1912 - Post Office

On May 22, 1912, a reporter for the Hamilton Spectator filed a story describing his impressions of a day spent observing the activities around the general delivery wicket of Hamilton’s Post Office.

        Labeled “one of the busiest spots in Hamilton,” the general delivery wicket was open to the public from 6 a.m. until 9 p.m..

        An estimated one thousand people called at the wicket per day, which meant that the postal staff handled an average of at least one person per minute during the 15 hour day.

        In his observations of the traffic around the general delivery wicket, the general delivery wicket, the reporter saw “every type of humanity in the cosmopolitan stream,” calling there for their mail.

        During the early hours, the most common caller was “the rough shod swarthy foreigner” who was on his way to work, “his clothes are dirty and behind his unshaved beard you can perceive an anxious look, as he saunters up to the window and gesticulates to the clerk with broken English … ‘scrap letters.”

        The postal clerk, used to such engines, simply would hand the man a bulky pile of letters, all of which bore the nearly indecipherable names and addresses of recent immigrants to the city, quite often the only word legible being “Hamilton.”

        The postal staff depended on the honesty of the people checking through the piles of letters, and told the reporter that, in the last year, they did not think one letter had been stolen.

        Only when money orders or registered mail were involved did the postal staff insist on the presence of an interpreter to formalize the transaction and leave no chance for mistakes. This was especially necessary as many immigrants sent large sums of money to their relatives back in the old country.

        The reporter noted that Italians and Poles seemed to receive the most mail: “they are a very emotional class of people, and their countenances betray their pleasures or disappointments as they receive their mail, or often leave the office empty-handed with an air of anxious care as they brood over their loved ones across the sea.”

        After the early morning appearances of the foreign element, a different type of patron would begin to arrive.

        Especially around the hour of 9 a.m., a great number of stenographers, secretaries and clerks would drop into the post office on the way to their places of employment.

        A common type of patron at the general delivery wicket was the commercial traveler or salesman, dependent on the mails for communication with his employer.

        One such traveler was observed by the reporter: “he has had a splendid week and is anxious to get a reply from his sales manager. As he tears the envelop open, his face beams for his boss has complimented him on his success and in addition to his regular weekly expense check is an extra ten dollar bill for himself. He thrusts the letter in his inside pocket, stows the check and money away carefully, pulls out a long black cigar and leaves the office with a hopeful stride.”

        Later in the morning, the Spectator reporter observed an old lady, dressed in black, slowly enters the post office: “ she is probably in quest of a letter from her wandering boy as she has not heard from him for several months; she comes to enquire if her mail has gone astray. She is treated differentially by the clerk, who informs her there is nothing for her. She walks out, head lowered and a slight quiver plays about her lips as if she is suppressing a struggling sob for the one she loves so well.”

        In contrast to the old lady was the appearance of a fashionably-dressed young woman who caught the attention of the Spec man: “she has a wealth of peroxide hair, and it is arranged in tier upon tier of coiffures, as if she were trying to outrival the Wright brothers for the altitude record. She also has a gorgeous pair of cheap earrings that look like the nose rings of a cannibal.”

        It turn out that the young lady was an actress appearing at one of the local theatres. Marching up to the postal clerk, the actress haughtily demanded to know if there were any letters for Mildred Gwendoline Montgomery.

        Being told that there was nothing for her, the actress dramatically exclaimed to all present, “I wonder what’s wrong with that booking agent! I ‘spose it’s another lay off next week, and me turnin’ down that Belasco offer last month. Of well, us wurkin’ girls sutinly has our troubles.”

        After the actresses’ departure, another typical general delivery patron made an appearance, described by the reporter as “a young, precious youth, with a pale face and receding chin.”

        This young man was from one of the smaller towns in the area and was looking for work in the big city. He had bought himself a wardrobe in the latest style, featuring a “Dutch comedian Derby, so much in vogue.”

        The young man had written to his father for money.

        With a confident air, he enquired if there were any letters for him. When he was given only a picture postcard from his sister, his attitude changed to one of dejection, “as if he had lost $60,000 on Rock Island preferred.”

        The tireless staff at the general delivery wicket would see all types of humanity as the day progressed, “the old, the humble and the rich,” all asking the same question; “are there any letters for me?”

        Sometimes the answer would be positive, and the patron would leave the post office in a happy frame of mind. If the answer was negative, the person’s mood would be quite different, and the result would be another visit to the general delivery wicket on another day.