There was a time when mail mattered. When things of importance were delivered to your physical mailbox on your porch or in front of your house; long before the electronic one found today, on your desktop. These were the days when you waited impatiently for the new issue of Sports Illustrated or hopefully for that check in the mail. It was a time of relationships when you got to know the people who provided your services - milk, garbage, mail, paper - by their first name. And it was the heyday of the mail carrier.
She wanted to be a minister. She was a woman of God. But back then women couldn't become ministers, or at least not in the conventional churches. But this didn't stop her. She preached where she could - in the few holiness churches that would have her, on the streets, at a friend's home, wherever someone wanted to hear a good word. And then one day she found her church home. A place that would have her as its minister.
I grew up by the tracks. Well, not exactly, but I lived by the tracks on a couple occasions in my life. It was because my family was low income and it seemed that the railroad always went through poor neighborhoods. Sure, it was many years ago and things were difficult and I guess some might feel sorry for me or anyone else who used to live in a low income neighborhood, down by the tracks. But please don't.