Under a hotter Sun; Pick up the mail;

Pick up the mail
The mail was not conveniently delivered to our house. We had to organize a post-box in a post office or a letterbox at the entrance of the Tucabia road near the highway. A few letterboxes in all shapes and sizes, disused milk cans were very popular and made nifty letterboxes, were already placed there from people who lived along the road.
For a while we rented a post box at the post office in a tiny village on Goodwood Island. It was a pleasant drive only about 15 minutes from our place. Along the Pacific Highway over the bridge and then along a small lane flanked on both sites by rustling sugarcane. The houses nestled in gardens along the river.
At harvest time the cane fields on fire were a spectacular sight at night. The next morning small particles of soot took advantage of the lightest breeze to land with accuracy on the whitest linen hung out to dry, settled on window sills, outdoor furniture, on my nose and chin appeared tiny smudges like sooty freckles.
The Post office was a lovely, white painted weatherboard house surrounded by a beautiful garden. Over the post office reigned Miss N. She was like an apparition, standing behind the counter. Her long hair swathing her back. Her coiffure was elaborately done with ribbons or combs. Her face was smothered in make up and face powder. How she managed the make up through the hot weather I never found out. Her eyes were clear blue ringed in black kohl. The lips a cherry red cupids bow. She dressed in bright colours decorated with flounces and organdy flowers. Lots of jewellery joyously jangled and accompanied her activities.
Math was not her strong point; she always had quite a bit of trouble. When I bought three stamps she painfully started to add them together in a odd way. First the three ten cents, than add the rest and finally add it all together. When she got it she looked at me with a sigh of contentment.

Overseas letters were put on a scale to find out each one’s exact weight. At this procedure I was allowed to help. With squinting eyes we both peered at the tiny numbers on the scale. When the weight was established we pored over a booklet to find out the exact worth of stamps that was needed. This was an awful long process. At the end she happily bundled the letters together and said, now my dear it won’t take long and the letters are off where ever they go.

Later we organised a letterbox at the Maclean post office. The post office, a substantial building like the banks, lawyer's offices etc, generally are!

I have noticed in the country towns the banks usually occupy the most beautiful buildings in the towns. The buildings always kept in pristine condition.

From my place to Maclean it was about 30 km. A pretty drive on the highway, along the river and cane fields.

It was days before Christmas I was picking up the mail. Sitting in my car, I could not wait until I was at home to read the Christmas letters from Switzerland. My sister wrote how cold it was. My car was parked under a huge shady tree and still I could feel rivulets of sweat dripping under my dress. It was an odd feeling, this letter with the imprint of ice and snow and here I, sweating under my light, green halter dress.

I have never felt the heat so intensively any more.