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Fourth of July weekend. Here, on the southern shore of Lake Michigan, you’d never know a pandemic was coursing through this nation’s sclerotic veins.

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The crazed sounds of motors, engines and various battery-powered wands, blowers and whackers fill the air.  It’s like Mick Ronson’s pent-up guitar attack at the beginning of Bowie’s “Suffragette City.”  Outside my window, a bluejay looks from side to side, as if expecting an airborne freight train.

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Communication is hard work in the best of times — and we definitely don’t live in the best of times.

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Between the pandemic and police brutality, you’d think we had enough on our plates to last us, oh, until November, at least.  But yet another issue’s been percolating during this fraught time.  It appears the Postal Service could be in jeopardy.

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