I don’t like to complain — well, maybe I do. Sometimes I can’t help myself.
The recent day I made one of my rare, debutante appearances at a post office near my home just across the state line was one of those days.
It was a Tuesday morning — drop-dead newspaper deadline day. I should’ve known better. But I really, really wanted to pick up the package for which I had received notification via a pastel slip the postman had left in my South Carolina mailbox the previous Saturday.