him. I've learned to talk about running, the weather . . . anything to keep his mind off checking to make sure the writing on the envelope is legible.

In Corsier the post and the tea room are all that exists in the centre. 

Change, however, is constant. Wonder if we'll keep the tea room?