Every time my wife Barbara and I go on an extended vacation we always experience a little anxiety on the return home. Burning questions flash before our eyes. Is the house still standing? Did someone break in and steal our precious collection of native Antarctican porn?

So when we went to the beach a couple weeks ago, I did something I'd never done before: I left the number of the beach house where we'd be staying with a neighbor. That way, we'd know if something dreadful happened. It wouldn't make any difference, really, but at least we wouldn't have that sense of wondering. We'd know.

No phone call. The house was still standing when we got home. Alright, so one of my mini beer kegs in the basement sprung a leak. Minor problem. Quick cleanup.

On Monday, my held mail did not arrive.

Back in the olden days, you had trudge into the post office to pick up your held mail before regular delivery resumed. Nowadays, the Postal Service will kindly bring the whole mess to you without any intervening visit to the post office. You can even download the form for holding mail at the USPS web site and leave it in the mailbox for your mailman.

My held mail did not show, though I did get a couple letters, proving that daily delivery had indeed resumed. I didn't worry too much. Maybe the mailman forgot about it. So I asked him on Tuesday where the mail was. He said he'd dropped it off on Saturday because I'd requested service to be resumed on August 5, a Sunday.

Very possible. I remembered being very confused as to the actual date when I filled out the hold mail request form. This happens a lot when you're unemployed. Maybe I did put down August 5. Geez. Problem was, there wasn't a big pile of mail between the screen door and the front door when we got home on Sunday. All gone. Someone else grabbed it before we got home.

On Wednesday, I talked to my neighbors and made sure they hadn't picked up the mail and then forgotten about it (unlikely, but not outside of the realm of possibility). Nope.

I did some quick thinking. Our mortgage bill and the bill for my local ISP would have been in that batch. Both are fixed amounts due on the same day every month. I could easily pay them and enclose an explaining letter rather than the regular coupon. There were probably about 10 packages from record labels and unsigned bands full of CDs and such for me to review. If the folks were doing their jobs, they'd call or e-mail me to check on the package. I'd say I didn't get it (because I didn't) and they'd send me another. Simple. Also missing would be sundry computer catalogs (which seem to have multiplied in frequency of mailing since the beginning of the tech recession) and a Newsweek. Hardly indispensable.

The only real concern was my weekly unemployment check. A nice chunk of change. I called up the ol' Employment Security Commission and set the ball in motion for me to get another check (they'd send me a letter, I'd sign it and get it notarized, they'd put a tracer on the check and when they figured out I really didn't cash it they'd send me a new one--sometime before the end of 2002).

I was little bummed about the loss of mail, but I was surprised at how little it really bothered me. I like to get the mail every day. It's fun to see what folks have sent me, to see what the outside world is tossing my way. And to lose a whole weeks worth, well, I figured that would really tick me off.

It didn't.

And so, the inevitable happened. Thursday morning, while I was mowing the lawn in the already unbearable 90/90 heat, my mailman pulled up in front of the house and honked. Instantly, I knew what was coming. He popped the hatch on the back of the minimailvan, walked around and reached in.

My mail had been found.

"Had one of those senior moments," he told me, handing. "I confused your house with another one." I took the mail and thanked him for finding it. I looked on my request card. August 6th. Monday. I hadn't screwed it up after all. All right!

And so I looked through the mail. Found the mortgage and ISP bills. Located my unemployment check. Ripped open the 10 or so CD packages. Threw out the computer catalogs and set the Newsweek aside for Barbara.

That was it. A week's worth of mail processed in less than 10 minutes.

It possible that I might go back to pining for the mail, waiting for that moment every day when I hear the steps on the porch and the klunk of envelopes hitting the bottom of the mailbox. Possible, but not likely. I think my four days without mail have changed my attitude forever. I'll probably find something else to hang my day on from now on.

Still, I'm glad the mail showed up. Better than imagining the Jehovah's Witness ladies (who always ring early Sunday morning) pilfering the stuff and then actually listening to the new Glenn Hughes album.

Then again ...

Jon Worley never wanted to be a mailman, though when he was five his mom sewed up his jeans with a "U.S. Male" patch.