Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

At the kitchen table, where I often write if I’m not on the back porch, I was working when Tink walked in with the mail.

Normally, he only opens “green” envelopes; these are envelopes that hold residuals from television shows he has written. Sometimes, the checks are for as much as $2.34.

On this particular day, he handed me the mail and said, “Hurry to the bank with that one for 78 cents.”

I flipped through the mail, setting aside bills, tossing out catalogs and junk mail, then ran across a postcard. It was plain, without scenic sights, and it did not look like a reminder for a doctor’s appointment or vaccines for any animals.

It was addressed by hand. I turned it over to read the message, “Hi Buddy, This is a big day for you and I wish I could be there to celebrate your 11th birthday. I miss you very much and, just as soon as possible, I’ll come home to you. Count on that. Be a big man and keep your spirits up until I’m back. Love, Dad.”

“How strange,” I mumbled to myself.

Tink, standing at the sink, washing his hands, asked “What?”

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I answered distractedly, “This postcard.”

Turning it over, I saw that it had an unfamiliar male name. The address – the road – was one of which I had never heard and the town was a county over.

“How in the world did we get this?” I asked. “It’s not the name of our road, our town, or our ZIP code.”

In the lefthand corner was a return address with a small town in a state that sounded familiar to me. I thought for a second.

Rapidly, I typed the name in and discovered that what I suspected was correct – it was a prison. Not just any prison but one for death row inmates.

At that moment, it didn’t matter to me what the man had done. I was concerned about a little boy who was suffering through his 11th birthday, watching the mailbox, and wanting to hear from his father. He probably had no idea where his father was or what he had done.

All I could hear in the quiet of our kitchen was the sound of a boy’s heart, breaking.

Tink’s eyes widened as I explained the card and from where it had come.

I shook my head. “It’s so sad. This little boy will never know that his daddy wrote him on his birthday.”

Suddenly, I snapped my fingers. “Wait a minute. I know someone at this post office. Let me call her.”

I rang her cell phone and she answered, seeing my name, and said, “Hey! What are you up to?”

“We have a piece of mis-delivered mail,” I explained. “I have no idea how it wound up in this ZIP code.” I named the road. “Are you familiar with it?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, then told me where it was and which carrier had the road.

“We need to make sure this postcard gets delivered.” I explained the situation and read the card to her. “Do I need to drive it up to you?”

“No, just take it to your post office and have them put it in an official envelope that will come straight to me. I promise, I’ll handle it personally.

Within an hour, I took the postcard to our local post office (where chickens are often seen pecking behind the loading dock), and Jamie, the clerk, was waiting for me. “I done got the call. I got the envelope right here.”

As I said to Tink later, “That postcard, with that incorrect address, could have gone anywhere but it came to us. Most people would have thrown it away.”

But it came to the right place because there was a little boy who needed a bit of cheer. We found him.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of “St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery.” Visit www. rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.