COLORADO: Letters for Gus

Except for the depot, there are only five buildings in Marshall Pass, Colo. Twice a week the train with the mail from Salida comes chuffing up the Denver & Rio Grande Western, snuffling around the bare ribs of the Colorado mountains like an old hound dog on a cold trail. In the quiet at 11,000 feet, when the wind is right, Postmaster Gus Latham can hear the train coming about an hour before it arrives. Marshall Pass (pop. 11) is the U.S.’s smallest post office. Gus, who has lived in Marshall Pass for the last 21 of his 64 years, has been postmaster since 1943. Said Gus: “I get maybe six letters a week, maybe nine. Maybe one package.”

A couple of months ago, Gus read in the official Gazette about the postmasters’ 44th annual convention in New York. Gus wrote to New York’s Postmaster Albert Goldman, asking him to reserve him “one single room and bed for one person.” Gus added: “I will let you choose my hotel, for I must be in company with other postmasters so that I may not get lost. I have never been in a large city.”

“We Sure Do.” Last week Gus arrived in New York, a tall, weather-tough man with crinkled eyes and a face reddened in the high mountain winds. He proudly donned his postmasters’ convention badge, dutifully attended the sessions, listened gravely as Postmaster General Jesse M. Donaldson declared that the post office faced a record $550 million deficit, that Congress should overhaul its “horse & buggy rates.” Penny postcards, Donaldson pointed out, cost the department 2.6¢ to print, sell, and handle, and 95% of them are sold to advertisers who flood the mails with them “by the billions.” Gus nodded soberly.

Afterward, Gus posed with Donaldson and Goldman (who is postmaster of the U.S.’s largest postoffice). Gus was unruffled. “Hey, Gus,” yelled a newsman, “is it true you fellows read all the postcards?” “We sure do,” said Gus. “I sure hope that ain’t a federal offense.”

Gus, a part-time postmaster, gets only $252 a year from the department. “Mostly I work on the railroad. Four of us shovel her clear in winter, and clear out any drift that comes down in summer. I get plenty of time to go fishin’. We don’t have any officials, you might say. Depending on who’s around, the depot master is mayor, or I am.”

Gopher Holes. Gus is unmarried. “Last time I asked a girl to be my wife, she said, ‘Can I get down that mountain to see a show every night?’ When I said no, she said ‘No.’ ” His office is in a corner of the depot. Gus explained: “I’ve got a table and two chairs. Nothing to lock up except the cash drawer, and I wouldn’t do that except you’re supposed to.” During the war, though, Marshall Pass had a brush with the enemy. Said Gus: “I don’t like to mention his name. He’s in Leavenworth now. He was up there, and well, I could see he wasn’t doing what he said he was doing. Never mind, I just knew. I turned him in to the government man, and the FBI came around and found he had a short wave radio and was sending to the Nazis. That’s all.” A friend urged: “Go on, Gus, tell the whole story.” Gus was firm: “We shouldn’t say bad things about people unless we have to.”

At week’s end, Gus headed back to Marshall Pass. He hadn’t thought much of New York. “Them subway entrances. They’re like gopher holes.” He had not thought much of New York’s “young ones.” Said Gus: “They all look like they wanted to go to a picture show day and night. They don’t look tough enough to go huntin’.”