Westport mailboxes have always been eclectic.
They’re big and small, artistic and generic. Some stand upright; others are packed in sturdy concrete.
In a variety of fonts, they identify addresses: the full road, or just the number.
Saugatuck Shores (Photo/Patricia McMahon)
What they don’t show is who lives there.
No names. That may be why FedEx, Amazon and Uber Eats manage to screw up so many orders.
It wasn’t always like that.
I’m not sure when the practice of putting names on mailboxes (and lawns, and next to the front door) ended. (I can guess why: security and privacy.)
But that’s part of Westport life that disappeared a while ago, right underneath our eyes, without anyone noticing.
It’s not the only one.
Who remembers the cannonballs embedded in the grass near the Compo Beach cannons, or the anchor across from Ned Dimes Marina?
For newer residents, the palm tree by the kayak launch is just a f(r)ond memory.
(Photo/Jaime Bairaktaris)
“Station cars” were once the financially prudent, low-key way dads got to the train station. Today’s parking lot is a Range Rover convention.
The Westport News is gone, pretty much. It still publishes online, and some folks get it in their mail or on their driveway (whether they want it or not).
But the local newspaper — the one whose crusading saved us from a nuclear plant on Cockenoe Island, and which covered local meetings, sports, education, arts, police and much more with actual journalists — is now as irrelevant as an AAA road map.
And you can’t buy a copy anywhere in town, even if you wanted one.
Also gone:
Leaf-burning in the fall. Apparently it releases toxic particles that can cause severe lung damage. That seems serious. But losing the quintessential smell of autumn — which no one under 40 remembers — is serious too.
Autumn ritual, back in the day.
Teachers and coaches once gave kids rides home. Today, that’s a fire-able offense.
Speaking of fires: A fire horn sounded every Saturday at noon, and summoned volunteers whenever there was a blaze. If you knew the code, you could head over and see the blaze yourself. And the code could be found …
… in phone books. They disappeared around the time of rotary phones. Along with …
… knowing your friends’ phone numbers. Kids today don’t even know their parents’ numbers. Which is okay, because …
… most tweens and teens (and 20somethings) refuse to talk on the phone. Or to anyone face to face, for that matter. They’ll text someone sitting right next to them. I wish I were kidding, but I’m not.
(Photo/Lynn Untermeyer Miller)
Gone too:
24/7/365 hours of operation at the diner. Isn’t that actually the definition of a diner?
The large cone on top of Carvel.
And the sign on Easton Road, noting the distance to Upper Stepney. Crucial information for everyone in the Coleytown area, heading up there.
Though in Upper Stepney, as in Westport, no one puts their name on their mailbox anymore.
(What else vanished from Westport, without any noticing? Click “Comments” below.)
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