My Dad, the Mailman

My Dad suffered a lot of hard knocks in his life growing up in Paulsboro, N.J., but he never complained about his past. In fact, he rarely talked about it. All he did was work as hard as he could to make a better life for the future of his family.

I found the photo of him, wearing his mailman’s uniform in front of the house he built for us on Beacon Avenue, in the only box of stuff I own that I don’t carry around with me these days. (It was in the same family album as the photo of my mom that I posted on Mother’s Day.)

Many people remembered my dad as their mailman in our neighborhood in Billingsport, though the numbers of them now are dwindling. They would tell me on occasion how well-respected he was for the care and dedication he brought to his job.

This photo I think exemplifies the pride he took in wearing that uniform, and the satisfaction he felt in overcoming the many hardships he endured growing up to make something of himself in the town he grew up in. He worked more than 40 years in the Post Office, starting as a janitor, cleaning spittoons, he’d often remind me. He retired as assistant postmaster.

Perhaps what I enjoyed most about my dad was his enthusiasm for sports and the outdoors. He loved Parvin, Stokes and High Point state parks in New Jersey and we went camping on road trips throughout the Northeast every summer vacation.

Closer to home, he would take our family, including Mack the dog, for hikes on many beautiful Sunday afternoons in the County Woods of nearby Clarksboro.

My dad and I also spent many Saturdays as volunteers maintaining the grounds of the Taylor Memorial Baptist Church, where on Sunday mornings our family dressed up and attended services.

My dad was a tireless worker, often taking second jobs painting houses, pumping gas, to make sure there was always enough to get by, and a little more for some nicer things in life to enjoy.

Hard work was an instinct I suspect he took from a childhood spent in the darkest days of the depression.

I’d be thrilled every summer when he took me to Phillies games at old Connie Mack stadium, and I was always amused that he always called it Shibe Park, its name when he was a kid.

Some of my fondest memories are from when we watched the flailing Phils play in black-and-white at home on our living room TV.

There’s so much more I could write about all the memories I have of my Dad, but I’d likely short-circuit the keyboard with salty tears thinking all these things about the man I still love and miss so much.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad! You gave me everything you had and made me who I am. You’re always with me, and I’ll never forget.

(My late brother George wrote a soft-jazz instrumental, “For the Mailman,” for his 1997 album, Pine Cruisin’, a nostalgic tribute to growing up in South Jersey. Click here to find it on Spotify.)