Country Mailman

 

!!!!Announcement!!!!

The book, Country Mailman, in both E-book and Paperback form will be available this week on Amazon. But not to worry, Buck will continue to appear on my blog every week (or not, if there is a holiday) until....well....until he doesn't. I am thinking about a sequel, Country Mailman 2, and if that reaches fruition, you will hear from Buck for quite some time. Happy New Year!

 

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.

*  *  *

Since my seventy-year old, afternoon coffee partner, Annie Oakley Grayson, is off visiting her son in Galveston, I pulled in to the café. Today, the mail has been extra heavy and I am ready for a break. Fifty-six parcels nearly set the record for any month that isn’t December.

Piper Smith waved as I walked in and I got ready for the corny joke. He’d tell it pretty quick. Sure enough, he motioned for me to sit down and as soon as Edna poured coffee in my cup, he let me have it.

“My wife heard on the radio there was a man driving the wrong way on South Loop 289 yesterday afternoon. She knew I was headed that way, called and told me to be careful and look out for a car going the wrong direction. I told her there wasn’t just one car going the wrong direction, I was seeing hundreds of cars and they were all honking.”

I smiled as I took a sip. Within five minutes, he’d work another joke into the conversation. But I was wrong. He got a text and left after putting two dollars on the table. Since no one else was in the café, Edna sat down at the table and pointed to LaSonda Robins’ driveway, in clear view from the window. LaSonda, the substitute postmaster, was due to start her annual three-month vacation next week.

“Guess whose car I saw going to see LaSonda yesterday evening?”

I paused, wondering if she wanted me to guess or if she just wanted to tell me. I was tired, though, and didn’t feel like guessing. “I have no idea.”

“Gus Richardson.”

My hand paused in mid-air before I set the cup on the table and looked strangely at Edna. “Could be all kinds of reasons for that,” I said. The postmaster who lived forty-five minutes away might have had business with the woman who takes his place on occasion. Even if it isn’t business, I wish the guy luck. LaSonda doesn't seem all that bright, and if you can overlook her obsession with nail polish and lotion, she is nice to look at.

She raised her eyebrow. “Do you know where she goes every year about this time?”

Again, I shook my head, not having the inclination to play the game well. “Not a clue.”

“New York. And do you know what she does?”

By this time, my patience was just about gone and I stared at Edna, thinking she’d get the hint that I wasn’t up to conversing. But she didn’t. The café owner must not have had much business today for she was bubbling over with information.

“She’s a hand model. She goes to New York to have pictures of her hands taken. And those strange cars I see coming and going in the evenings during the week – they’re students from the massage therapy school in Lubbock. She gets three hand massages a week and pays them to come to her house. Can you imagine!” 

I realized my eyes had widened involuntarily. For years, I imagined much more about LaSonda than the simple explanation given by Edna. That certainly explained the overuse of nail polish and lotion, fruited ice water and diet shakes. It explained the monthly check from the New York bank and it explained the evening traffic. But it didn’t explain why the postmaster, who was always anxious to go home, would stop at LaSonda’s house. I didn’t feed Edna’s gossiping frenzy by acting interested so she put Piper’s two dollars in her pocket, refilled my coffee cup and left the table.

Gus and LaSonda. I should have known. He had asked her to come in for extra computer training several days in the last weeks. Well, it isn’t any of my business and what happens at the Post Office stays at the Post Office as far as I’m concerned.

I left the café, with only ten more stops on the route. A mile later, I saw the white bird perched on the low fence in the distance because it stood out against the dark gray clouds on the horizon. With the sun still shining, rain in the distance and a fresh smell in the air, I kept the windows down to enjoy the autumn afternoon. Suddenly, I wasn’t quite so tired. Perhaps it was the nearness to the end of my day or the caffeine in the coffee that did the trick, but I found myself relaxed and content.

As I got closer to the bird, I saw the coyote sneaking through the grass toward the fence. If I honked to startle the bird, the coyote went hungry. If I didn’t, nature took its course. Having plenty of time to think it through, I decided to drive on by and let the creatures work it out amongst themselves. Sorry, fella, I thought to myself as I drove past the white pigeon. Startled, I pressed the brake after seeing a reflection on the bird’s leg. It was banded and that changed things. The bird wasn’t raised in the wild. He was at a disadvantage.

A blur of motion from the grass erupted and just as the coyote leaped for its prey, the bird flapped its wings and flew straight toward me, escaping. I put my arm up instinctively, but felt silly after a moment and realized the pigeon was inside my car, perched on the back of the passenger seat, staring at me with warm, liquid brown eyes. We looked at each other for a minute and I didn’t see any sign that he held a grudge against me for not warning him against the coyote. The little guy even acted as if he wanted to stay. I didn’t see any harm in it so I headed toward the one house I knew might be of help.

Cole Adams had racing pigeons. I didn’t know if this one was his, but if the little fella was still in the car by the time I got there, Cole might know how to get him home. He clearly was lost.

I drove up the paved drive, glad to see Cole’s pickup. I honked; the sign for every person who lives in the country to come outside, and watched the lanky man come out of the barn. He leaned on the open window, saw the pigeon calmly perched at eye level and blinked in surprise.

“Well, what do you have here, Buck?”

“I’m hoping he’s one of yours. He flew through the open window and lit right there. He’s been riding with me for the past fifteen minutes. Seems content.” 

The pigeon acted indifferent as Cole picked him up with one hand and examined the band. “He’s not mine and I don’t recognize the number. You want me to take him?”

I nodded. The little fella wasn’t a bad riding companion, but I doubt people want bird droppings all over their mail. The car was safer than a low fence out in the field, but he’d be better off with Cole.

I left with a nice feeling in my chest. All was well with everyone except the coyote. But coyotes are survivors. Jake, the county sheriff, thought he hit something one early morning on the way to work, but couldn’t find a sign of an animal, living or dead, on the side of the road. When he came out of the coffee shop, he noticed a tail hanging from the front bumper. A coyote was wedged sideways between plastic and metal, eyes alert and ears up, but clearly stuck. Since the bumper was already damaged, Jake got a tire tool, bent the opening wider and that coyote hopped out like he had just been napping. The animal didn’t appear hurt, merely trotted across the parking lot and disappeared as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Animals are like that. No drama, just a get-on-with-life attitude that makes things appear simple. That coyote didn’t blame Jake for trapping him in his bumper and that pigeon didn’t harbor any ill will toward me for not warning him.

Maybe I can remember their good nature the next time I see a car driving in the left lane and not passing. It is a pet peeve of mine, an irritation when drivers don’t respect others on the road. A lot of people in Texas don’t know it is a traffic violation to cruise in the left lane of a multiple lane roadway with a fine starting at $200. Passing a car, turning left and avoiding a hazard are the basic reasons for not staying in the right lane. I keep reminding our county sheriff of that, but he merely nods and pulls at his earlobe when I happen on that subject. My wife, Babe, rolls her eyes when I start complaining about other drivers. I may go overboard on the subject, but when I’m on the highway I respect others and I expect them to do the same. It’s the right thing to do.