Post
Memories of Paradise
Post
Memories of Paradise
Mrs. Chelsea’s pallid composure,
indelibly stamped behind the wicket,
and my mind,
knew every numbered slot by face.
(4-04-95)
Submitted by Blane Després, PhD
Mrs. Chelsea was another one of those mystery people of Paradise. Where did she grow up? To whom was she married (besides Mr. Chelsea)? Where was he? Did she get a decent pension from the Post Office? When I say “mystery people” I mean that I didn’t know much about them, not that they were clandestine operatives using Paradise as a cover. It would’ve been a great cover except for the long drive to anywhere with a population of more than 1000. Okay, so that was Bridgetown, five miles away. For a long time, however, it was at least a couple of hours to drive to Halifax, the real city in Nova Scotia (apologies to other aspiring cities, such as Truro, Digby, Sydney…Hampton). So much for Paradise on the top spy places for a cover operation. But I’ve given away too much classified information already.
The Paradise Post Office, from the time I moved to the village in 1959 –or was it 1960? Well, there goes my credibility for any of these stories– was in the very small building next to the Esso garage on the right (facing the Post Office) and the Nixon’s on the left (those Nixons were spies. But I didn’t tell you!). I think the same builder designed the little place across the street from it and Miney’s tiny hovel. And maybe closets or glove compartments and outhouses.
Several concrete steps led up to the entry door. It was always clean, even in winter, although it had a familiar smell inside like the school. The interior was dull. There were lights, sure enough, but the floorboards were dark wood, the walls were painted some colour of drab government issue somber, and the wood encased glass letter slots facing into the waiting room were equally dark brown. All the letter slots were numbered facing outwards. That meant that Mrs. Chelsea had to learn how to read numbers in reverse. We were box 33. You know, I never checked to see how many numbered panes there were! But I do remember looking over that orderly, regimented, structure. It had a calming effect, which gave way to Mrs. Chelsea clomping on the hardwood floor over to the wicket opening to see who’d dare disturb the silence. That or to finally have company, someone to talk to, someone to break her out of there! Nope. Just me.
Mrs. Chelsea would appear at that wicket as if she were imprisoned and could only look out through the rectangular, maybe 6”x6” panes with neatly painted figures or from that larger gap that framed her pinkish cheeks and smile, and her soft, always pleasant voice. I never had to say what I was looking for. It would have been redundant, even demeaning to her, to have to say your number. She knew us all by number. One look, one smile, one checked box. Of course, you could see if you had mail easily enough by looking at “your” number. But at the very least it was the expected ritual to say, “Hi, Mrs. Chelsea.” She would answer, “Hi, 33” and off I would go, empty handed or with mail. I miss that personal touch.
One of the Former Paradise Post Offices
10285 Highway 1, Paradise
Click here to learn more about this home of Paradise
She gave me a bandage once. I had been fishing at the mouth of the Leonard Brook near her place overlooking the Annapolis River and cut my thumb quite badly from folding a jackknife the wrong way –into the thumb alongside my nail. (It’s okay. Now that YouTube videos are available, I’ve learned how to properly fold a knife. It cost me another scar). The cut wouldn’t stop bleeding, so I decided to take a chance and knock on her door. I think I knew it was her house because of Halloween. I thought I might discover some secrets in her place at the same time. She greeted me as she would at the Post Office (minus the number), checked over my thumb, left me at the door while she went to rummage for a bandage, probably from numbered shelves or bins on one of her walls. She wrapped my thumb and off I went. There was no invite inside for cake or cookies, not that I expected any. It was simply business. I still have the scar on my thumb and no more information on Mrs. Chelsea.
The Post Office remained in that building until some future moment when I suppose Mrs. Chelsea retired. On a return, brief visit to Paradise some years after having left for university and work, I learned that the Post had moved and was then being administered by Mrs. Currie in her house. From what I recall, the old wickets and slots and brooding colour scheme would’ve clashed with the post-colonial-modern style of the Currie house. For a moment, it caused me some cognitive dissonance. After all, the Post Office was, in my memory, an icon, a sacred spot. I mean, we kids could hang out at the schoolyard, play ball on the school field, walk the tracks, sit in the Esso station, talk to (bother) Audley Thompson as he performed bodywork on an old car in the once-upon-a-time Texaco service station across from the school, and go just about anywhere. But the Post Office had a singular existence and purpose, and we respected that. There was never any sitting on the steps or loitering in the entry-waiting room or chit-chatting with Mrs. Chelsea. I wonder if she would’ve welcomed the diversion and come out from behind her wall dancing and singing something from a Disney movie, freed at last.
From 1959-1974