Happiness and the Postman

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Yes, be happy. Absolutely

Happiness means different things at different stages in life.
I had just got engaged - it was the Neanderthal era - no phones, no internet, no social media. We just had the humble landline. There too, in that age, trunk calls would take ages to mature. So whenever the phone rang, everyone would make a beeline for it. Flying was too expensive as we just had the monopolistic government run apologies for airlines at that time. So it was the poor, laggardly letter - which again took its own sweet time to reach - written on beautiful art paper through which we could express our emotions. It was a frail, though tenuous lifeline to connect with your fiance. There was no tension because we knew nobody could beat the laid back speed of the postal services - again a government run monopoly that had never heard of courier services or even 'SpeedPost'.
I would wait most patiently.... the letters would come irregularly. Sometimes one would be delivered by the cycle mounted postman, sometimes four would be bunched together. on a lean week, nothing would come for over seven days.
I would walk to the post box in the gate of our house first thing in the morning. The postman of course would chuck the letter when it came in the most indifferent and haphazard manner. Sometimes the letter would fall in the box, sometimes it would have slipped out and fallen in the drive, or perhaps been blown about heartlessly by the strong summer 'loo'.
I would approach the letter box with hope, expectation and also a feeling of anticipatory despair. To paraphrase someone (forgive me for forgetting who it was), 'It's the hope I cannot handle. Despair I can.'
The happiness which the letter gave me over the ten months of our courtship was unparalleled. Unrivalled. No technological advancement - email, SMS, WhatsApp, you name it - nothing can ever come anywhere close to that gift of joy that the plain old letter gave me.
Again, after lunch, I would be ready and bathed and dressed and ready and at my station, sitting on a small stool, casually looking out through a chink in the curtains in my bedroom and look out for the afternoon post. What a sight it would be - the khaki clad postman with his peaked cap, riding his wonky bicycle and the dilapidated bell on the handlebar. It was the most priceless gift a loving heart could ever ask for.
So yes, happiness and joy that came to me at that time cannot be replicated by technological advancements. That happiness and the smile that the letters and of course the postman brought to my face still flood my memories with sunshine.
I remember Wordsworth: '...And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils'