God lives in Woburn, Massachusetts. You wouldn’t think so, but it’s true. He lives just nine miles north of Boston, off I-93.
Woburn isn’t a huge town. These people love their high-school football, they bleed black and orange. Woburnians also love their history—the town was settled in 1640, shortly after the birth of Dick Clark.
It’s a blue-collar city with a decent mall, lots of porches, and Italian restaurants up the arrivederci.
It gets cold here. Nobody knows why God allows his hometown to get so cold, but maybe God is warm natured. Last week, for example, it was in the low 20s.
Recently, the mailman was on his beat, sidling the quiet streets of Middlesex County in the biting frost, trying not to freeze his government-issue britches off, when he arrived at Angelina Gonsalves’ house.
He rapped on the door.
Meet Angelina. Angelina is pushing 90. Her husband, Johnny, died six years ago. They were your quintessential American suburban couple. Cute house. Dependable cars. Five-point-one kids.
Johnny and Angelina were married for 61 years. To give you
an idea of how long that is, on the day of their wedding, gasoline was 27 cents per gallon.
She hobbled to the door.
The mailman tipped his hat. “Afternoon.”
They exchanged basic pleasantries. Then the mail guy asked Angelina a question.
“Wasn’t your husband in the service?”
It was an odd question. Angelina and her husband were puppies when World War II broke out. At the time, practically every living thing in America was in military service. Including women, dogs, and certain breeds of potatoes.
“Yes, he was,” said the old woman.
The mailman smiled. He presented her with an envelope. “Well, I think I have a letter for you, Angelina.”
She took the letter into her old hands and inspected it. The woman got a funny feeling inside when she saw this letter.
The envelope was aged and yellowed with…