Last week, my Sunday newspaper arrived, as usual, at the front door. As I removed the paper from its plastic wrap, an envelope tumbled out. It contained a holiday card from Kevin, who apparently delivers my paper each week.

No ordinary card, this.

Kevin had put together a little marketing packet: a hand-signed card, along with a self-addressed return envelope. All that was missing was the return postage stamp. I was at once horrified and impressed. The fact is, Kevin has missed his calling. He fears that the conventional card, without further assistance, may be a weak fundraiser. He wants to close the sale.

By this week, however, I was thoroughly confused. In the mail, I received a Christmas card from someone named Dave, who also claims to deliver the same Sunday newspaper. Granted, as the holidays approach, the Sunday paper is increasingly fat with advertising, but I doubt that two people are needed to haul it to my front door.

Dave included a return address, but no envelope. His last name had been subordinated to the task at hand: He’s “Dave ”“ Sunday Times.” 

Who are these people, anyway? I have never seen Kevin or Dave, nor any other human, for that matter, who handles the newspaper. It simply arrives, and the local distributor sends a bill.

It’s not like the old days when my mother had a stack of bright red holiday envelopes in the kitchen to dispense one at a time. There was an envelope for the milkman, the newspaper boys (daily and Sunday), the mailman and the dry cleaner.  

To this day, I can put a name and face to each of the people who made deliveries to our house. There was nothing anonymous back then. If a new driver took over the route for a day, he would almost certainly introduce himself and explain the absence of our usual driver. We knew these people, knew where they lived, knew their children’s names.

In those days, the bright red envelope signaled a real exchange; these people figured in our family’s daily routine, even if only in a small way.

So I am left with holiday cards from two strangers who hope I will express tangible thanks for their faceless efforts.

Nothing against Kevin or Dave, but anonymity has its price.

— Joan Silverman is a writer in Kennebunk. This article appeared earlier in The MetroWest Daily News.