The Mailbox

An old key found in an antique desk leads to an astonishing discovery.

In higher education, moving up often means moving out. After several stints at big universities in large cities, I accepted a plum assignment at a small private college in Northern Vermont. None of my modern apartment furniture looked right in the simple white 1820s farmhouse I found on an unpaved country road. Fortunately, antique stores and period furniture makers abound in Vermont.
After taking care of some essential items like a comfortable feather bed, farm kitchen table, and chairs, a comfortable rocking chair for reading, I looked for just the right desk. I found a big oak office desk with a large flat surface that is perfect for my front room. It looks out on the sloping front lawn and the gravel road wandering off in the distance to a classic Vermont covered bridge. The desk sat in the shop for a long time because, frankly, it’s too big for most people. I love it because there will be room for my laptop, piles of books, and the clutter of papers and interesting objects that form my writing comfort zone. The young girl at the shop doesn’t know the origin of the desk.

“I’ll ask my grandfather and tell you what I found out when my brother and I deliver the desk.”
Their grandfather, Calvin, a small, wiry man with incredible pure white, wavy hair, knows only that it was once in the editorial office of a small publishing company in another Vermont town, a distance from here.

The desk offered no clues about its history except for its manufacturer. A small brass plaque on the inside of the center drawer says Standard Desk Company, Herkimer, NY. A Google search tells me that in the early 1900s, Standard Desk was the “largest wood office furniture manufacturer in the United States”. It has long since been emptied of its contents. However, on my second inspection of the drawers, I found an old key in the back corner of the deep file drawer on the right side. I think at first it is a key for the desk, but it turns out to be a post office box key.

Naturally, I was curious about the key, but too busy with my new job and shopping for furniture for my house to think about it. Finally, on a pretty Fall Saturday in October, I rediscover the key where I left it in the center drawer and decide today is a good day for an adventure. At my local post office, Rachel Gray, the taciturn Post Mistress, “Been here since the war”, although I’m not sure which war, tells me it might be from the Post Office in Essex Junction. It’s not far to Essex Junction, and who could ask for a better day for a ride through Northern Vermont?

The Postmaster in Essex Junction, I learn, is Max. He has exquisite tattoos on both arms, a nose ring, and a thick New York City accent. The small post office has four customer service windows. The three smaller ones appear to be permanently shuttered, victims, I suppose, of changing communication technology. A prim New England lady is standing at the counter, insisting to Max that she prefers to talk with Seth, the postal clerk with whom she has been dealing for the last sixty-five years.
“We attended high school together, you know.”
“Lady, I’m the only one here today. You got me, or come back on Monday. The choice is yours.”
The lady, clearly disturbed about the change of routine, reluctantly transacts her business with Max and leaves. Max looks at me and smiles what he thinks is a “Hey baby, how are you” smile. He gestures with his hands in what must be a New York City shrug.
“These locals, what are you going to do? So, how may I help you?” I hand him my key and ask him if it fits a box in his Post Office. He frowns and studies it for a moment.
“Yes, I think it is for one of those big boxes down there in the bottom row that no one uses anymore.”
I silently hold out my hand for him to return my key.
“Not so fast, lady, I have to check and see if there is any box rental due.”
He goes over to an old-fashioned card file and begins flipping through it.
“Here it is, box 400. That’s funny.” He holds up the card. “It says here box rental paid in perpetuity.” He hands me back the key. “It’s all yours, lady. Go for it.”

I go to the box in the corner of the bottom row. I kneel and insert the key. It doesn’t turn. I jiggle it, and it turns reluctantly. Fortunately, the mechanism is brass and not a metal that rusts. My expectations are low about finding anything in the box. I reach into the box and feel a package! I pull out the somewhat heavy package, wrapped in faded brown paper. There are two, very old-looking stamps in the upper right-hand corner with a partial postmark that appears to be 1919, and a faded label that is addressed to “Rural Delivery, P.O. Box 400, Essex Junction, VT.” The return address simply reads “Woodbury & Hatch Publishers, Springfield, Vermont.” The package looks to be about eight inches by five inches and about two inches thick. It feels like it could be a book. I don’t want to open the package in front of Max, or maybe not at all. I put it in my bag and quickly leave the building. Behind me, I can hear Max calling after me.
“Did you find anything, honey?”
Honey? In his dreams!

I sit in my car and debate whether to open the package. It’s probably a business directory or a collection of dull essays or a novel about hunting or crossing the Mississippi. Prepared for disappointment, I gently open the wrapper so it won’t be destroyed. On the dark green cover, the title, printed in gold leaf, says, “A First Collection of Poems and Short Stories”. I glance at the bottom of the cover for the author and gasp at the irony. The author is Hannah L. Stone! That’s my name! I open the book to the title page and see that the first printing was September 1919, one hundred years ago. On the otherwise blank inside front cover, a short note is written in exquisite print.
“To Sarah: Thank you for choosing my first collection of poems and short stories. All my best, H.L. Stone”.
With hands trembling, I turn to the table of contents. Oh my God, these are my poems. These are my stories. I’ve never shared them with anyone!

Although it’s an hour's drive, I head south to Springfield, intent on learning more about the publisher Woodbury & Hatch. Springfield looks like many other small former industrial towns, a mere ghost of a once-resilient past. By good fortune, the Springfield Historical Society office is open. I ask a delightful retired couple, Hugh and Bunni, what information they have on the publishing company. They tell me that Woodbury & Hatch was a thriving regional publisher that showcased the work of professors from some of Vermont’s best liberal arts colleges. The company languished during the war years of the 1940s when printing materials were rationed.
“The building still exists, but it has been vacant for many years. If you like, we’ll give you the address so you can go over there and look at it.”

I drive from downtown to the industrial section by the river. Many former factories are either gone or in a state of ruin. On an isolated side street, I find the sturdy three-story brick building that once housed Woodbury & Hatch Publishers. The company name is still posted in nearly invisible letters across the front. Other, smaller, fading signs chronicle the story of more recent, less successful businesses that also occupied the building. It is certainly vacant, but oddly, not in disrepair. I park in front, walk up the stone steps to the once-proud, ornate double front door. The door, as I suspect, is locked or simply frozen in time. The windows are too far off the ground to peek in, so before leaving without a clue about how my poems and stories appear in a book printed one hundred years ago, I decide to walk around to look for a back entrance. Unlike many of the slate sidewalks surrounding adjacent buildings, no discarded, rusting machine parts or weeds choke the path to the rear. Stone steps lead to a loading dock with a large sliding door. “Good luck getting that door open”, I think. I’m surprised when a heavy tug causes the door to slide open easily on rails that appear to have decades of rust on them.

I’m in a large, dark, empty warehouse. On the far side of the space, I see a single sliding door. As I approach the door, I notice a small square window in the top half of the door, revealing a lit space beyond. How can this be? I walk up to the door. There is light on the other side, but the glass is frosted. I put my ear to the door. Silence. I take a breath and try the door. It slides open easily. My ears are assaulted by the noise of a busy press room. There is activity everywhere. I walk past two rows of small printing presses, the kind you see in museums. Men in overalls and flat caps work the presses, assisted by young boys. Everyone is too busy to notice me. Beyond the presses, I walk past a row of Linotype machines. The men at these machines are wearing pin-striped shirts with armbands and green eyeshades. Ahead of me, I see a single door with a large glass pane, also frosted like the small window. In block letters, the words “Editorial Office” are displayed. Will I get my answer behind this door?
I open the door and enter a hectic office. To my right is a row of women in long dresses, sitting on stools at high desks, typing on old-fashioned Remington Rand typewriters. To my left, in more spacious quarters, are men working at roll-top desks. All the men seem to be smoking cigars or pipes. I can feel the wooden floor vibrating with the rhythm of the printing presses. In the center of this chaos, I see another door on my right with the words “Editor in Chief” on the glass pane. I walk toward the door. Oddly, no one in the room is staring at me or even notices me. I reach for the doorknob, and it is snatched out of my hand as the door opens from within. Standing in the doorway is an honest-to-goodness Danny Devito lookalike from his Taxi days. He’s short and mostly bald with wild hair on the sides, and of course, a cigar. He’s wearing a vest, and I can see his discarded bowtie on his desk.

“Miss Stone, I’m glad you’re here. Come in and sit down, please.” He rummages through a pile of papers on his messy desk and pulls out one with the heading Western Union. “I just received a telegram from our Boston agent. He wants you there for a book signing next week. It seems the Lady’s Afternoon Tea Drinking Guild, or some such nonsense, is buzzing about your stories. Miss Stone, I’ve been in this business for a long time. I know I told you to stop writing those stories about women who are equal to men, but you insisted they be included in your first collection. When you’re right, you’re right. Who am I to judge? Give these foolish women whatever they want if it sells books. When will you have the next collection ready?”
He looks at me as if for the first time, glancing at what I’m wearing. He gestures with his hands.
“What is this, some new fashion from Paris? When you go to Boston for the book signing, or anywhere in front of the public, please wear something more presentable.”
I can tell he is at a loss for just the right word.
“Something that’s not so new.”