The Lost Letter

It was around seven o’clock in the evening, here in Myattburg, as small town just outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. This is one of those towns where the coal mining flourished for generations, and kept these families rich in life, and happiness. As I look around I could see, all of that was gone. Not much here to remind anyone of those prosperous days, just a few old timers who could tell you the story of when President Coolage visited the town in 1928. Now it’s a college town, rich in movie theaters, bars, corner stores, and of course tons of fast food restaurants. With all of this going on, it is still a lovely place, rich in magnificent mountain scenery and a small hometown atmosphere.

I walked down the steps of the porch and looked down at the broken brick sidewalk below my feet. I thought I would walk toward the center of town. I enjoyed watching the kids laughing and having a good time, thinking that they owned the town, and maybe they did now. As I entered the business district, I could hear the noise of the town getting louder, horns sounding, kids shouting. I stopped on the corner of Pellet St.and saw a police officer talking to a group of kids. He wasn’t reprimanding them, but standing there talking and laughing with them. The police here really have a good attitude about the town, they know where the economy comes from and respect it, even enjoy it. Pellet St. is the first street light on the west side of town. This is where the business district starts. I can smell the hamburgers and onions frying over at Johnson’s Grill and thought I may go over there and indulge in the delicacy of one of Mr. Johnson’s greasy burgers and terribly over salted French fries. I don’t do this often, but anything in moderation can’t hurt. I probably tell myself that too much. Johnson’s moved in about thirty years ago, before that the small building was a drop off point for the mail which eventually would be delivered to the men working down in the coal mines and also for the mail being sent by the these men. The small shanty like building, now painted bright white with dark blue trim, was over a hundred years old and stood the test of time. I Jay-walked to the opposite corner and entered the Grill. Inside was a small crowd of regulars, mostly college students. There is a diner type bar through the center of the place which also served as a divider between the seating area and the kitchen. I walked to the end of the counter and sat on one of the tall round padded stools. Banny the cook came over to me and with his predictable wiping of the counter in front of you, proceeded to ask what I wanted, never making eye contact. I placed my order, and without delay, started admiring the wall decorations. Someone had saved tons of pictures of the old building before it was Johnson’s and placed them on the wall all over the Grill. It was amazing to me to see how similar the old building was. It really hasn’t changed since the earliest picture, which was dated 1923. Just a few coats of paint and some new windows were the major differences. I slowly walked around and looked at every picture I could. There were pictures of the old Postmaster who would make sure that all the mail got delivered to the respective mines.