by Donald Foss

Back in the 1930s Bob Sheehan ran the post office as if it were the Bank of England. Nobody got inside the inner sanctum door! The post office at that time was in the library building—up the front steps, door to the right. Waiting room, office, and back room for Walt Dickson to sort and assemble his RFD mail pouches. The lobby consisted of a stand-up desk, three windows to the outside, a radiator, “wanted” posters on the wall, and an inkwell with dip pen (tied down). Lockboxes with brass doors behind a large glass window were to the left. The “window” to receive your mail was always closed with a wood rectangular door of sorts to keep the nosy from looking in. If you had a package to mail or needed stamps, to the right was a large frosted glass sliding window which would be opened only to transact business.

My family and neighbors were closely tied to the post office. My father had the Star Route contract; next door neighbor was Walter Dickson, the RFD man. My sister Florence worked as a clerk in the post office after graduating high school.

The Star Route was a contract bid, which entailed leaving Harvard each morning to meet the 7 a.m. train at the Harvard Depot. This meant first going to the Still River post office to pick up the outgoing first class mail bag and parcels. The Still River office was nothing more than a gas station with two pumps (started by the Willard family) and a small variety store inside with a tiny spot for the post office. After pick up, it was over Prospect Hill to the Depot. You hoped the train would be on time, but that was not too often. When it arrived, you’d throw on the outgoing mail while the man in the railway mail car threw off the Harvard mail. Then it was back to the Harvard post office via Depot Road. Why not to Still River? That was a Class C post office, which meant that you did not pick up your mail there; Walt Dickson delivered all Still River mail by RFD. You could send mail from Still River, but not receive.

The afternoon Star Route run was a breeze. You picked up mail at the Harvard post office and went directly to the Harvard Depot. No run to Still River. Train time was about 5 p.m. This time the train ran in reverse, from Ayer Junction to Worcester. No mail was tossed off; it was a pickup of the town’s outgoing mail only. As you can see, Still River was outgoing in the a.m., Harvard in the p.m. Why else was the afternoon run a breeze? In the winter the morning run was long before any plows were out, and cold as the devil. Chains and mud hooks were the kings of the road and the darn things were always snapping and banging the fenders. In my household everybody got up and shoveled if there was a storm during the night—the mail had to go! I can well remember my dad pouring hot water over the gas line next to the carburetor before trying to start the old Dodge pickup. The darned thing hated to start, even on good days. Many a time we pushed it out the driveway and he would coast across to Oak Hill Road, jump the clutch and hope it would kick over.

When I had my “legal” driver’s license, my father hired me to make the mail runs while he worked over at the motor pool at Fort Devens. He paid me the grand sum of $30 per month, which I thought was a fortune. The only real mishap I ever had was the snowy day I hit the collie dog at Miss Sears’ farm on Prospect Hill. The darn thing chased me every day. This time he slid and could not stop. Hit the front bumper, went up over the hood, landed on the roof of the pickup and then slid onto the snowbank, I guess. I was certain I had killed it. I stopped but could not find it anywhere. I was sure Miss Sears was going to throw me in jail, at the least. Next morning, there was the darn dog on the front lawn! Didn’t chase me. Never did again.

As I waited at the depot each morning, I would hear the train coming, watch for the engine, and every time I saw that it was a freight train, I knew I was in for a long wait for the mail train. I can still see, smell, hear, and marvel at the old steam engines as they pulled into Harvard Station to a stop. I would watch to see how good the engineer was in stopping so that the mail car was close to me. Some came too fast and missed, meaning I had to lug the bags farther. As they left, often the train would shoot a little sand under the drive wheels for traction. They were all coal-burning steamers in my day and a sight no modern diesel can replace. Thinking of the railway postal clerks—it always impressed me that they carried a holstered pistol strapped to their side. Guess they thought Jesse James still lived somewhere in the area.

In my junior and senior years of high school I had a total of 40 to 50 tardy or absent days on my report card. Mr. Dunlap just nodded to me as I came in. He knew why I was late, but no bending of the rules! Tardy if not there by the first bell; absent if not there by the time your first class started, which meant that you stayed after school on make-up night. Anyone seeing my old report card would think I must have been a lazy kid.

Back to Bob Sheehan and his fixation on security. I had to be bonded when I took over for my father driving the route. Did I get to enter the inner sanctum? No. He rolled up the frosted glass parcel post window, muttered a few words at me, I said yes, and that was it. In the years that I drove, he never once came outside to help me carry in any of the mail bags, even if I was really late or had a full load. The dreaded time of year was the days the new Sears Roebuck catalogs came out. The darned things weighed a ton per bag. The train clerk would push them out the door onto the gravel, and then I struggled to get them into the truck. Once at the post office, I had to climb the library steps and drag them in. At the time, I was about five feet two inches tall and weighed 110 pounds. Bob would open the inner door, I would sneak in, drop the bag and go for the next. Each time he would lock the door until I returned.

Some of my chuckling memories are of the afternoon mail run. My father and I had a gentlemen’s agreement: he would take the short, evening run during the week if he got home from work on time. This let me stay at my job with Kerley, Reed & Bryant. I worked there from 1941 until I enlisted in the army in 1945. Anyway, just outside the Fort Devens gate at the rotary at routes 110 and 2 was a “watering hole” called the Jack-O-Lantern. My father and his coworkers were not prone to avoiding the place, especially on a hot summer late afternoon. Many a time I wound up on the afternoon run. The owners of the store were wonderful people to work for; they looked the other way and said nothing. They did not dock my pay of $1 per day for a 10-hour day. I was the richest kid in the neighborhood.

Those were the days of the war years, when everyone pitched in and had their jobs to do. Strange, but most of us did not have a lot and by today’s standards we would all be on welfare. We did not think about not having much, I guess because nobody told us. We were happy, industrious families.

Donald Foss grew up on Fairbank Street and currently lives in Westborough. His sister-in-law Blanche Foss still lives in the old house.