Here, we’re over here. Here we are.

No one will know where we’ve moved this Christmas; our return address has changed again, though we’ve lived in the same neck of the woods – literally – for years.

Seems we can’t get mail and it’s not so simple to send it out.

There’s no alarm. Anthrax has not closed the delivery system, but it’s something almost as vexing, though we can’t yet put our finger on it.

First, take our postal address. It went from Star Route 15B to HC 60 to Highway Contract Route 35, depending on whoever had the contract and was driving up – and into – our roadside mailbox. Our letterheads, checks, subscriptions and Christmas Seals labels have had to be changed four times.

OK, we’re trying to be good citizens in a small coastal community where there are more house lights off than on during winter months, so we don’t complain too vociferously that the U.S. Postal Service is such a bureaucracy it often sends mail 50 miles away before delivering it next door.

OK, so our address has changed over the years. We’ve notified our friends and family and have rested assured that the creditors will find us.

Now, we’ve become 16 Gray Road. No more box number, Star Route, or HC – just a street address as if we live in some gated subdivision to which we’ve recently moved after two decades in the same house – from which we will never move until we move to the cemetery.

It’s not so much we mind the periodic changes in our messages on Christmas cards – most folks by now figure we’re Down East migrant workers.

What we mind is not being a part of the mail delivery system itself since we’re not “box” holders in the tiny local post office but rather “rural” deliveries made catch-can … if the snow’s not too high, or the mailbox isn’t too rusted, or the post hasn’t been shattered by the plow. Or the mailing is not a bulk flier of community information.

A few days ago, we missed a town event – potluck supper, caroling and shopping. The “box holders” contained notice of the festivities; in fact, a friend received three fliers. But our rural route receives no such mailings – no surveys by school committees or community service organizations, no newsletters from the town office, no public announcements.

Maybe that will change now that we are becoming a street address. But probably not, since the address makes no sense either.

The first house on the dirt road is No. 16? Just think about a postal carrier – or emergency vehicle – counting to 16 before realizing there aren’t that many houses on the road, period.

Not to sound cavalier about the serious problems the Postal Service has faced since Sept. 11, but our mail delivery system had more common sense in Wells Fargo days than now.

At least a horse and rider could probably track us down and hand over a chamber of commerce flier about a community Christmas gathering.

Come to think of it, United Parcel Service isn’t any better. Three out of six Christmas wreaths we mailed reached their destinations; the others – 10 days later – remain in transit, dry spills piling up in the boxes. How the jars of raspberry jelly are faring is anyone’s guess.

All we hope is that Santa isn’t mailing anything and that his reindeer and sleigh can find their way here … over here, the first house on the right, No. 16.