Flop Bott: I GOT MAIL

I love mail.

Real mail.

The kind from a REAL mail box. Where you walk outside a front door, down a cement walk to a physical mailbox, mail.

I love to bend over a bit, open the little door and peer inside. It is always exciting to see how much mail the mail man brought (Up until last year, Ralph always brought it, but Ralph has since retired, darn it. That is the perfect mail man name.)

You can't replace the feeling of an unexpected, personalized letter. Going out to the mail box is bitter sweet for some.

Guilt ridden folks may reluctantly trek to the box like a man to the gallows, for the most part I enjoy the daily ritual.

The new mail man is prompt, so I can walk out when the flowers and grass are still wet from watering, so I am still in my egg blue gardening shoes.

I get anxious, like a teen waiting for a reply text from her boyfriend in the middle of math class, to pull the Wall Street Journal wrapped around all the other contents out of the box and see what is for me.

Jaw clenched, one eye squinted I rifle through the bills.

Skeptical, I bypass junk mail

Cautiously, I take in the sales on the Victoria Secret Catalog(these will have to be torn and tossed so J doesn't see them;and I don't decipher the promo code and buy a new bra. (Dang them and their good bras)

As I continue to screen my mail, I keep my guard up for inevitable post divorce mail, a.k.a: "post- marriage-maintenance-mail" (these camouflaged bills come on legal stationary are additional reminders of the choices you have made in life. They can make reading the WSJ that much more depressing.

)

But, every blue moon, I get what my eyes are wanting: a white envelop decorated with perforated stamp in the right corner undulating black post marked lines waving over it, and the official post mark date, circled with the same black ink.

(I so am kicking myself for throwing my collection away as a kid cause I thought it was lame I kept them in little baggies in a credit union check book cover.)

Best of all I love seeing my name hand written across the front.

Credit card and political candidates try to mimic this personal way of communicating. But they can't replace the authentic hand writing. I can spot dupe ink when I see it! My fav is the post-it note reminder with cursive scribblings by credit card companies reminding you how special you are to them.

Getting a letter from a friend or loved one is magical. It makes me dream-like drift to the porch, sit down and drink in the handwritten note.

I feel like Charlie, in Roald Dahl's book:

Holding that letter I feel like little Charlie Bucket holding a chocolate bar and the golden ticket.

What is inside the letter is as mysterious as Johnny Depp, I mean, Willy Wonka's factory.

So in a nutshell, a letter is like good chocolate.

Like Charlie, I can't wait to open it. I walk to my porch, sit down and using my thumb nail pull up the right side of the sealed carta.

From there, I tear. And proceed to devour the letter.

My Son can sum up these emotions like this...

If you are lucky enough to get a package, you know how great it is! Getting a package from here:

(used with permission of emersonmade.com)

was a surprise.

I didn't see it coming.

Just like I didnt' see the "Sneak Pass" at a Blue Angel's air show.

(pictures by Padre)

Blue Angel Pilot Lt. Cmdr Frank Weisser told Post Register journalist that, "[his] favorite stunt is the SNEAK PASS. Definition: "A low flyover performed halfway through the air show when viewer's attention might start to wander." (Post Register article)

I was one of those that had wandered when Weisser snuck up on me. But not cause I wasn't into it. I had just used the bathroom in a nearby hangar at the airport.

Due to dehydration, I almost made it through the entire air show without the need to go.( The one time that dehydration came in handy. )

But after my son and I had guzzled several expensive bottled waters; (well, I had smuggled in bottled waters thanks to my prepared gene so we hadn't bought that many.) I regained volume. And J spotted a loooong line to the latrine, overheard the announcer say the Angels were gonna take off, so he proudly told me he needed to go to the bathroom. (I always tell him Good Choice! when he confesses this need before we are in a tight spot.

Thankfully, the latrine line wasn't as long as the hour long hot dog line. We had stood in that line and subsequently paid $3.50 a pop for two Gatorades to replace the lost electrolytes we had suffered. (Brilliant marketing, vendors!) Oh, and thanks so much to the sweet mom who offerred us her baby daughter's SPF 85 Sunscreen, cause we'd sweated ours off.)

Thunder from the Blue Angels filled the air just as J entered the latrine and he exited real quick.

Jaden warned me that it wasn't in great condition, but what can you expect out of an out house? Sometimes you have to rough it.

I had sanitizer in hand so it was as good as it could.

The rush of wind kicked up by all jets taking off, made my adrenaline rush as I rushed into the latrine.

My excitement was met with a quick, revolting shock. The latrine was full. Not with people full. But latrine capacity full.

Full, as in 'Flush' with the top, full. (flush and latrine seem somewhat of an oxy moron in the same sentence. but there it is.)

The Blue Angel thunder in my ears combined with the scene in front of me made my head swarm in circles like bees around a hive.

Nausea set in at mach speed. Deaf, due to the Blue angels roar and blind by the sight of 400k people's bowel content, I stumbled to the door, fumbled with the lock and finally fell out of the blue closet.

Gasping for fresh air in the stale 100 degree heat. (not a breeze in sight and this Idaho!!!!!!!!!!! And the first day we've had without a breeze. the pilots were able to actually land without a side wind- which is rare.)

The small audience congregated in a line to use the rest room, went from blurry to focused.

Bent over the dirt blanket we'd been using to watch the air show, hands on my knees

(where we sat)

I choked out a warning: "D-da-do-donnn't, don't, don't g-go in tthh the, the, there."

Screeching jets made my admonitions barely audible.

The bystanders pulled their eyes from the spectacle before them, nodded and returned to watching the air show and the next victim went in. Too weak to stop them I focused my energies on standing.

Now in serious need of a restroom, I made the quick decision to walk back to the bikes and go home. (I finally am starting to understand my Dad's pain and I had no qualms about pulling a Padre here.)

The sidewalks/tarmac were clear so we could easily walk to our bikes without a crowd.

But the stars aligned like those Blue Angels in the sky.

As the heat waves rose above the hot tarmac I could see, like an oasis in the middle of a desert,a restroom sign at the back of a private hangar.

Parched mouth, full bladder, feet dragging I asked the mirage like person if I could use it.

He must have known it was serious, because we were the only human beings walking away from the show that everyone had suffered dehydration, lethargy and near death l for the show. (At 3.50 a pop for a bottled water, many got a ride to the ER in an ambulance.)

However those dire circumstances, it did help us empathize for those in concentration camps as the WWII fighter jets flew around.

My dream, request came true; the man was not a mirage but a flight instructor.

I was able to use clean, air conditioned, commode. Refreshed and relieved, I exited the pristine area, my hands washed with REAL water and into the bright sunny, cloudless blue sky.

Only an OCD germa-phob with an auto-immune disease can appreciate not having to resort to just hand sanitizer.

A patriotic feeling of freedom about the good 'ol U.S. of A was swelling in my bosom.

I patted my son's head which was watching the planes fly into the northern sky, white smoke painting six cloud lines on a clear blue canvas.

Proud as punch I breathed in deeply and exhaled.

Lt. Cmdr., Weisser, had me right where he wanted me. Literally.

Completely as ease.

Ear plugs removed.

Directly below his Sneak Pass.

Weisser, coming at mach speed from the east, flew DIRECTLY over this hangar and my head at " '720 to 730 mph, " 'just shy of the speed of sound," and as low as 50 feet".(Post Reg article)

What Padre could snag with his Nikon, but Weisser was so quick..

"[It] provides a "jolt" and "thrills the crowd" Weisser said in his interview by Rachel Cook for the Post Register. (all information about speed etc. also came from this article. Thanks, Rachel.)

Lt., you can use this story in the next town you go to.

Let's just say it was a good thing I used the restroom.

So the Emersonmade gift from my friend, was a Postal Sneak Package.

I was on the phone with the friend that had snuck this passed me when I heard the rumble of a big truck outside of the house,followed by a ring of the doorbell.

"Can you grab that?" I asked the slave-child. (Padre gets packages all the time.) I continued to tell Care about watching the Egyptian Dancing Team that performed for the Chamber of Commerce that day.

Within two shakes my bedroom door was framing the little one who held a package.
Excitement didn't set in until I saw the return address.

I opened it to find a letter from none other than: Care!

Can I say, YAY??????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And Bob, (Bob Hoff owner of Aeromark and instrument in getting the Blue Angels here), Thanks for such a great day. It will stay in my son's mind for the rest of your life. Water glitch will not happen next time!
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