Advances in electronic communication, competitors capable of shipping things faster and cheaper, and a distinct falloff in America’s writing skills have made the United States Postal Service an endangered species. I’m rooting for the post office to enjoy continued success, though, and not just because I own what is likely a lifetime supply of “Forever” stamps.

During my childhood getting the mail was exciting, but especially around my birthday. Early every February Grandma and Grandpa reliably sent a card containing both a nice message and a one-dollar bill, which represented a small fortune to a boy whose allowance was a quarter a week. That annual gift was appreciated at least 20 percent as much as the card containing a five dollar note that arrived dependably every year at birthday time from Uncle Jack and Aunt Hazel. In retrospect I’m ashamed to admit Abraham Lincoln was my favorite president not because he freed the slaves, but because his picture was worth five times what George Washington’s was.

These days the post office rarely sends much that’s exciting. For 11 months a year my mail is generally limited to bills, ads from insurance or credit card companies, and special offers from stores I’ve never set foot in.

I personally do my best to support the USPS by periodically sending out postcards that not only brighten the day of their recipient(s), but keep a significant chunk of Americans gainfully employed. In an ideal world everyone would enjoy his or her job, but given some unfortunate incidents in the latter part of the 20^th century that gave birth to the expression “going postal,” it’s incumbent upon everyone to do his or her part to keep America’s mail carriers as busy (and gruntled) as possible.

I used to mail out birthday cards to friends when I found a particularly apt one, and when I had an extra five dollars burning a hole in my pocket. But I haven’t done so recently. Maybe they aren’t making cards like they used to. Or perhaps it’s these asbestos pocket liners I started wearing a couple of years back.

But for those who like getting meaningful (non-junk) mail, now really is the most wonderful time of the year. Since the start of December I’ve been receiving daily holiday greetings from friends near and far, and it’s making me feel warm all over. Sort of.

Every evening after work I collect the contents of my mailbox. Reading the return address in the upper left-hand corner of each envelope often has me quivering with anticipation as I return to the house, preparing to savor the contents of each individual card. But as years go by I’m finding there’s less to appreciate.

An example: last week I heard from my friends Ben and Emily. Eagerly opening the envelope, I was treated to a generic card with a snowman on it. Inside, stamped in red ink, was “Happy Holidays.” Above that, in what was unmistakably Emily’s handwriting, was “Dear Andy.” She also wrote something deeply personal below the printed text: “Love, Ben and Emily.”  Okay.

The next envelope I opened came from out of state. The Williams family and I go way back. Their card was a bit more personal, I guess. Printed on thick stock, it featured terrific color photos of their large and impossibly photogenic family, which consists of six wholesome-looking bipeds and several adorable quadrupeds. But while the card contained a brief printed message confirming everyone was still alive (and by the looks of things reasonably happy), it had nary a handwritten word on it. Neither pen ink nor pencil lead had befouled this card. Not that I’m complaining, though. Because of its pristine condition I plan to write an appropriate message on it next year and send it to another friend, preferably one who hasn’t seen my family for awhile and is unfamiliar with the Williamses. I’ll explain away the fourth kid by claiming one of my three wanted a friend in the photo.

A unique card arrived last week from the company that delivers my heating oil. It said, “Happy Holidays and WARM WISHES FOR 2019.” There was also a bill for $467.24 enclosed, along with an offer to let me off for a mere $451.66 if I paid within 10 days. (My Hispanic friends refer to that as “cojones grandes.”) My children weren’t thrilled when they saw it, either, knowing it means Dad’s not going to be heating the house to a toasty 62 degrees anymore.

In order to pay that oil bill I won’t be mailing any holiday greetings this year. But I shouldn’t complain; I’ll still spread good cheer in my own special way.

Season’s greetings, everyone.

And by the way: this column is your Christmas card!

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