Looking out the window, I saw more than the green tree climbing higher than the slanted roof. I saw more that the two chairs nestled on the lawn waiting for a conversation between friends. And, I saw more than the squirrel dancing on the ground in search of a meal. I saw the mail truck. The sight of the vehicle produced a flutter in my stomach and catch in my throat. Would the mail deliver the next step in a sought-after dream?
Once again, I must take a long walk to the mailbox.
One hot, dusty summer Sunday morning, I pulled my eight-year-old self out of bed feeling propelled forward by a strange feeling of excitement mixed with an ever-present dread. The see-saw emotional experience, which dominated my whole being the day before, promptly greeted me “good morning.”
For weeks now, I set my hopes on winning a contest sponsored by our regional newspaper. The coveted prized was a trip to Disneyland for the winner and two additional guests. With all my heart, I longed to win.
The contest guidelines were straightforward. Any contestant under the age of ten simply had to write on a white postcard the following: Why I Want to Win a Trip to Disneyland. Since the rules allowed for multiple entries, I worked like a bee and submitted numerous compositions.
One particular piece seemed destined to win—my poem. Using poetry, I poured out my eight-year-old heart and expressed my deep longing of this coveted prize. With words bubbling like a mountain stream, I articulated one rhyming phrase after another. This creation felt marked to rise to the top and capture the judges’ award.
Certain of victory, I even discussed with my mother a babysitting plan for my 8-week-old baby brother, who would need to be left behind.
Since the winner was to be announced on a certain Saturday, all that day I sat by our black rotary telephone, a symbolism of the 1950s. No amount of persuasion could convince me to venture out into the sunshine for normal activities. I even declined a trip to the pool for fear the newspaper would phone in our absence!
The kitchen table served as my post, and I kept a vigil, hour by hour, willing a ring to break the dead air. When silence prevailed—still confident of winning—I reasoned that the newspaper staff was preoccupied with the next day’s Sunday edition. (After all, why else would they not have phoned?)
Eventually, nightfall forced me to leave my post and get ready for bed. Bewildered, I told myself that the morning newspaper would certainly herald my success.
So, up with the sun, I dressed quickly and walked my barefooted self down the gravel road and out to the mailbox. Step by step, my dream came closer and closer into focus.
With heart racing, I poked my slender hand into the medal box, and nervously pulled out the bundle of the Sunday Edition recently shoved inside by the delivery man. Ceremoniously, I positioned myself in the perfect spot to open the paper and unveil my prize. My fumbling fingers trembled as I reverentially stared at the object which contained the culmination of my dream to go to Disneyland. One-fold … two-folds … front page ANNOUNCEMENT!
What? Oh, no! How could this be? There must be a mistake!
My heart shattered as I stood frozen on that dirt path and stared back at the grinning face of another dark-haired little girl, the one selected as the contest winner. Her photo left no doubt. Whatever I wrote on my multiple postcard entries was not deemed worthy to win; whatever she wrote convinced the judges to award her the prize.
Shuffling back along the dusty path, disappointment claimed every single spot dream previously occupied.
Walking slower now, I calculated the ramifications: our summer plans would be ordinary, California would not be on the agenda, I would not be meeting Cinderella, and I did not need a babysitting plan for my infant brother. With each barefooted step back to our house, I tried to figure out why she won and why I did not.
The life lesson from that summer produced far more value than a set of Mickey Mouse ears. I learned firsthand that on the road to a dream, disappointment travels as the unseen partner, and the ground under our feet must be sturdy enough to simultaneously embrace both.
Fast-forward to today. Yet again, I must make a long walk to the mailbox. What news did the postman bring? Did the publisher like my manuscript proposal? Will a letter of acceptance be waiting, or … will the box contain the disappointing rejection of a heartfelt dream?
Now, on a long walk to the mailbox, the little girl wears shoes.
