November 4, 2003
Just look at it. It makes no sense. What in blazes is a medieval castle doing in San Antonio, Texas? And yet there it is, one of my favorite post offices. I love the Post Office and I love postcards, so it's natural that I love postcards of post offices -- post offices that look like castles, little post offices, post offices with awnings and palm trees, post offices rocked by earthquakes.
But my fascination with post offices is not solely architectural. It's what every post office, whether castle or a cabin, has meant to those who knew it, who came to its doors with hope. In 1911, Dr. Charles W. Eliot, who had a knack for inscriptions, wrote a good one while in a boat with friends in Northeast Harbor, Maine. After some fiddling by Woodrow Wilson, Eliot's words were carved in the stone of the new Washington D.C. Post Office. He wrapped up the essence of the post office in a series of phrases, that read, in part, "Messenger of sympathy and love, servant of parted friends, consoler of the lonely, bond of the scattered family, enlarger of the common life."
Amen. But how do some post offices come to be castles? In James H. Bruns' Great American Post Offices, he explains that the post office building was often the only significant Federal presence in a city, and the government wanted to make a statement. And, not surprisingly, U.S. Senators and Representatives wanted to spend Federal dollars in their district. The results were often impressive buildings resembling opulent townhouses, secular cathedrals or even fortresses. Huge towers did nothing to move the mail any faster, but they made the post office stand out. And for the architects that designed them, working and living on a government salary, the designs were an attempt to attract attention and build a reputation.
There were four classes of post offices, and a building's design was based on the population it would serve and its annual postal receipts. First class buildings qualified for marble or granite, second class for limestone or sandstone, third class for brick, and fourth class post offices, which served small towns, had to make do with wood or canvas. But brace yourself for a shock: If a Congressman had pull, his post office could be upgraded. When, for example, a Congressman came from a district with a quarry, the suggested use of brick was an affront.
Thus postal castles were built all over the United States. The Springfield, Missouri, post office was a three-story limestone castle with a four-story turret and a five-story tower. It took five years to complete, and housed a postal staff of one postmaster, one assistant postmaster, six clerks and seven letter carriers. In Port Townsend, Washington, a massive sandstone, copper-roofed, Romanesque-style post office served a community of 2,000 persons.
But by 1915, more frugal heads prevailed, and in the 1920's and 1930's, many of these buildings were pulled down and replaced with box-like "modern office buildings." They better served their purpose, but some real gems were lost in the process. The old buildings, however, were not mourned by all, especially the clerks who worked in them. Bruns writes, "... mail pouches were covered with copious amounts of horse manure, dust, and debris, which came loose from the sacks and fell onto the clerks in a constant shower as the mail bags were transported about the facilities on overhead conveyors."
Practicalities aside, I have many favorite post offices:
The old New York City Post Office, on Broadway, magnificently impractical, a Second Empire design by Alfred P. Mullett, whose tenure as Supervising Architect led him to overwork, broken health, an unsuccessful lawsuit against the government, and suicide. Of his larger works, only his post office in St. Louis survives him. There are scores of views of this post office; I love this one for the color of the sky and the curious gentleman in the lower lefthand corner. The tower of the Ojai, California, post office, whose hand-tinted postcard is a work of art on its own... The French chateau post office of Evansville, Indiana, designed by William A. Potter and built in 1879, with buff limestone walls, brown sandstone trim, blue and red slate roofing, and red granite columns... A dainty cabin with white porches at the Adirondack Cottages TB Sanitarium near Saranac Lake, New York... The octagonal post office in Liberty, Maine... The log cabin post office of Inverness, California... The San Francisco Post Office, after the earthquake of 1906... ... and its temporary quarters in a tent in Golden Gate Park. The red brick and stone of Key West, Florida. Far to the north in Washington, D.C., a dreamy William Freret designed it with fireplaces, prompting some heated reminders of its location. After delays in construction, it was completed in 1891.
The gigantic cedar stump in Port Angeles, Washington, that served as a post office until 1905, with William McDonald, Postmaster. Thanks to eBay, I can collect post office postcards until they come to cart away my socks and furniture. On any given day, there are more than 1,000 post office postcards up for auction. You can focus by state, by city, by real photo postcards (RPPCs), by adding qualifiers like "interior" or "outdoor." Whatever your passion, someone, somewhere, has a postcard of a post office for you.
The key to happiness on eBay is to want something that no one else wants. If your desired post office happens to be in a log structure with gas pumps and a Coca-Cola sign, you're in trouble, bidding against log cabin bidders, gas station bidders and Coke bidders. Better to be the lone bidder for the fortress-like post office in Ottumwa, Iowa, hometown of M*A*S*H's Radar O'Reilly. Yes, I have that one, too.
Most of the great old post offices are gone, torn down for more practical, modern, box-like structures that can accommodate things like central heating and air conditioning, telephones, automation and computers. But occasionally, a town doesn't have the money or the influence to erect a new building, and a dinosaur survives. Laurie and I saw such a miracle one day while driving through Auburn, New York, in search of a fireplace screen. Following written directions, reading street names aloud and watching for street signs, I blinked and there was one of my postcards come to life, a Mifflin Bell masterpiece of grandeur. Made me want to mail a letter.
Sources: Great American Post Offices by James H. Bruns (New York, John Wiley & Sons, 1997); Bartleby.com for the Charles Eliot inscription.; scans by the extraordinary Jon "Johnny Scantastic" Cammarata.
