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For one summer during WWII I was a Western Union messenger in Chicago. For the most part I delivered stacks of telegrams to business offices just off Michigan Avenue, but once in a while my job took me to a nearby neighborhood of small apartments and boarding houses.
On those occasions I might be carrying a “starred message,” handed to me by mistake rather than to one of the adult messengers. It was a terrible experience because those messages announced that the blue-starred service flag hanging in the window would be turning to gold. (Telegrams were the way the government sent death notices and missing-in-action-notices were sent to next of kin.)
Little wonder that the appearance of a Western Union messenger on the door step was the cause of fear and anxiety.
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