Delivering Christmas Memories: Forever Grateful Son of a Postman

By Christopher Rush

Whenever I’m driving around town during the busy holiday season and come across a hard working employee from the U.S. Postal Service, UPS, FedEx, Amazon or any other package delivery service, I always think of my father.

Like a lot of military veterans leaving the armed forces at the close of the Korean War, my father found a relatively smooth transition back into civilian life by becoming a letter carrier, or, as was commonly referred to in those days, a postman. Following his honorable discharge from the U.S. Army in 1954 as a surgical tech, he initially enrolled at the University of Tulsa on the GI Bill. He had seen plenty of blood and human suffering during the war and so he had no interest in pursuing a civilian medical career. But the financial demands of a young married couple trying to start a family took precedence so he dropped out of college after just one semester and entered the full-time workforce.

Being a postman was not his dream job. It was typical civil service work but in the mid-1950s it provided a solid middle class lifestyle with good medical benefits and a generous retirement. Prior to the arrival of my older sister in 1958, my parents owned their home, a late model car and a ski boat in which they would spend many a weekend motoring around several northeast Oklahoma lakes.

Once the family brood grew to three children in the early 1960s, the pressure to earn extra income increased. The pleasure boat was sold and my parents were in agreement that my mother would be a stay-at-home mom during our crucial early childhood years. It was the right decision for our family but not without its financial challenges. To compensate, my dad accepted overtime shifts during the holidays that often meant 12-16 hour workdays with very few days off leading up to Christmas.

The work of a suburban letter carrier had its good and bad points. During most of the year, it meant a normal 8-hour shift, five days a week. But the holiday season dramatically increased letter and package delivery demands. At Christmastime, many of the households on my dad’s midtown delivery route gifted him with boxes of chocolates, cookies and other baked goods, as well as the occasional Hickory Farms assortment that he would lug home late in the evening. In those days, postmen were on a first name basis with the customers in the neighborhoods they delivered and many customers chose to show their appreciation for the hard work and long hours put in by their postman in often less-than-ideal weather.

The story goes that while on his daily route, my father slipped and fell on an icy driveway while attempting to deliver to a home. Mail flew out of his satchel everywhere, but worse, he broke his hip in the fall and was left immobilized by the injury. He lay on the ice in the freezing cold, suffering excruciating pain…

My mother related a harrowing story that took place one winter before I was born. As is typical in Tulsa, snowstorms are often preceded by freezing rain and ice. The story goes that while on his daily route, my father slipped and fell on an icy driveway while attempting to deliver to a home. Mail flew out of his satchel everywhere, but worse, he broke his hip in the fall and was left immobilized by the injury. He lay on the ice in the freezing cold, suffering excruciating pain, for quite some time before a small child gazed out the front window of the home and told his mother that a “policeman” was sprawled in the driveway.

In that era, uniforms readily identified a person’s occupation. The postal dress code of that time was a quasi-dress military style uniform with regulation creased pants, dress shirt, tie, overcoat and hat with a badge that might closely resemble that of a police officer to a young child. It was official looking and readily identifiable, as was the three-wheeled scooters painted in distinctive red, white and blue that my dad and most urban letter carriers drove on their routes.

My father was fortunately rescued and slowly recovered from that mishap but not without suffering some long-lasting joint stiffness and pain that prevented him from ever running or even jogging while I was growing up. A modestly paced walk was all he could muster afterward.

During the holiday season, I recall numerous times getting up early to go to school, and my father would have already left for work much earlier in the morning. On the back end, I and my sisters would return from school, do homework, play, and eat dinner before seeing my father finally reappear on our front porch sometime later in the evening. After removing layers of warm clothing, gloves, hat, and heavy boots, he often ate his leftover dinner alone in the kitchen or with my mother while we children played or watched television. He might read the evening newspaper, watch some TV, then, dead tired, go to bed immediately following the late news. The process was repeated the following day, and the next, and the next. All of those Christmas cards and packages had to be delivered on time.

Finally, Christmas Eve would arrive and Dad would come home late for the final time that year. The overtime hours would pay for the Christmas tree, decorations, new winter clothes and all those presents on Christmas morning. Once in bed that night, I recall lying awake and hearing my parents debate the interpretation of some toy assembly instructions they were reading, or the sound of crinkling wrapping paper and the Scotch tape dispenser being given a real workout late into the night.

Christmas Eve also happened to be my parents wedding anniversary. They were wed on Dec. 24, 1948 and spent many of these important dates wrapping gifts late into the night for the benefit of their children.

When we awoke Christmas morning, usually at the crack of dawn, the three of us would immediately run to the living room to behold the breathtaking abundance now laid beneath and around the Christmas tree. Mom would drag herself out of bed to fix us breakfast but caution us to remain quiet so that Dad could enjoy just another precious hour or two of much-needed sleep. Despite her admonition, the excitement was too much for us to to bear so Mom would eventually relent and allow us wake Dad up, usually by dogpiling him in bed as he slept. He might plead with us for just a few more minutes of rest, but we would not hear of it. It was Christmas!

Once he finally gathered himself and put on his robe and slippers, we would all lead him down the hallway to the living room where Mom would have a cup of strong black coffee waiting for him. An orderly gift exchange quickly devolved into a wild pandemonium of tearing wrapping paper and squeals of joy at the discovery of Hot Wheels, Tonka trucks, Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, Barbie and Ken, Chatty Cathy, and other wondrous toys and board games from companies like Mattel, Kenner, Hasbro, and Parker Brothers. One year, a brand new swingset/slide appeared in the backyard.

We were spoiled and I suspect we knew it even at the time. We also knew how hard my Dad had worked to provide it all but we were too self-absorbed to show true appreciation for all that we had been given and the sacrifices that made it all possible. But now, as a dad who has helped raise two of my own children to adulthood, I know well and appreciate the sacrifices parents make for their kids, especially at Christmas.

So, to all you mail and package carriers, sorters, and drivers out there during the holiday season, I say a hearty “Thank You.” I know how hard you’re working. I also know how hard my father worked and I could never repay or thank him enough.

Merry Christmas!

###

Dedicated to Robert F. Rush (1929-1999) and Geneva H. Rush (1929-2017) in honor of their 75th wedding anniversary – Christmas Eve, Dec. 24, 2023.