As usual, I walked in with only a minute or two to spare before the deadline for outgoing mail. The heeler sisters tied up to the security grill over the front window.

Our postmaster was on the phone, and was about to end her call to take care of my business when she saw the envelope I had in my hand.

And asked the postmaster at the other end of the conversation to hang on.

You see, I don't send a lot of mail in my job. Except, of course, in years when I mail tooth envelopes to my hunters. In those years, I probably make a significant dent in our post office's statistics. But no teeth collections this year. The lab tech positions were cut because of the tight budget.

No, all this envelope contains is some purchasing forms. But I've had the envelope for a while. As in years. When I buy, I usually buy them by the hundred. So they last a while.

This one has the first class postage emblem printed on it, but there is no denomination. Nothing to indicate the cents of postage it carries. Not even a letter designation from one of those increased rates where they didn't know how large the increase was going to be, so they just printed them as 'E' or 'F' or 'G'.

Nope, none of that. Just Old Glory sitting up there in the top right corner.

So, it turns out the postmaster on the phone doesn't know how many cents this envelope represents either, so he or she is promptly cut off. And the postmaster digs into one of her thick manuals.

Another customer comes in. A neighbor who only needs stamps. I ask the postmaster to take care of her. I'm in no hurry. Then back to the manual.

Wrong one. Digs out second manual, just as thick.

Not in there, either.

Another customer comes in. Sent to mail a letter for his wife, but she forgot the city, state and town. Postmaster and I both peek at the name and street address. Street address could be either our town or the next one over, but don't know of anyone with that last name on that street in this little town.

Postmaster loans him her cell phone so he can call his wife and find out which town the letter is going to.

Postmaster then pulls out the third manual, which is three times as thick as the other two.

Still no Old Glory postage-paid envelope listed.

Meanwhile, I have made a second trip out into the foyer to yell outside to hush the masked heeler. Who is barking at the wife's co-worker, in to pick up their mail. Who promptly claims the heeler is barking at kids down the street, not her.

Uh-huh.

As I lean back into the office, the postmaster is calling yet another postmaster about my antique envelope.

I ask her is I would be ahead to auction these envelopes off on eBay to the philatelists.

Third postmaster doesn't know either, but has a best guess that these are 33� envelopes. A couple rate increases back.

Okay, that'll do. Buy a four cent stamp, and a couple dozen more for the envelopes at home, and it's on its way.

A little before five o'clock I hear the heelers having a fit upstairs, letting me know there is someone at the door.

Probably one of the last people I would expect.

Our postmaster.

Not knowing something that she thinks she ought to know apparently really bugs her, because she kept on looking. And she has in her hand a photocopy of the page which shows all the postage-paid envelopes.

And there's my Old Glory envelopes.

32�, not 33�.

She's not here to collect the 1� due on postage. She is here to apologize for selling me 4� stamps when I really need 5� to make the first class rate. And to let me know she added the penny necessary to get my mail out. And to offer to open the office back up to get 5� stamps if that is what I need.

That's okay, I tell her, as I fish out a penny for my postage due. (She tries to turn it down, but hey, the difference comes out of her pocket. I know that.)

I've got plenty of 1� stamps to stick alongside the 4� ones.

Bought in quantity at the last rate increase after I bought the Old Glory envelopes.

I suspect not everyone has a postmaster so dedicated to her job. And if any of her kindnesses are a violation of some postal regulation, I want to state here for the record that the events related herein are entirely fictitious, and occurred in a town just two kilometers outside of Timbuktu.

Just for the record.