Almost 18, my life took a dramatic turn when I walked up the front steps to my house and saw in my mind's eye the envelope I had just posted 7 blocks away at the branch post office. I saw it a minute after the post office was to close.
That Saturday was the last possible day I could send in (with penalty) registration to take the last SAT test that Dartmouth College would accept with an application for admission. Having had no plans until that morning to venture beyond Minnesota, the University of Minnesota, I had only taken the ACT.
On Friday, Tom Warner, coach of our successful high school football team, gave my name and four others to Earl Hamilton. Earl, the freshman football coach at Dartmouth had never been to St. Paul during his years of recruiting trips to Minnesota. He stopped by my house that Saturday morning to ask if I might be interested in applying--but I would have to take the SAT test. He had the registration form and envelope.
Why not? I knew Dartmouth was a very good college somewhere near the East or West Coast.*
As I reached for the front door returning from my walk to the branch post office I saw clearly the envelope; it had no stamp on it. I ran into the house, found the number in the phone book, and called. The man behind the counter had just closed up. He listened to the story of my stupidity and then volunteered to go outside to the mail-drop-box I had used, retrieve my envelope, put a stamp on it, and wait till Monday for me to repay him the nickle--which I did.
While I believe I would have had a good life without the sharp turns of that Saturday morning, none of the good adult life I have lived would have been mine had that postal clerk of no name not been heroically kind to me, and had my mind's eye not opened to me.
* This sentence accurately reflects my state of ignorance, but of the previous evening. Earl Hamilton called Friday evening to ask if he could stop by Saturday morning. He asked if I knew where Dartmouth is located. I lied and said, "yes."As soon as we got off the phone I rushed to my sister's "Collegiate Dictionary". Thus informed, one of the first things I said to Hamilton when he came into the house the next morning was: "Dartmouth is in Hanover, New Hampshire, right?"
(c) from date of posting, by Bob Komives, Fort Collins
You are a master story-teller! If want for stamp your life would have changed for sure. (enough said) BUT the 2nd story here (beyond the kind postal agent) is your perseverance to call and seek to change the direction of the arc of the story. YOU did it and the postal agent would never have known if you had not called! Take a bow.
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