“Junk Mail”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Trash.

When I was a kid, many notions passed through my developing brain. Without the discipline of adulthood to hinder free movement of concepts and images, I pondered at will. Numerous plans held my attention, including one to become a reseller of cast-off technology. Our banner was ‘Microwave Electronics.’ I put together this childish store in our garage, with the help of a friend from church. His father worked for General Electric. We made no money, but it offered us a chance to map out ideas.

Later, I imagined being a vendor of junkyard antiques. Old items of questionable value that piqued my interest. A thought born, no doubt, from growing up in a household with lots of recycled relics and funky furniture thrown away by friends and neighbors. I called it ‘Eureka Trasheries.’ The only manifestation of this imaginary company was a business card, drawn by hand. I carried it in my wallet and flashed the certificate proudly, when asked for details.

This obsession with unappreciated diamonds-in-the-rough was encouraged by a curious family habit – reading ‘junk mail’ with enthusiasm. While most families tossed away letters, cards, catalogs and mailed miscellany without paying much attention, my father preferred to mine this vein in search of free educational benefits. A persistent memory is that of waiting at the local post office while he sorted through trash in their container. The yield was an armload of magazines, brochures and free books to take home. Mom did not normally see the worth in these re-purposed stacks of printed matter. But that did nothing to dim the luster of such treasures.

In that gentler, pre-cyberspace era, Dad seemed to possess an insatiable appetite for reading material. He was shameless in hunting for buried treasure. Our own mailbox never went empty.

Over the years, Mom would complain about unread mail being piled on their couch. It was a gripe that I heard frequently. Now and again, someone in the family, usually my sister, would help sort away a bit of this considerable pile. Yet the mass seemed to grow organically. Like clinging ivy searching to wander, the paper trail soon filled every open space in their house. Only a tiny square around Dad’s desk remained accessible. A table at the back of their kitchen teetered with torn envelopes. Boxes of mail sat in the downstairs bedroom. Only when children visited would any of this heap be made to disappear.

We simply accepted what could not be changed.

Then, early this year, my parents had to be moved to a nursing home in their community. Mail was forwarded to that new address. In April, Dad passed away. Suddenly, we had to handle care for Mom and the leftover family details. We expected this somber moment would arrive eventually, but an extra concern appeared when I began to receive inquiries from the long-term-care facility. They were overwhelmed with one pressing issue. “What should we do with all of this mail?”

I could imagine Dad, laughing in eternity.

Mixed with requests for donations, magazine subscriptions, political mailers, advocacy-group newsletters and advertisements were legitimate items we needed to keep. So simply discarding each pile of postal poop would have been reckless. After a few months, the nursing home cried out for relief. Canceling the original order to forward mail did little to stem this tide. Many mailers of muck already had the new address in their system. Each visit meant wading through another mail-storm. Eventually, a staff member at the facility passed along advice from their postmaster. “You need to reply individually to each sender,” she said. “Let them know that Rhoderick is deceased.”

Childhood junk-mail memories quickly melted into a sour gruel, in the pit of my stomach.

I bought extra stamps, to fortify myself for this new quest. Business-reply envelopes helped defray the cost of responding. It became part of my daily ritual. I sat at the desk and wrote on each letter, subscription blank and solicitation. “Rhoderick is deceased. Rhoderick is deceased. Rhoderick is deceased. Please update your records. Thanks for your kind attention. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you...” Days would pass with little in the mailbox. Then, another wave would arrive. And another plea from the nursing home.

I reported of my diligence in responding, on a regular basis. These words seemed to offer hope to the advocate at Mom’s facility. With each week, the flood of mail was receding. Dutifully, I listed the most recent roster of submissions that were handled. Each word uttered with dramatic effect. I hoped my earnest mood would inspire confidence. Even while pondering the doubt that lingered.

Dad’s laughter continued to echo in my ears. He was with us still, in our hearts and in the mailbox.

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