Country Mailman edition

Tune in every week to read about the adventures of Buck Buchanan, fictional country mailman, delivering mail out of Starz, Texas. He takes his job seriously and knows that customers count on him to deliver every piece of mail entitled to them. He is all about customer service. With a willing ear and a helping hand, Buck Buchanan goes the extra mile.

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Cecil Dean stood with worry on her face and I scratched my head at her predicament. She was in a fix but I sure didn’t like her solution. I put her mail and small package on the table just inside the bright red door.

“I can see where you can’t wring the necks of your chickens because of that cast on your wrist, Cecil, but I’ve never done it. Pretty sure I’d make a big mess of it.”

“I’ve got an axe if you think that would be better,” she offered.

Cecil was approaching eighty. She had never asked me to do anything except move a chair from one side of her living room to the other and that was years ago. Her boys usually see about her but I knew they were at the agriculture show this week. So were their families. The lady likes having chickens and fresh eggs. Few people do these days, a grocery store is more convenient. 

“You’re set on having chicken for dinner?” I asked.

“The preacher is coming, along with the new choir director. I make the best chicken and dumplings around. You know that, Buck.”

I nodded because to do anything else would be rude. Cecil didn’t know that I hated dumplings. I scratched my head again, remembering her sons had taken her car keys away and she couldn’t drive to town to buy chicken.

“How about I bring you some chicken from the store. If you can’t wring their necks, you can’t pluck the down either. I know store-bought isn’t as good, but at least all the feathers will be gone.”

“How are you going to do that? You have a whole route to deliver and won’t get back to town before mid-afternoon. They’re coming at five.”

“You let me worry about that. I’ll have your chicken to you by one o’clock.” I patted her hand, saw a reluctant nod and took the two letters she wanted mailed.

After a brief phone discussion with my wife, I arranged to meet her at the crossroads at twelve thirty, after she bought two packages of chicken at the store during her lunch hour. My wife has always been a sport, saving me more than once after a vehicle failure on the route.

After leaving Cecil’s place, I had three miles to travel before coming to another mailbox, so I sat back and enjoyed the view. The Hudson Ranch bordered one side of the road and occasionally I saw cattle scattered through the bushes. I wasn’t traveling fast on the dirt road, but when I saw the strange brown color, I stomped the brake and swerved a bit before stopping. Thirty seconds later, I had backed up and stared curiously at the large animals on the other side of the barbed wire.

The boys at the domino hall talked about them and I knew these creatures had been on Ben Hudson’s ranch for months, but this was the first time I laid eyes on them. There were three, all various sizes. The creatures stared at me just as I did them, only their mouths were moving, just as cows do while chewing. Ben brought the camel herd in from Kansas to keep the mesquite from taking over and although they had been there half a year, I didn’t notice any difference. He was supposed to have ten of the animals. The three I saw looked as calm and content as any cattle. The beasts were supposed to live about forty years so they had plenty of time to cut down the mesquite and scrub brush on the ranch. A water tank was close by; grass wasn’t too far, so they looked as if they were satisfied. I eyed the barbed wire fence. Judging from the length of the long legs, I doubted the enclosure would hold any of the big beasts if they wanted to be elsewhere. I couldn’t keep from staring. They were such an oddity. I knew camels were used experimentally in Texas before the civil war but not much else since then. There was probably a reason, but I sure wished Ben all the luck in this venture.

 When I got to Annie Oakley Grayson’s for coffee that afternoon, we talked about the camels and we talked about Cecil Dean as we ate German chocolate cake. Annie filled in the history that I didn't know.

 Cecil rode in a wagon across Texas with her parents when she was a baby. In the 1920’s, German immigrants settled in this part of the country and Cecil’s family slowly accumulated land. Cecil has enough money to hire all kinds of people to raise and harvest her chickens, but that German ethic of hard work is too instilled in her to allow that. She is the oldest of five girls and grew up walking behind mules plowing the fields. Her family also ran a dairy and she put her time in milking, separating and delivering. I suspect she’s done everything on a farm that can be done, including driving a hayrake drawn by horses, hoeing cotton, baling hay and repairing windmills.

I’ve walked in her kitchen with washing machine parts strewn everywhere and later discovered she put it all back together after replacing a broken drive belt. She showed her husband how to replace brake pads on the truck, change the oil and replace the filter. After he died, I suspect she instructed her sons the same way.

Cecil still had a frown on her face when I handed her the packages of chicken from the store. Age and injuries make a person accept second best, but since she was determined to make chicken and dumplings for the Lutheran preacher and his cohort, sometimes, below par just has to do. My wish is that they eat every drop so she doesn’t offer it to me tomorrow.