It was the year of the O.J. Simpson trial, of the pope’s visit to Baltimore and of news the Cleveland Browns were moving to town that a young Army sergeant began a mail route on the city’s western boundary.

Her route was hilly and required six hours — 329 stops, including two churches. More senior mail carriers had taken the shorter routes. That left JoAnn Dowery with the neighborhoods of Ten Hills and Westgate and a stretch of Baltimore National Pike.

She didn’t mind. The historic, leafy streets offered a pleasant walk. Families came to their front doors to welcome her. On the hottest days, they left her drinks in buckets of ice. Dowery found the work satisfying; delivering the mail was regimented like the Army.

She kept the mail route for another year — then, for another 29 years.

The U.S. Postal Service delivers billions of letters and packages each year across the U.S. Letter carriers deliver mail from West Baltimore to the remote tundra of Alaska. In Arizona, mules carry the mail to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. A mailboat delivers letters to ships on the Detroit River. There’s no operation in the world that matches the scale and range of the United States Postal Service. Not even Amazon.

And there’s no time of year that tests the postal service like the holidays. Mail carriers handled more than 11.7 billion letters, cards and packages during the 2022 holiday season; they made each delivery in an average of two and a half days. In Baltimore, a little piece of this operation has long depended on Dowery.

Back in 1995, her first year on the route, her uniform had red and blue stripes. Her mail truck, a Ford Pinto. She could carry 30 pounds in her bag: letters, samples of cereal and Brillo soap, coupon books and magazines. Hundreds of magazines a week. Only occasionally did she deliver a package.

Some days, it rained; some days, it snowed. Dowery was unbothered. She learned to soak her feet every other day.

In December, she delivered Christmas cards and picked up letters to Santa. Families invited in her in for hot chocolate and cookies. She brought their mail Tuesday through Saturday, year after year. By the year 2000, the U.S. Postal Service was delivering more than 200 billion pieces of mail annually.

Dowery wore through a pair of shoes about every nine months. She had settled into her route. The old houses had big porches and sloped yards, but few fences. She could cut time by walking across yards. When neighbors saw her coming, they stepped out to greet “Miss JoAnn.” She carried treats for their dogs and Pop Rocks for their kids.

She didn’t have children of her own, but the neighborhood had many. She remembered their birthdays and brought them cards and small gifts. For one little girl, a box of chocolate doughnuts. Come summer, the families invited her to the neighborhood block party.

One day when it poured, she took her lunch break at the laundromat to dry her socks. Another day when it snowed, her mail truck got stuck and a neighbor towed her out. Dowery had made up her mind; she had the best mail route in Baltimore.

By 2005, the U.S. Postal Service would deliver more than 211 billion pieces of mail a year. Dowery would deliver a big book of Home Depot coupons to every house. There was a lot of junk mail then, too.

She had Mondays off, and on Tuesdays she would hunt down all the misdelivered mail during her absence. She hated to call out sick. Upon her first sniffle, she would drink a glass of ginger ale and take two aspirins.

By the 2010s, the homes had internet and email. The families had cellphones, and the amount of mail slowed. The U.S. Postal Service delivered 170 billion pieces of mail in 2010, then 154 billion pieces in 2015. The magazines disappeared; the number of packages swelled.

The neighborhood children grew up. Families moved away; new families moved in.

In Ten Hills, Blake Zachary’s terrier Rupert had always greeted her with a bark from the side porch, but one day Rupert wasn’t there. Dowery noticed and left a sympathy card with the mail.

Al Ballard had worked from home and befriended Dowery. In November 2022, his wife, Hedy Klopfer, came home alone from the hospital and saw Dowery walking up with the mail. Klopfer stepped out to break the news, and Dowery wrapped her in a hug. The two women stood and grieved together.

Two more years went by, and Dowery’s knees started to ache. She began to think more about all the Saturdays she had worked and missed family parties. The decision was hard, but it was time. She would retire at the end of November. She told the neighbors that she would miss them.

That’s when Zachary, Klopfer and the others came upon an idea. They spread the word and gathered money across the neighborhood. They set out nearly 200 yard signs. “Thank you, JoAnn!! Enjoy your retirement,” read the signs, with the red and blue stripes of the Postal Service.

That Tuesday was just another day on the mail route until she noticed her name on all the signs. Up and down the streets, in yard after yard. She broke down.

“I cried for just about my whole route,” she said. “I’m the luckiest mail carrier.”

The signs were still up, everywhere, on Saturday — after 30 years, her last route. She’s 65 years old, but still jogs up the front steps. It’s hard to keep up.

“You think that’s quick? You ain’t seen nothing,” she called over her shoulder.

She hustled the letters up to the front door for Caroline Leo.

“See you, Miss Caroline. It was nice being your mail lady!” she called.

Anita Hilson gave her a mug with the words “The legend has retired.”

“We’ve never had anybody in the Postal Service who’s been like family before,” Hilson said.

Other neighbors came out with cards, gift bags and hugs. They exchanged phone numbers with Dowery. She promised to come back for tea.

Passing cars stopped her on the street. A woman threw open her upstairs window and shouted down, “Enjoy your retirement!”

There were only a few blocks left. She delivered Cathy Ferguson’s mail and hurried on.

“Don’t I get to say goodbye?” Ferguson shouted and ran out after her.

The two women considered the signs up and down the street.

“You’re famous now,” Ferguson told her.

With her mail bag empty, Dowery went home to a glass of Chardonnay and a hot bath.

Statistics of mail volume provided by the U.S. Postal Historian.