THE HEROIC IDEAL
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My village used to have a beautiful old Post Office. (Not the one in pic, but similar)
It was owned and ran by the same Husband and Wife for decades. Beautifully decorated, meticulously orderly and clean, everything had a place and was in it's place. Everything was original and handmade, wooden counter, wooden boxes where everything was stored, wooden racks to display hand-made cards etc. Going to get a stamp and post a letter was an experience. The Postmaster sat behind his counter, pipe in mouth, coins neatly sorted ready to give you the exact change in an instant. He would ask how you were, how the family was, and you would ask about his. You would stop and talk to other people in the Post Office, to see what had been happening in the village that you hadn't heard about. It was a hub of the community and the Postmasters life's work; it was his purpose in life.
When the Postmaster and his wife retired, the Post Office higher-ups decided it would be easier and cheaper to move the Post Office services into a corner shop owned by Pakistanis: why not? It wasn't rocket science after all.
Now when you go to post a letter you're greeted with the smell of curry, the sound of Punjab music, foreign radio stations and parcels scattered all over the dirty shop floor. The man behind the counter doesn't know you, or your family. He doesn't care about you, or your day or the Post Office. He's there for one thing and one thing only: to make money.
Some things, you just can't put a price on.
@THEHEROICIDEALART
It was owned and ran by the same Husband and Wife for decades. Beautifully decorated, meticulously orderly and clean, everything had a place and was in it's place. Everything was original and handmade, wooden counter, wooden boxes where everything was stored, wooden racks to display hand-made cards etc. Going to get a stamp and post a letter was an experience. The Postmaster sat behind his counter, pipe in mouth, coins neatly sorted ready to give you the exact change in an instant. He would ask how you were, how the family was, and you would ask about his. You would stop and talk to other people in the Post Office, to see what had been happening in the village that you hadn't heard about. It was a hub of the community and the Postmasters life's work; it was his purpose in life.
When the Postmaster and his wife retired, the Post Office higher-ups decided it would be easier and cheaper to move the Post Office services into a corner shop owned by Pakistanis: why not? It wasn't rocket science after all.
Now when you go to post a letter you're greeted with the smell of curry, the sound of Punjab music, foreign radio stations and parcels scattered all over the dirty shop floor. The man behind the counter doesn't know you, or your family. He doesn't care about you, or your day or the Post Office. He's there for one thing and one thing only: to make money.
Some things, you just can't put a price on.
@THEHEROICIDEALART
Forwarded from The Heroic Ideal
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I Have No Regrets - The Heroic Ideal.