Going to shul on Shabbat, I met Postman Pete in the middle of his delivery round. I stopped to have a chat with him. It just seemed the right thing to do.
When we lived in Whitecraigs, Pete was our postman. In rain or shine, snow or fog, Pete delivered the mail. But he was nice, with it; he didn’t just do the job grudgingly. He did it with a smile.
And when we couldn’t sign for deliveries on Shabbat or Chagim, he didn’t look at us as if we were aliens from Mars. He listened, understood, empathized, and signed for us. In a familiar way, Pete was more open and receptive to our religious practices than some Red Sea Pedestrians I could name.
He knew about our family, and always enquired how we were doing. Of course, he acquired the name because it seemed so natural to a household where the Postman Pat books had been so popular. And our Postman Pete was real!
He was upset to hear we were emigrating, but surprised (and delighted) to see me again, a couple of years on, and catch up on what was happening in our world. He’s one good guy.
Wherever you are Pete, and wherever you go, you will always be a part of our happy Glasgow memories.