Last evening my husband and I arrived home to discover a notice had been shoved through our mail slot advising us that we had a box waiting for us at the village post office. Such excitement! Such joy! I am, of course, talking only about my reaction. My husband took the impending arrival of the box of goodies from “home” in stride. Husbands can be slightly aggravating that way, I have found. A box full of treasures has arrived a full five days before the post office in the US estimated it would, and all he can say is, “They always do come more quickly from that direction.”

The thing is, he knows what is in the box. So do I, for that matter. For him, sensible man that he is, that means there is no surprise or mystery about this package waiting for us at the post office, and therefore no glamour or excitement. When it comes he will be happy, but in the meantime there is no reason to get all worked up about it. We were expecting it. It has arrived safely. Well done. Now what’s for dinner? I, on the other hand, would like to spend several minutes at least discussing the box and the contents all over again, talking about how exciting it will be to open it, speculating again on how much my mother and step-dad must have paid to ship it here (a lot, I’m sure), and in general building myself up into such a state of anticipation as to be nearly impossible to live with.

Perhaps these two approaches merely highlight the general differences between how men and women think and view things, but perhaps it has more to do with the fact that for me this is a little bit of my old home about to arrive, bringing with it the comfort of familiar things and the twinge of sadness that always accompanies the realization of how far away so many of the people I love dearest in all the world are.

I try not to spend too much time wallowing in the past. Looking back is good for remembering lessons learned and challenges overcome. It’s good for reminding ourselves of brighter times when we are going through difficulties, but the past is not someplace to take up residence. When I moved to this country it was with the firm resolve that I would embrace this new life and look forward. To constantly look back and compare the past with the present can too easily lead to discontent and an inability to adjust and accept new ways of doing things. If sometimes my blog sounds rather Pollyanna-ish and overly optimistic it is because I choose to focus on the funny and the ridiculous side of things – to poke fun at myself and my sudden ineptitude as I struggle to learn some of the things that are second nature to everyone else around me.

Still, in spite of my resolve to look forward and not back, the thought of a package from home filled me with barely controlled excitement. My inner six-year-old was hopping up and down and chanting, “A present! A present! My mommy sent me a present!”

Needless to say, this morning my eagerness to dash off to the post office was tempered only by the practicalities of wondering how to get the box home. Just how heavy was the thing going to be, anyway? It is 1.3 miles from my front door to the post office. (I just love Google Maps.) 1.3 miles is not very far, really, unless you happen to be carrying a heavy box of awkward dimensions.

I began to worry. Yes, I’m a worrier, though I prefer to think of it as trying to eliminate obstacles before they arise.

My dear husband surprised me over breakfast by telling me I should call for a taxi to pick me up at the post office and bring me home, rather than attempting to carry the box, which by now was beginning to take on epic proportions in my imagination. Why is it that when it seems like something is impossible to manage on your own an offer of help immediately makes you strengthen your resolve? Is it knowing that there is an “out” if you need one, or is it just pure stubbornness kicking in? I know which one my husband will say, but we won’t go down that road. Suffice to say that the thought that my dear, frugal one would spring for a taxi to get me home with the elephantine box made me determined that somehow I would manage it without the expense.

In due course my dog and I set out for the post office. We waited until the morning rain showers had cleared away, which then put us in danger of arriving just as the office closed for the lunch break. Poor Tristan wanted to stop and smell every clump of grass and lamp post along the way, but he found himself instead being hustled along without ceremony, and cast me one or two reproachful glances as he shuffled resentfully at my heels. We made it to the tiny village post office with fifteen minutes to spare before lunchtime, and I eagerly handed over the package claim slip.

The woman who works in our local post office is, without a doubt, just what a woman who works in a village post office ought to be. She is kind and chatty and never in a hurry. She heaved The Box up onto the counter. She looked at it. She looked at me. She looked at Tristan peering in through the glass door from where he was tied up outside. She looked at the address and how far I had to walk home. And then she said, “Are you sure you can manage?”

Dear, wonderful woman!

I said I had no choice but to manage.

She said, “It’s not that it’s overly heavy, but it is awkward, and with the dog…”

Yes, I nodded, and we both looked at the dog, and back at the package, and I shrugged. She held up her index finger, international symbol for wait a moment, I’m thinking. “Are you going to be home the rest of the day?”

I said that I was. She got on the phone and called the delivery driver. He didn’t answer at first, but she left a message for him to call her. Within moments he did, and she told him she needed him to come back to the office and pick up a package to be delivered. When she put the phone down she said, “You leave him to me. I’ll deal with him,” with such a voice that I was sure that in spite of her gentle appearance she was quite capable of dealing with him and anyone else who dared to cross her path.

And then she said something incredibly sad. “And that is the last favour I shall do for you, because as of the 31^st we will be closing.”

Unfortunately, our tiny, helpful village post office is being closed due to budget cuts, the sad result of emails and tweets taking over the world. This is happening all over the UK, as well as back in the US. I shall miss being able to walk down the road whenever I want to mail a letter and having a chat with the nice woman who says things like “that’s done and dusted” when she places an airmail sticker on the envelope. I shall miss having someone behind the counter who cares. I shall miss having that close, tangible link with letters and packages going to and from my family members in the US.

Don’t get me wrong. Emails and Skype are wonderful inventions, and the ease and immediacy with which we can communicate on a daily basis with each other helps ease the pangs of homesickness when they do arise. But there is still something rare and wonderful about actual mail from a loved one. The thought that he or she took the time to sit down and take up a pen to write a real letter or card, and invested the time and money to mail it, means more than I can say. To hold something in your hand that was in the hands of a dear friend or family member just a few days before connects you as email cannot, and brings that special person a little closer to your heart.

And so I sit here writing this blog, and in the back of my mind that pesky inner six-year-old is screaming, “WHERE’S MY BOX?” Because it’s four o’clock and it still has not been delivered. I haven’t been able to do anything else this afternoon because our doorbell is broken, and if I miss the postman’s knock on the front door then I’ll miss the box again and not be able to pick it up until who-knows-when. I should have just carried it home with me. I could have had it hours ago.

Perhaps a cup of tea will help sooth my nerves. You see? I’m becoming English already!

***

At 4:16pm the phone rang. It was friendly post office lady, telling me that the delivery driver just picked up my package, but he can’t deliver it until tomorrow morning. Would that be OK?

I am a grown-up.

I said that would be OK.

But it isn’t.

So, when the post office lets you down what do you do? You call your mom on Skype – with a cup of tea in hand. And she makes you feel better. And life goes on.

And tomorrow my (our) box will be delivered!

Oh boy! Oh joy!

***

Friday morning at 8:10am the cheery Parcel Force delivery driver pulled up in front of the house. Was I a tad too over eager in how I flung the front door open to greet him before he even had a chance to knock? I was trying to keep the dog from barking, after all. Be that as it may, the box arrived safely, with nothing damaged or confiscated by Customs officials.

 All is well.

Thank you, Mom and George.

You made my day.

What was in the box, you ask? Well, since you’re curious:

An embroidered tea cosy my mother made, two aprons, two bags of my favorite loose leaf tea from Badger Canyon Tea Company (more on them in a future blog), a couple of shirts that wouldn’t fit in my suitcase the last time I flew back here from the States, two cans of diced green chiles, four Lara Bars, and a whole bunch of freeze-dried yogurt starter, which you can’t get here.There was the dog’s old coat for icy days, but he refused to model that for a photo. But, the most special item within the box was our wedding gift – a hand embroidered lap blanket which my mother has been working on for months. Her needlework is exquisite, and I just can’t help but show it off a little, even if it does embarrass her.