Country Mailman

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.

*  *  *

The weatherman forecast wind for the day and hot weather for the rest of the week– a bit odd for September in West Texas. The nights should have cooled down, but even the summer had been unseasonably wet. I rode with the window down, the wind cooling my face a bit and glad there wasn’t dirt along with it.

There are a slew of parcels still in the back to be delivered and many of them are for Missy Reins on County Road 3140. She won’t be home, but doesn’t mind my putting them in the garage on the table. Once I made a mistake and left a parcel on the concrete floor of the garage without realizing water from the rain seeped in one door on one side, and ran through to the other side. When I left the box of books, the floor was dry. When she got home after a rain shower, the floor was wet and so were her books. But she was nice and just asked me to put the parcels on a table in the future.

As I headed up the driveway, I noticed the man on the roof installing decking for her new workroom. Missy has a lot of hobbies and converted all her bedrooms into work areas after her kids left home. The problem arose when her kids came home to visit and had to sleep on sofas and blow-up mattresses. At least, that’s what her husband thought as he waded through various arms and legs when he went from his bedroom to the kitchen in the morning for coffee.

All my information came from Missy’s sister, Atterbee, the day I delivered the box of wine. I hated to leave it on Atterbee’s porch in the heat so I took it to the CPA office where she works. It must have been a slow day and since it was my last delivery and a slow day for me as well, I just sat and listened to her family news. She sounded a bit envious that Missy was getting a woman-cave because her husband was sick of his four-bedroom house not having any beds.

The roofer worked alone and I watched him haul up a full sheet of decking, one side coated with aluminum for insulation. The sun caught the metal just right that it blinded me momentarily and I blinked quickly. Just as suddenly, the metal was gone along with the man. I blinked again, thinking I was still blinded, but the roof was in full view as well as the ladder. Only the man and his four-foot by eight-foot sheet of decking had disappeared.

I heard a loud noise, hurriedly put my car in park and rushed to the back of the house. The decking lay in a child’s circular swimming pool and violent splashing appeared from the sides. When I lifted one edge of the wooden sheet, thinking the worst, a head and arms flailed wildly. With the other hand, I reached down to grab a shirt and raised it firmly, hearing a loud gasping breath.

“Just stand up,” I yelled, trying to make the man understand through his panic, because clearly he was beside himself.

Suddenly, he shot up out of the three feet of water, stood and looked around in confusion. “I thought I was drowning!”

I nodded and realized the wind must have caught the decking, and blown them both off the roof. Landing in the pool probably saved him from serious injury even though he thought himself in mortal danger. He wasn’t injured from the fall, but I stayed a few minutes until he decided he’d leave for the day. Probably a good idea.

Two miles down the road as I gathered the Johnson’s mail to put in their box, I saw the For Sale sign in the yard. Their house sits back from the road a bit and always looks nice. Fred keeps the lawn mowed, the drive graveled, and the mailbox in good shape. The sign didn’t make sense to me since the Johnson’s have lived there way before I began delivering mail. They aren’t old enough to look for a retirement home and both appear healthy. I rarely deliver medical bills and that is a sure sign for middle-aged folks to move into town.

They still have their kids at home, although they aren’t kids any longer. Alma and Fred are foster parents to two special needs children, have been since they were babies. They've grown up now, but the boy and girl will never be able to live on their own. I watched them grow and every year my admiration for the Johnsons grew as well. They are a close family. I see it in the kid’s faces and in Alma and Fred’s pride.

When I saw Fred on the side of the house watering, I kept the envelopes and magazine and drove up the gravel. He waved and met me before I got out.

“I saw you outside and thought I would keep you from having to walk,” I said.

“I wondered. I’m not expecting a package. Guess you saw the For Sale sign.” Fred frowned and leaned against the car.

When I nodded, he continued as if he didn’t mind talking about it.

“The kids are getting too heavy for Alma and me to lift and when we tried to hire a home-health company, they told us we were too far from town. We’re moving to Lubbock.” He frowned again. “Hate to leave, but it’s best for the kids.”

I nodded and after another brief conversation, drove away with a heavy heart. They were doing what parents do – taking care of their children and although they are only classified as foster parents, they have to be at the top of the list of nurturers. I’d miss the Johnsons. They are good people.

Pottery Show

Country Mailman

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.

*  *  *

 

The Post Office was quiet as I sorted my mail. Then I heard a big sigh and knew the postmaster had run into problems. He dropped three envelopes on the front of my case and stood waiting.

“Who are these people?”

After looking at the first envelope, I had to smile at the painfully scrawled writing. It was addressed to: Mamaw, Starz, Texas. The return address said: John, Glen Rose. “This is Liz Dickson who lives on County Road 400 and it’s from her youngest grandson who ought to be in first grade by now.” I noted his raised eyebrow and explained. “Liz’s son is a basketball coach at the Glen Rose high school. They moved there two years ago.”

I didn’t explain that he and his wife spent five years trying to adopt a child and ended up with little John, a Russian baby, just before Russia closed all foreign adoptions. Nor did I explain that the entire community gave them a baby shower. Some things outsiders just don’t understand.

The next envelope was just as easy. The full name and address were written, but the writing was so shaky, I understood his confusion. “This goes to James Nellon on Farm Road 46. It’s from his father who has palsy and lives in a nursing home in Abilene.” I pointed to the return address where the town’s name was distinguishable. I didn’t bother to explain that the senior Mr. Nellon was a retired Highway patrolman who singlehandedly pulled five people out of burning cars in one of the worst pile-ups in the area during a rare winter blizzard. I know that because one of the people he saved was me. I was eighteen at the time, trapped, and unconscious with a head injury. My only memory of it was Mr. Nellon’s hand on my shoulder telling me everything would be fine. And he was right.

The third envelope took me a full minute before a light clicked in my head. “This one says Miss Elise Neugebauer on County Road 1790, but she got married three years ago and became a Krauser. We stopped forwarding her mail long ago.” I studied the return address and frowned. “This might be important. I’ll deliver it to her mom. She’ll either send it or take it to her the next time she visits.” I didn’t add that her mother visited Elise once a month to help with the new twins, staying four days each time so her daughter could take a break from motherhood. At first, Elise’s father was not happy to be left alone to fend for himself, but the last time I saw him at Edna’s café, he was beginning to enjoy the freedom. Seems as if he found a poker game. It isn’t the same one I visit, but I know several of the participants. His game has much higher stakes than mine, but Jargen Neugebauer farms five sections of land and has a larger cashflow than I do. He also has a private airplane and a mighty big boat.

The postmaster turned and disappeared toward the front counter and I took that to mean my suggestion was okay with him. Ten minutes later, I loaded and sat ready to tackle another day of delivering mail.

The first hour of the route was smooth sailing but as soon as I rounded Devil’s Curve, I saw the figure and a car on the side of the road. The girl was trying to lift a tire out of the open trunk. I pressed the accelerator, sped up and gave the horn a honk so she’d stop.

“Quit that right now, young lady,” I yelled from the open window as I pulled up behind her and parked.

She half-smiled as she turned and saw me. “Hi, Buck. Looks like I need some help.”

I nodded and pointed to the small shade that a mesquite offered on the side of the road. Gena Dinsmoor was six months pregnant. “You go stand over there while I change this tire. This heat isn’t doing you any good. And don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady. I’m out in it all day so I ought to know.”

A grin appeared as she ambled toward the ditch and stood under the meager shade. I delivered letters to her from a soldier stationed overseas for two years before they stopped. Then I held her mail for two weeks while she went on vacation. Three months later, the gal starts showing but the letters don’t continue. For three months, I saw her disappointment when I handed her the mail. Then last week, an envelope from the same soldier shows up, but the return address is from a different location. Ever since, there’s been a smile on her face. I can only surmise that the guy either smartened up and realized what he might lose or he was just in limbo and didn’t know what was happening back here in the states. Either way, Gena has a shine in her eyes that every mother-to-be ought to have.

“There you go,” I said as I brushed my hands on my shorts. “You get that tire to Jim McCravy to get patched right away. Don’t want you driving around here without a spare.”

When she hugged me, I knew she was thanking me for more than changing her tire. I just didn’t know what. I hugged her back because she seemed to need it. “You okay, girl?”

“Yes. Edna at the café told me you shamed Ernie and Monty for spreading rumors about me. Thanks.”

I nodded and held the door while she got in the driver’s seat. Books and a backpack sat beside her. “How much longer do you have in college?”

She grinned. “One more online class to finish and I’m through. I could have graduated last month, but the counselor found another class I have to take. I’ll walk across the stage in December.”

“Good for you. Any plans?”

She half-smiled. “Other than have a baby?”

I nodded, not answering because she didn’t need a smart response from me. Nor did she need advice. I suspect her mother and father took care of that. Her father farmed two sections and preached occasionally at the country church when the regular preacher was gone. Her mother taught first grade and gave piano lessons.

“I’ll let you know next month. My…boyfriend is coming home. He’s a Marine.”

“You can’t go wrong there. I’ll bet he’s a fine young man.” I shut the door and stood in the road while she drove away. Kids, you just gotta love ‘um. All of them need help along the way and they might not do exactly what a parent wants, but you can’t ever give up on family.

For the next few miles, I felt a goofy grin on my face as I reviewed my kids’ antics as they got older. Some memories made me chuckle, others made me proud and those that didn’t were easily dismissed. Traveling on the ranch road, I had plenty of time to reminisce as the closest mailbox sat five miles down the pavement.

Old elm trees line the road and although the leaves are still green, there is a feeling of autumn in the air. As I passed by a large section of bushes along the old pipe fence, my foot automatically hit the brake pedal. For an instant, I shook my head, sure that what I thought I saw couldn’t possibly be real. I had to back up since bushes hid the heifer and only when I faced her head on, did I believe the outrageous predicament to be true.

When she saw me staring, a plaintiff sound echoed from her throat and I totally understood. The lady was in a jam and I had no idea how to relieve her situation. She appeared calm and occasionally lowered her head to get a mouthful of the lush grass growing outside the pipe fence, but I couldn’t help wondering how long she had been in that position.

Country roads are rarely travelled and I knew the rancher might not come along for days. I dialed the second emergency number on my phone.

“Jake, you won’t believe what I’m seeing. One of Henry’s cows is straddling his pipe fence. Two feet are on one side and her back feet are barely touching ground on the other. She’s hung between udder and belly.”

I laughed at the sheriff’s disbelieving remark. “Okay, I’ll take a picture with my phone and send it to you. Tell Henry she’s about three miles from the turnoff and I want to know how he gets her out of this predicament.”

I snapped the image, glad the cow didn’t look to be in distress. I’d add it to all the other unusual images I collected along the mail route. Some things are hard to believe and this was in that category, but I’ve witnessed my share of odd sights on the Starz mail route. I’ve seen a bobcat sitting on top of a windmill platform, surveying the landscape as if it was his. I sat at the intersection of Farm Road 400 and Highway 84 as a young man wearing a backpack whizzed by me on rollerblades. He was eighteen miles from any town and judging from the dirt on his face and the heavy tan, had been on the road awhile. Animals and people often act odd, but there’s usually a reason. I don’t always have time to determine what that reason is as I have a job to do and customers who depend on me, but I do enjoy watching the show!   

Holiday Open House

Texas Tradeoff: A novel by Kathy May Davies

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Country Mailman

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.

*  *  *

Normally, I appreciate the 4-wheel drive SUV I have, but this morning I wished I had a pickup. Only in an emergency or with a valid reason, can I divert from my regular line of travel and I wasn’t certain the two boxes in the back fit in either category. I inhaled deeply and kept on my appointed rounds. If I had a pickup, I could put them in the back and not have to listen to the incessant noise. Two hours and six antacid tablets later, I pulled to the side of the road and called the postmaster.

“I’m diverting from the route and delivering to Max Lewis on County Road 3800.” I paused after hearing his question. I could lie and give him a valid reason or I could tell the truth. I opted for the truth. If the man couldn’t understand, then we had bigger problems than those two boxes in the back. “The noise is driving me crazy.” 

There was only a grunt on the end of the line so I took that to mean he understood. Twenty minutes later I sighed with relief as I pulled into Max’s drive and headed to the barn. Both cars were gone. Alice worked at the bank and Max occasionally did custom farming so I suspected he was off plowing someone’s field. I didn't see any evidence of kids and then I remembered the late summer football practice and suspected his two boys were at the field with all the other hopefuls. Now what?

Both dogs eyed me. Neither one moved from their spot in the shade, but I knew the minute I opened my door, they would start barking. Rip, the big one, isn’t the problem. He's the bluffer, and since he stands waist tall, plays his part well. His bark is more like a braying mule than a country dog, but his gray eyes give him away as a softie. Of all the dogs on my mail route, Rip is the one I’d like to take home with me. But not the little one – he would bite me – and without warning. He is the hit-and-run guy, sneaky, slinking underneath the car to nip at a leg. Since I didn’t wear socks today, my ankles are prime targets.

The doors of the barn stood open so I drove in and looked for a place to leave the boxes. Then I spotted the cat. She looked big, lean and hungry. I could almost see her licking her chops in anticipation as every ear within half a mile could hear my backseat roar. So far, my plan bordered on failure. I didn’t see any spot where Max had planned for the contents of the boxes so the logical place was inside the house. Alice might shoot me, but there wasn’t any other safe location. I didn’t know the value of the contents in those boxes but Max didn’t order them just to have them disappear in a cat’s gullet.

After parking at the back door, I saw where Hit-and-Run squatted and boldly opened the car door. Both dogs started barking and sure enough, the little terrier began slinking toward the house. A water faucet and hose were close, so I hopped out, grabbed the nozzle, turned on the water and aimed it as the dog shot out from under the car - headed straight for my feet. The water stopped him. We eyed each other after he escaped and retreated to his spot underneath a shade tree. Rip no longer barked and he, too, remained in the shade. I would be safe until Hit-and-Run got bold again.

A few minutes later, I surveyed my project. The sheet of plastic I had in the back of the SUV now lay on the tile floor of Alice’s mudroom. It was relatively clean and would catch any soiled matter that escaped from the contents of the containers. On top sat Max’s mail, 350 two-day-old pheasant chicks, chirping like there was no tomorrow. Through the holes I could see tiny beaks, eyes, and fluff and all parts appeared active. The noise filled the little room so I knew the baby fowl wouldn’t be overlooked when Alice or Max came home. Lucky for me, their back door wasn’t locked. In ten days, the little chicks would grow wings and start flying. For now, at least, they wouldn’t get too hot or be eaten by that monster in the barn. I didn’t think there was another cat in the house, but I closed the door to the kitchen anyway. I stayed another moment by the back door to admire my work, satisfied that I had done my job in delivering the babies safely – all part of customer service.

I smiled slightly when the dogs sat up as I left the house. Two tails wagged and neither barked. Hit-and-Run didn’t act interested in my ankles so I bypassed the hose, got in the car and left, feeling pleased that all was well and there was blessed silence.

Sometimes I have to be inventive to deliver mail because often times mail is more than just an envelope. Most people who live in the country understand when the mailman enters their house uninvited. I only do it when there is no other alternative and I only do it when I know I would be welcome if they were home. After driving the route all these years, I know the difference. Usually, it’s the people who move from the cities to the country who don’t want strangers of any kind on their property. Not always.

Joe Bean isn’t from the city and he doesn’t want me anywhere near his place. He doesn’t want anyone and has No Trespassing signs staked along the fence. But Joe is crazy – even in school, he was a bit off. I liked Joe and on his good days, he couldn’t be beat, but as the years passed, his mind went a different route than most folks and I don’t see any more good days. Medication might help, but Joe isn’t the kind to acknowledge, nor accept that the strange creatures he sees are only in his head. His mutterings don’t bother me as I often talk to myself, however, since he has one eye that wanders, most people steer clear of the man. Probably best. Jake, the County Sheriff, had a hard time making Joe remove the shotgun from the back window of his truck, but since he couldn’t provide a permit, Joe finally put it under his seat. Jake might think the weapon is in Joe’s house but I parked next to him at the grocery store while Babe ran inside to get some milk, and saw the butt of the shotgun clearly visible when Joe opened his door.

It’s a sad situation. Until Joe does something stupid, Jake is in a tough spot. He can’t follow the guy around 24 hours a day, but he has looked into the new Texas law that allows officials to remove firearms from individuals with mental problems. Jake said he expects to get the okay any day now, and hopes it is soon as Joe Bean’s wandering eye and guns make him real nervous.

Joe lines his windows in aluminum foil and covers his baseball cap with it. The inside of his pickup reflects the silver sheen and I suspect he is Reynolds’ best customer. His front door is one big aluminum foil-coated monstrosity that can clearly be seen from the road because the reflection will blind a person when the sun is just right.

I understand aluminum foil is a heat reflector and can be used for cleaning lots of things, like silverware and pots and pans, but I doubt Joe has that in mind when he buys it by the carton. Luckily, he has a large mailbox. I haven’t had to deliver any parcels to his house yet. I’ve a good idea, I never will. There’s a reason for little pink slips that say there’s a package waiting for you at the Post Office and I believe in No Trespassing signs, especially when they are wrapped in foil.

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