Kay Hively: The joys of watching the big trucks

Years ago if you sent a letter or greeting card to someone who lived across town, you could address the envelope by putting their name, their street address and then writing the word “City.”

This was in a time when mail was generally managed by hand, all the way through the system. Even mail that was delivered far away had very little non-human help.

In a small town such as the one I grew up in, the only thing about the mail that seemed mechanical was found at the train depot. A canvas bag of mail was hooked near the top of a tall pole. A short time later, a train whizzed by and a mechanical hand reached out and nabbed the mail pouch.

In the blink of an eye, the mail bag was gone, swallowed up and inside the mail car. You had to watch carefully to see this because a train with a mail car never slowed down.

I thought of this as I was addressing Christmas cards. My hand nearly gave out as I wrote each name and address. I found myself wishing I could write “City” on my local cards, no city name, no state and no zip code.

Ahh, but writing” City” on our letters and cards is a time that is long gone, never likely to return. Just as we now don’t know many of our neighbors. Most people who live within a block, in any direction from my house, I do not know. Most of those I do know, I have never been inside their homes.

Again, this is a day long gone. More and more women have gone to work and you never see a woman shaking a rug on the front porch or hanging a few things on the line in the middle of the day.

As I was thinking about this, I watched as a large cement truck pull up in front of my house. As the operator began emptying his load, I thought how much fun little boys get from watching such things.

The natural gas company has been working in our neighborhood off and on for weeks. This has made our street a busy and crowded place. At times, we and other drivers have had to take detours and find new routes to our destinations.

With dump trucks, cement trucks, back hoes, jack hammers, tractors and other machinery, it was a paradise for sidewalk superintendents and little boys.

The sights and sounds of the huffing and puffing, the backup alarms on machinery, and the working men shouting instructions to each other was worthy of just sitting by the window to take it all in.

I’m glad we still can watch the big trucks on occasion, even if the housewife shaking a rug on the porch is gone.

But just between you and me, the image is burned into my memory.
(Kay Hively is a historian, author and former editor, reporter and columnist for the Neosho Daily News and Neosho Post.)