This is to be read at a Henny Youngman/Groucho Marx tempo.

So my Mom’s living in South Carolina and buys a retirement home up in the hills of the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia.  As is often the case, I’m not working and volunteer to live in the house while freeloading as I paint and remodel the new home.

Mom sends me a book to be delivered at the local Post Office.  She has a small P.O. Box at the office, but it’s not big enough to hold a book.

I walk in for the first time ever.

“Hi.  Yeeeah.  My Mom sent a book for me from South Carolina”

The lone Post Office employee tells me to wait for a moment and surveys a pile of packages behind her.  Then she grabs one.

“Here you go!”

“Thanks”

I went back to my car with the package, strapped-up with my seat belt, and started the engine.  And then it dawned on me.  I never mentioned my name or my Mom’s.  Never a P.O. number.  Just that my Mom had sent me a packaged book.

And it was the right package!

You know you’re in a small town if…