Copyright © 1997 Property of Deborah K. Fletcher for Zoa Townsend Fletcher. All rights reserved.
Every Christmas, when we were small, we always received a box from Uncle John. One year, it did not arrive, much to our disappointment.
After work at night, Father would drive to Tyson to get supplies, the mail, and the latest local news. The men would sit around Hubbard's post office and store. One evening, just after Christmas, Father was sitting on his favorite seat near the stove.
The seat looked somewhat like a keg. Someone asked him what the writing was on the box, and when he examined it, it was his own name, and our late Christmas box from California.
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