Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Missing Newspapers

Since returning to the Comstock Chronicle, I have been enjoying the modest rewards of journalism: a few column inches in which to arrange my opinions, a newspaper delivered by the front office, and a check sufficiently small to remind me that literature is still a noble profession.

There is, however, a difficulty with the newspaper. The difficulty is that it does not always arrive.

When it does arrive, it sometimes comes looking as though it has spent the night in a bar fight. It may be folded, bent, crumpled, torn, or otherwise introduced to the destructive arts. This brings to mind the old IBM warning, printed upon certain packages with the solemnity ordinarily reserved for the Ten Commandments: “Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate.” It was a simple instruction, yet one apparently beyond the comprehension of the modern postal service.

Every other paper seems to have suffered some indignity before reaching my hands. The others, having apparently been overcome by the rigors of their journey, do not arrive at all.

I have asked the mailperson about this. The response has varied little. There is sometimes a shrug. There is sometimes another shrug. Occasionally there is the kind of expression worn by a man who has just been asked to explain why the moon is late.

No explanation is forthcoming.

It is puzzling because the United States Postal Service has for generations operated under a magnificent motto: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

It is a splendid motto. It possesses the confidence of a conquering army.

Unfortunately, it appears to have been written before newspapers became involved.

Snow? No problem.

Rain? Carry on.

Heat? We laugh at heat.

Gloom of night? Nothing can stop us.

But a weekly newspaper addressed to a paying subscriber on the Comstock? That, apparently, is where the service draws the line.

I have not yet notified the U.S. Postal Inspector, largely because I am reluctant to bring federal law enforcement into a matter that may require finding the newspaper. I can imagine the inspector arriving at my door, opening a file, and asking me to describe the missing publication.

“What was the last known location?”

“Somewhere between the newspaper office and my mailbox.”

“Do you have suspects?”

“Only the postal service.”

“Any witnesses?”

“My mailbox, but it has maintained complete silence.”

This would undoubtedly lead to a lengthy investigation, followed by a report concluding that the newspaper was mailed and the mailperson remembers no such thing, thereby solving the mystery in the same efficient manner that governments have solved mysteries since the invention of government.

The real oddity is that this does not appear to be happening to everyone.

The five copies of the Chronicle that are mailed to the Sandwich Islands, for instance, have so far generated no complaints.

This raises several important questions.

Are the Sandwich Islands receiving better postal service than the Comstock?

Has the newspaper developed a more reliable means of transportation across the Pacific?

Are the residents of those distant islands simply more fortunate?

Or—and I hesitate even to suggest this—does the postal system regard the Comstock as a sufficiently difficult place to deliver newspapers that it has quietly classified us as an expedition?

One can imagine the discussion at the sorting facility.

“Where does this one go?”

“Comstock.”

“Where?”

“Virginia City.”

“Ah. Mountains.”

“Yes.”

“Old mining town?”

“Yes.”

“Send it by mule.”

Meanwhile, someone in Hawaii receives the same edition in pristine condition, perhaps wondering why the people of Nevada complain about their mail when the Pacific Ocean presents such an obvious opportunity for postal inconvenience.

The matter would be amusing if the people affected were not paying for the service. There is something uniquely American about paying a bill for something, then having to prove that you did not imagine the thing you paid for.

A subscriber pays for a newspaper. The newspaper is printed. The newspaper is mailed. The newspaper enters the postal system. Somewhere between there and here, it apparently encounters the Bermuda Triangle.

Then the subscriber waits, as Monday passes, Tuesday arrives, Wednesday offers hope, and Thursday becomes philosophical. By Friday, the subscriber is no longer waiting for the newspaper. He is waiting for an explanation of why there is no newspaper.

The following week, another edition is mailed, and the entire experiment begins again. Perhaps the Post Office believes that anticipation improves readership. If so, it has discovered a revolutionary new business model: do not deliver the product and the customer will spend more time thinking about it.

The irony is that newspapers are themselves relics of a slower age, when people were willing to wait for information. The telegraph, radio, television, computers, telephones, satellites and the Internet have all come and gone in the march toward instantaneous communication.

Yet here on the Comstock a subscriber can still experience the thrilling uncertainty of wondering whether Friday's newspaper will arrive before next Tuesday. There is something almost historic about it.

And perhaps that is the answer. The Comstock is a historic place, and the mail service is determined to preserve the experience.

We have restored old buildings, maintained historic mines, preserved wooden sidewalks and celebrated the ghosts of a more colorful era. Now, apparently, we are restoring 19th-century mail delivery.

The difference is that the miners knew where their supplies were.

I do not wish to make too much of the matter. I am grateful for the newspaper when it arrives, even if it arrives looking as though it has crossed the Sierras in the pocket of a prospector who lost an argument with a mule. And I am grateful that the Chronicle continues to publish and that I am permitted to contribute a few words to it each week.

But there is a lesson here for anyone considering subscribing. If you live on the Comstock, subscribe with courage. If you live in the Sandwich Islands, subscribe with confidence.

And if you happen to live somewhere between the two, God bless you, because it is a work in progress.

P.S. My missing paper arrived on Aug. 22, having reached Sacramento for a postmark on the 18th, after being mailed on the 14th.