Some acts of rebellion, like the Boston Tea Party or the stand at the Alamo, go down in history as turning points in the destiny of an entire people or country. Historians record them, school children commit them to memory, and the courage of a few takes on mythical proportions for the many. Other, smaller acts of rebellion in everyday life serve as reminders of who we are, and that to be free requires a thousand conscious decisions to remain so.
Roosevelt, Texas, is a tiny hamlet off of Interstate 10, about 110 miles west of San Antonio, Texas. Roosevelt was named in 1898 for Theodore, not Franklin. The locals claim that Teddy, the valiant leader of the Rough Riders, came there to hunt bear around the turn of the century.
In the early 1900’s, cedar cutters swarmed through the area, getting by as they could. Goat and sheep ranchers, many of German heritage, scrabbled out a living in the rough hills and hollows along the North Llano River. Some enterprising folk even raised polo horses there for a time, and fur traders came and went. Now only a faithful few call Roosevelt home, and ranchers rely on the pecan crop and deer hunting to make ends meet.
My family, having purchased a farmhouse and small acreage, landed there when I was eight years old. Though ten years later we were still considered newcomers, the community there came to be home. When I dream of my childhood home, I dream of Roosevelt. More than the powerful, winding river, the limestone hills, or the herds of graceful whitetail deer, I remember the spirit and strength of the people.
Growing up, I loved to walk down the lane that led past our house and around the corner to the general store. As the ranches in that area are scattered and isolated, the store served as a community center of sorts. The post office occupied one corner of the mercantile. The brass-colored doors of the individual post office boxes winked at me as I entered. The owners of the store served as the postmaster and clerk and would often greet me from the service window of the post office cubicle when sorting the mail.
Everyone in Roosevelt and the vicinity who received their mail there had an assigned mail box. Most of us knew the location of most of our neighbors’ boxes as well as our own. Through the mail box doors with their tiny windows, we could tell who had received several letters, an assortment of junk mail, or the local newspaper. We would often linger for the final result of the mail sort, sharing the excitement of a package or a colorful card with the friendly nosiness and genuine interest unique to close communities.
It was not uncommon to pick up mail for an indisposed friend at their request. The thought of stealing mail or taking it without permission was out of the question. It would have been an inexcusable violation of the trust we all shared, and it would have been difficult to do such a thing undetected. In all the years I lived there, I do not remember any such incidents.
About the time I left for college and the big, wide world, a federal mandate came down from the highest level of the United States Postal Service (unfortunately for posterity, I do not remember the exact date). All mail boxes were to be locked, with keys issued to the mail box holder and no one else, with no exceptions. They locked the mail boxes in such places as New York City and San Francisco, and would do so at all post offices, big and small, everywhere. This was to ensure the security of the mail and the privacy of the recipients.
When the dismayed postmaster told the locals, they talked in whispers of sedition and uprisings in the tiny café in the back of the store. Residents milled nervously around the mail boxes, debating whether to use the keys and get their mail, or to protest by letting the mail back up until it buried the Roosevelt Post Office in a heap of paper fury. Most decided to get their mail, as life must go on. Besides, this was not the postmaster’s fault. It was yet another interference by the looming federal bureaucracy, another application of one-size-fits-all rules from some yahoo in Washington, D.C. Worst of all, it felt as though outsiders were telling us that we could not trust each other when we made the choice every day to do so.
I never found out who came up with the Solomon-wise solution, but it aptly met the requirement of the rule while allowing us the freedom to continue our community trust. Someone (I cannot divulge their identity for obvious reasons) erected a large pegboard in the middle of the store floor, located conveniently between the wall of mail boxes and the checkout counter. On it, twinkling and triumphant, dangled neat rows of keys for all the mail boxes. Those folks who felt comfortable doing so hung their mail box keys there. Some even labeled them with their mail box number or name, just in case a neighbor needed to pick up their mail for them.
I am happy to say that, when I stopped in many years later, the pegboard still resided there. It was a bit dingy with dust, and the keys were not so shiny, but the resourceful, humorous, stubborn spirit of the Roosevelt Post Office Rebellion lives on.
© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved
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