Rubber Bands, Murals, and Postcards: A Tale of Two Post Offices

I was just trying to buy postcard stamps.

That’s how this all started..

But walking into the hulking, mural-covered post office and federal courthouse in downtown San Antonio stopped me in my tracks—not just because I had to empty my pockets and go through a metal detector, but because it felt… familiar.

Not in the I’ve-been-here-before kind of way, but in the deep, quiet, childhood-memory kind of way.

Because this place—this grand old building with its echoing lobby, cast iron PO boxes, and WPA-era art—reminded me of a post office a thousand miles away and a thousand times smaller: the one in Ellenville, New York, where my dad, Alan, carried mail.

The Post Office That Raised Me

I spent a lot of time in the Ellenville post office growing up.

It was only a few blocks from my school, and instead of taking the bus home, I’d wander over after class and ride home with my dad. This was the ’80s, long before cell phones or supervised lobbies or laminated check-in passes. I’d just walk right in and find ways to entertain myself while he wrapped up his route.

Sometimes I’d hide in the giant canvas carts full of rubber bands. Sometimes I’d just dig through the desk drawers or poke around the back. No one stopped me. It was a different time.

And if you handed me a rubber band today? I’d still light you up from across the room. Some skills never leave you.

Eventually due sheer boredom and thinking I was helping him, I watched the other carriers rack their next days mail. I did the same thing, and the next day he was so annoyed, I had mail going every direction, even if it was in the right slots. (plus I was screwing with his overtime... allegedly)

That post office—modest as it was—had character. It had brass PO boxes and that deep musty smell of old cardboard, damp canvas, and worn leather mailbags. When I walked into the San Antonio post office and caught even a hint of that feeling, something shifted.

Two Buildings, One Era

Here’s the wild part: both the Ellenville and San Antonio post offices were built during the Great Depression, as part of the New Deal. Part of the same government effort to put Americans to work and inject dignity into public architecture.

The Ellenville post office was completed in 1940, and here’s a bit of hometown pride—it was originally planned as a brick structure, but local residents petitioned none other than President Franklin Delano Roosevelt himself to have it built from native stone, so it would match the nearby buildings. FDR, a Hudson Valley native and a champion of regional design, agreed. The result is a modest, sturdy building with a small but beautiful mural inside—a depiction of the village’s first post office, honoring the town’s roots.

The San Antonio post office, on the other hand, is a beast. Completed in 1937, it’s a Beaux-Arts fortress covering an entire city block. The inside is a tribute to the myth and legend of Texas itself, with WPA murals that sprawl across the walls like cinematic storyboards—cowboys, cattle drives, Spanish missions, gunfights, and glory.

But beneath all the scale and grandeur?

Same DNA. Same purpose. Same sense of civic pride and permanence.

The Last Leather Mailbag

My father was the last of the Ellenville carriers who didn’t have one of those little white Jeeps. He carried the mail—on foot—through upstate New York winters and sticky summers, wearing a leather strap across his chest and a bag that could’ve carried a bowling ball. He would go open up the big mailboxes on the street corners and someone would put part of his routes mail in there for him to grab and go

When that old leather mailbag finally  started to fall apart, the Government replaced it with canvas. And either by theft or retirement rite, he kept the old one. (and maybe a few others, allegedly)

That leather bag followed us into our garage.

It was perfect for nailing up “No Trespassing” signs on the hunting property, hammer tucked inside, signs stacked snug. It was as if the bag itself had retired into our lives.

A Little Geeked Out

Back in the San Antonio post office, I stood quietly under a mural celebrating Texas history while three armed guards stood nearby. I geeked out a little. I’ll admit it. And for a second, I thought, Maybe I shouldn’t stare so hard or take it all in like this. These people are going to think I’m weird.

But then I thought—I don’t care. I’m never going to see these people again. And I am weird. I’m the kind of guy who flies across the country and gets nostalgic buying postcard stamps. That’s who I am. Then Jamie pushed me out the door as I was definitely lingering

Postcards and Penny Candy

When I was about eight, my dad would hand me two dollars and send me to the corner store to get him a pack of cigarettes. I’d keep the change—maybe thirty cents—and spend it on Swedish Fish and gumdrops, each one scooped into a brown paper bag from little glass jars on the counter. That world’s gone. But it still lives somewhere in the smell of damp canvas and the snap of a rubber band.

Closing the Loop

I walked eight miles yesterday through the warmth of San Antonio, mostly along the River Walk. I thought of my dad, Alan, walking his mail route in Ellenville. The quiet strength of it. The repetition. The stories tucked into letters and boxes and bags.

Two post offices.

Built in the same era.

One small, one grand.

Both filled with memory, history, and for me—a sense of home.

So yeah, all I wanted were some postcard stamps.

But I left with a whole other kind of delivery.