The past fifteen years I’ve gotten mail everywhere but in my own mailbox. Much of it has to do with my traveling ways. It’s hard to blame the post man for not filling your letter box if you’re never around – and don’t own a mailbox.
It’s something I finally got around to correcting.
I’ve spent a good deal of the past 15 years traveling the world by boat, mule and bike. Between journeys, I’d find a place to stay – for a few months to a few years – then carry on.
There were the semi-stationary addresses – strings of rented barn apartments, regular apartments and hunt boxes (horse stalls below, digs above) – mostly in Southern Pines, North Carolina. There were sea level addresses (thanks Keith and Melinda) and others on mountain tops (howdy Kristin and Grant).
There were even government addresses with tiny brass doors – that’s called a PO Box.
There were times of no address at all. On the road I got mail the old fashioned traveler’s way – General Delivery. General Delivery Tecumseh, Oklahoma while traveling by mule and pack pony across America. General Delivery Keyes, Oklahoma heading south to Mexico with a yellow wagon. Overseas, in French territories like New Caledonia, it sounded even grander – “Post Restante”.
This getting mail all around drove the search engines bug house nuts.
Hell, over the years I’ve had so many addresses when I searched my address online I learned I lived in St Thomas, USVI. Oh, right… In the late 1990s I ran aground a few months in the Caribbean. (I was giving riding lessons so I could earn enough money to sail on to the Pacific – which I did).
Of course all of this spun through my head as I attached the trace chain that attached the locust log to mule.
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