Another Novel of Mine

 

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Another Country Mailman Installment

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.

*  *  *

Low clouds sat on the horizon and I knew there would be a storm before I finished the mail route. When the breeze started, I gripped the Geske’s mail a little tighter before opening my window. Wind whistled around my face and the smell of rain triggered a memory that I hoped would be one in a lifetime. This was the kind of day that made it all come back.

My wife and I hadn’t been married but two weeks when we started moving things from her apartment to my house. The first load in the back of my pickup held a mattress, an L-shaped sofa, and boxes. Two sofa cushions were between us in the front seat, blocking our view of each other, but the drive only took twenty minutes. Halfway there, I noticed the wind begin to get stronger as the weather front got closer. We would make it to my house in plenty of time before rain began. I sensed the mattress moving in the back so pulled to the side of the road and had my wife drive while I rode in the back to keep it steady. She must not have been as sure as I was about the rain because she kept driving faster and faster. Wind fluffed up under that sofa and just as I was yelling at her to slow down, I felt myself airborne. The next instant I hit pavement, slid on my back for what seemed like a year, did one final tumble and landed on the short part of the sofa that had once been in the back of the pickup. Later, a friend said he happened to pass by and wondered why I was sitting on a sofa on the side of the road. I guess that’s how I looked, as that’s exactly what my wife said to herself when she looked in the rearview mirror. I can’t say as I paid too much attention to what was going on at that time, but I did see her and the sofa cushions backing up. When she finally reached where I sat, I got in the front seat, shoved those monstrous cushions over and said, “Take me home.”

I could have said quite a bit more, but I had been divorced once and it seemed prudent at the time to bite my tongue and bear the pain in silence. I just needed to get home, take a shower to wash off the gravel and asphalt, and lay down a bit. I should have started this account by remembering that Jim George was redoing the bathroom in our house. We only had one. When we drove in the driveway, I didn’t remember that bit of information but when I stepped in the doorway of the bathroom, it was clear. The toilet sat in the bathtub. Lucky for me, Jim hadn’t turned off the main water supply so all I had to do was lift that toilet out, set it on the half-finished floor, and turn on the shower. It didn’t take long for me to shuck out of my shorts and shirt, all the while looking forward to that water soothing the scratches on my back. I just knew if I could get that gravel off, I’d feel a lot better.

When I stepped under that spray, I let out a yell of pain that some say they heard a block away. I did notice that my bride’s face was white. Her eyes were mighty big as well, bless her heart. I’m not known for holding much in. I always figured it is healthier to let it all out rather than hold anything inside, but that yell went deeper than any I could remember. After grabbing a sheet, I wrapped it around me and went to lie down on the bed, trying to decide just how badly injured I was. From my wife’s expression, I figured it was worse than I originally thought.

Then the pain hit hard and not just on my back. My ankles, calves, buttocks and arms were road-burned and if my back looked as bad as those did, I needed to be somewhere else besides this bed. Standing took monumental effort and walking was beginning to be doubtful. As I got to the front door, I sighed with relief that I wouldn’t have to ride with overstuffed sofa cushions. Jim George happened to drive up at that moment and I limped to his old black truck and opened the passenger door before he opened his.

“Take me to the hospital.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t stutter. He didn’t hurry, either, for it took him as long to move that rickety gearshift and back out of the driveway as it takes me to take out the trash. Nor did Jim believe in main roads; could be because of the missing inspection sticker on the windshield and the whiskey flask in his pocket. We bumped along rutted, gravel alleys until he drove in front of the emergency room of the small hospital, manned mostly by nuns. By this time, I was hurting badly and knew if I didn’t get inside quick, I might not make it. I did manage to clutch the sheet with both hands, but sure didn’t want it touching me anywhere.

The first nun screamed and ran as I barreled into the emergency room buck-naked with the sheet flying out behind me like Superman’s cape. I did have an over abundance of black hair and weighed twice as much as Jim George, so I certainly understand that my arrival might have disturbed her, but I needed the Doc. Luckily Abby Linn was on duty as well and since she knew me and wasn’t a nun, she took charge and had me lying face down on a gurney before I could disturb anyone else.

As I said before, I didn’t believe in holding back so when that cold saline hit my back, I let out a yell that rocked the hospital. Doc didn’t say anything, though; he just kept on cleaning that gravel off my skin. I didn’t faint but I came close because the ordeal took forty minutes. My watch had survived the pavement assault and I listened to it tick as I lay there. Abby Linn finally gave me a shot and I guess it must have quieted me, but it only took the edge off. I felt every swipe of cotton pad that went over my flesh. Finally, they smeared yellow ointment all over my back and wheeled me up to the second floor to a room in the back of the hospital. Doc had to help because none of the nuns would come close.

After rigging a frame to drape a sheet over my naked body so it wouldn’t touch me anywhere, Abby left me alone to let the trauma subside. Two days later, I went home and spent another few days in bed before putting on any clothes. Jim George came through and had the toilet installed and the floor finished before my bride and I got home, for she stayed with me the entire two days in the hospital and slept in a spare bed that Abby found for her.

Shortly afterwards my wife went to the store and saw one of my domino hall buddies. She was new to town and didn’t understand whose health he was inquiring about when he asked about “Buck.” He had to explain. “Buck – as in buck naked.” They both must have found it amusing because that’s when she started calling me, Buck.

My cell rang, breaking my thoughts, and I stayed in the Geske’s drive to answer the postmaster. “I put eight packages on the Miller’s porch yesterday. I’ve got two more to take today.” I felt my shoulders slump. “Okay, I’ll pick them all up when I drop these off.”

I shook my head and sighed. There’s nothing like carrying fifty-pound boxes back and forth to a customer who can’t make up his or her mind. Suddenly a young coyote dashed across the road in front of me holding something in its mouth. I couldn’t discern what he had until a possum chased right behind. After a loud honk on my horn, the coyote appeared startled and dropped his prize, but didn’t hesitate to dash through the bushes on the side of the road and disappear. The possum stopped immediately, nudged the small dark bundle and when it began toddling across the dirt, the mama snatched it up and placed it on her back. They locked tails and off they went in the opposite direction of the half-grown coyote. Odd. I’d never seen a possum in the fields during the day and I sure hadn’t seen one chase a coyote, but motherhood takes all kinds of forms.

Suddenly, carrying the Miller boxes didn’t seem like all that much trouble. After all, mail is mail and that is my job – delivering everything addressed to a customer, no matter the weight or size. It’s all about service.

 

Working with Glass

Some of you have asked for more pictures of my stained glass projects so I'll go into a little more detail.

After accidentally breaking the kitchen cabinet glass and learning to make stain glass panels, I explored the movement of glass and even though the substance itself is not yielding, there is a way to make it move – hinges.  I soldered hinges to two separate pieces of stained glass, attached a weight (more stained glass) with fishing line, and added 4 hooks to the top of the wings in order to attach them to a small board. I made 4 flying pieces, but this is the only one that survived. (Warning: the fishing line must be of substantial strength to hold the heavy glass otherwise you have a big mess on the floor, and you’d think I’d learn after one episode, but no. It took 3 before I believed.) Now, I feel confident in pulling the weight and watching the wings take flight.

In doing all that stained glass work, I had small pieces of glass that I was unable to use with came (the lead between the glass). So….I started making glass mosaics in order not to waste those little tidbits.

First: I made a backsplash for the stove, using mirrors as well as glass. The base is plywood, the glue is Elmer’s and the grout is white. I did have to plan where the studs were, drill holes in the plywood first and glue steel washers over the holes so I could use screws later for securing the backsplash.

 

Then I tackled the back door, since I was redoing the laundry room. I used a lot of those little glass tidbits on it. Again, the base is plywood, the glue is Elmer’s and the grout is white. I framed the plywood before starting the mosaic and planned for the studs as well, using the washers.

 

Next, I decided to explore glass on glass. The base is a thick piece of glass used for shelving, the glue is Elmer’s, and the grout is sand-colored. I framed the pieces before I grouted them. So far, I’ve done 2 of these. They are 24-inch squares.

 

The next piece is a bit odd as I happened to be taking a welding class and needed a project. Since there is a goldmine of old farming equipment not too far from my backdoor, I decided to use what I could find. I also used a lot of band-aids on this project as well, since making glass round takes more effort than straight edges. ***If you can’t tell – it’s a lamp. :)

 

My next challenge is making a stained glass piece to fit this glass ball a dear friend brought back from Hawaii. Stay tuned for the finished piece, but it will be awhile as I am getting a workshop built onto my garage and it doesn’t look as if it will be finished anytime soon.

 

Stained Glass Accidentally

I became interested in stained glass accidently - I accidently broke a glass in my kitchen cabinet. And then, I thought, I can make stained glass panels! Right? First, a person has to know how. That led me to a two-weekend class learning about "came" (that’s the lead between the glass which happens to have channels for the glass to fit in, which is real handy and no, it is not a misspelling – CAME is correct). The challenge is making all the pieces of glass the right size. I wondered why the teacher had a large container of band-aids readily available – and discovered the answer quickly. In trying to make the pieces of glass the right size, I ended up with nearly all my fingertips covered in band-aids. Glass does not yield. But I finished the four panels and was proud.

Another Installment of the 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.

*  *  *

I glanced at the clock on the dash. Perfect. Leaving the Post Office by 9:15 means I'll have a good day. No phone books to deliver - not many parcels and even fewer circulars - just the regular mail. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then I felt the tire flopping and couldn't keep from swearing. Drat these caliche roads! They are covered in nails, wire and years of objects just itching to snag a tire.

After surveying the damage, I took a screw from the dusty compartment under the dash. The large nail impaled in the tire wasn't hard to dislodge nor was inserting the large screw. It took just a few minutes to twist it in the rubber and I was satisfied when I didn't hear air leaking any longer. The rest was rote action: plug the air compressor into the auxiliary receptacle and wait ten minutes for air to fill the tire, something I had done often in the last twenty years of carrying mail.

But today is different. A ten-minute walk is a good beginning to the weight-losing regime I promised myself I'd start. And the main road is the perfect goal. After reaching pavement I waited a minute, knowing the man approaching in the red pick-up would need an explanation as to why I was afoot. Glen Allison usually pulls me out of the mud when I get stuck. His cell number is first on my emergency list.

"Need help?"

I shook my head. "Not today, just a flat. I thought I'd take a walk while it aired up." I patted my belly and he nodded as if he understood even though he has never seen the dark side of large.

Glen placed his forearm on the open window as if he was going to stay awhile. "I talked to Jake this morning. Seems as if a prisoner escaped last night from the county jail. He is plenty mad that he had to miss his breakfast."

I nodded and stepped back, knowing that if I didn't, my tire would explode before Glen finished talking. I liked the man and he has saved my hide many times but his tongue is busier than any myna bird ever thought about being. Thankfully, Glen waved and pulled away, headed toward the cotton gin.

I had to smile at our county sheriff's displeasure in missing his breakfast at the cafe. Young Brenda Yager just started working and met everyone at the door wearing a cute little apron that made a man who hated eggs want to eat breakfast. She had plenty of everything a woman needs and didn't mind showing it. Time sure did fly. I remembered her running down to the mailbox every week in late July, expecting a package for her birthday. Her daddy never forgot her birthday. He didn't remember her any other time of the year, though - at least, not by mail.

A week ago, I hadn’t thought twice about putting the cafe mail in the old beat-up mailbox Edna used. Somehow after Brenda started working, it just didn't seem right. So, I hand-delivered the letters and newspapers into the cafe right into Edna's hands. Never mind the raised eyebrow or the snide remark. She'd be right proud of the new mailbox sitting in the back of my SUV. But I'd install it later on in the week when things weren't so rushed, or maybe next week.

Six hours later, all but two parcels and three letters were left in the tray on the front seat beside me. All was going well. The tire had held and I'd get it fixed when I finished. I rapped on the frame of the slightly faded screen door, opened it and yelled, "It's just me, Annie."

After putting the two boxes on the yellow wooden table, I sat down in my usual spot and waited for the seventy-year old spry woman with cropped gray hair to come bustling from the back porch. She had waved at my entrance and knew I was there. I recognized the usual pink shorts and top.

"Hi, Buck!"

Annie Oakley Grayson always acted glad to see me. I'd been drinking afternoon coffee with her every day for five years. "How's that new grandbaby?" I asked, taking the hot cup from her hand.

"He's the cutest little thing I've ever seen," she replied, her eyes twinkling. "He could be the sweetest one."

I smiled. Annie said that about every grandchild that came along. So far, there were four. Ten minutes later after finishing the coffee and replacing light bulbs in her back closet and on the front porch, I headed toward the last houses on my route. A mile down the road, I saw a man dressed in a work shirt and jeans walking across the south end of Ben Love's section. Nobody walked in the middle of a plowed field, the dirt was loose and the rows too narrow for comfort.

I picked up my cell and pressed the second button on my emergency list. "Jake, you might find your escaped prisoner on the south end of Ben Love's place, about a mile from Annie's house."

I held the receiver away from my ear as Jake's voice rose to a level that wasn't comfortable. "I'm just guessing, Jake. I don't know for sure. But you need to hurry. I figure he's hungry and thirsty and it will take him fifteen to twenty minutes to get to Annie's house."

I listened again. "Yeah, yeah, I'll keep my eye on him, but call Annie and tell her to get her gun handy just in case. I don't have her number."

Again, I held the receiver away from my ear. "I don't think I need to go back to her house. She has her mail and I saw her shoot a rabbit at twenty yards with that shotgun of hers. A man is a lot bigger."

Twelve minutes later, two county sheriff cars converged on the poor guy who had to be tired from trudging through the freshly plowed field. When I saw I wasn't needed any longer, I delivered the last of the letters and drove to the Post Office. A few chores later and I was ready to wind up the workday.

"See you tomorrow," I said to the postmaster as I walked to the back door after signing the time sheet.

"Anything out of the ordinary happen today?" he asked in a tone that told me he didn't want to hear about any problems.

I paused before answering, reviewing all that occurred. "Naw, just a regular day."

My Pottery

Slaton Bakery

Picture yourself curled up with the newest KMD release, The Stars At Night, a hot mocha and an apple fritter from the Slaton Bakery on Saturday morning while the rain is dripping off the roof. Or...a glass of iced tea and a Slaton Bakery brownie (or several) while you are reading Texas Tradeoff on the sunporch Saturday afternoon. I can think of perfect scenarios to eat cream cheese turnovers and one of them is while I'm walking out the Bakery door and getting into my car. They are so good! How about a coconut cake for brunch! Or thumbprint cookies while you are driving down the road! Or warm tortillas covered with melted butter, cinnamon and sugar! Wait...how about a care package of Slaton Bakery goodies mailed to your new college freshman who, right about now ,is getting homesick for a touch of Slaton!

Here's an interesting fact: German chocolate cake has nothing to do with Germany. Samuel German invented the baking chocolate which is the ingredient.

Country Mailman: Chapter 1

Another hot day. I surveyed the cotton fields and noted Jim Drury plowing his home place. It looked weedy. He wasn’t much of a farmer but his daddy had left him two sections which had four oil wells, so he didn’t have to please anyone but himself. If he didn’t mind those patches of Johnson grass and Devil’s claw in the middle of his field, I sure didn’t either. Jim didn’t have much use for me but I didn’t take it personal. It all went back to the accident that killed his daddy. I heard about it on the news just like everybody else, only the news didn’t tell it all. I knew Ace Drury and my substitute carrier had been slipping around for several years, but it wasn’t any of my business and when they both were decapitated after Ace ran up on the back of an eighteen wheeler trailer in the middle of the night down near Sweetwater, all I could do was express my sympathy to Ace’s widow. A mailman has responsibilities and one of them is to keep his mouth shut about all the happenings inside the Post Office.

After putting Ms. Edna Smith’s two checks from the oil company in her mailbox, I drove ten feet and stopped at Mr. Elliott Smith’s mailbox. He rarely got mail, therefore he rarely retrieved it from the mailbox. While surveying the pile, I figured he had about two more weeks of free space inside that metal container. After twenty years of delivering mail, I’d known him to go three months without removing anything from the dusty green box and if he didn’t hurry up, he’d beat his record in the next week.

       Elliott and Edna were brother and sister, neither one had married and something long ago must have triggered the quarrel between them. I only got into it once with them, but that was enough to remember never to mistakenly put a letter addressed to Elliott Smith in Edna Smith’s mailbox. She lit into me like I’d done some dastardly deed, called the postmaster, and complained for a week. But, since Luke Henry was in charge at the time, he just said, “yes ma’am” and went on selling stamps. I didn’t think anything else about it until the new postmaster asked me about a note Luke had written beside Edna Smith’s name on the route sheet. “Beware of the dog – she bites.”  Since Edna Smith never had a dog, I figured it was Luke’s way of relieving his stress. There were quite a few notes in the margins of that notebook, all understandable to Luke and me, but not to anyone else.  A smart postmaster might take heed of them, but usually new people coming in have their own agenda. I’ve gone through eight bosses and a slew of trainees and so far, Luke Henry is the only one who left me alone to do my job.

I glanced at the pile in the back. There were nine parcels - all different sizes, all from different locations, but all headed to Darla Gibbons. She’d be a happy lady tonight. When I saw her at Edna’s café, she was bubbling over like a broken sprinkler head with the news. Winning a ribbon lottery might be exciting to some, but what in the heck would she do with nine boxes of ribbon? And that was just this month. Nine boxes of ribbons every month for the next year could drive a person crazy. Either that, or open a bow shop. Perfect. Gibbons Ribbons.

It wasn’t such an odd idea. Marcy Simmons opened a décor shop with all the paraphernalia she’d accumulated over the years. Not once in the twenty years of delivering mail had I returned a parcel, not even the ones that looked damaged. And now I took at least ten a week to the new business. If she sold half as much as she bought, she was making money but Starz, Texas wasn’t a bustling metropolis. It supported a bakery, a gas station, small grocery store, an accountant’s office, a mortuary, a bank, and Edna’s café. And Edna’s did a booming business since Brenda Yager started waitressing, but I didn’t see many people walking into Marcy’s new store. 

As I shoved Kai Driver’s mail into his mailbox, I knocked a growing wasp nest off the red metal flag with my long mail gripper. It was that time of year. Early summer. When I heard his kids laughing, I smiled. Some people were more innovative than others. Hot weather meant swimming, or at least playing in water. Kai had put railroad cross ties under the frame of his old pickup for bracing, spread a tarp in the bed, and filled it with water for his kids to have a swimming hole, of sorts. Country kids don’t need a big swimming pool to have a good time. And they don’t need sunscreen to keep from getting burned. Four large umbrellas stood high in each corner of the pickup bed. It might look like a carnival set-up to some, but from the sound of those kids, that old pickup was serving a mighty good purpose.

When my cell phone rang, I listened to the postmaster’s question. “No, we’re holding Anna Martinez’s mail for a week. We’re holding Pete Martinez’s mail until he comes and gets it and we’re holding Luis Martinez’s mail until his grandson, Marty gets back from vacationing in the Bahamas. I have the date written on the list by my case.” I nodded. “Yes, it’s summer. Lot’s of people are on vacation.” I shook my head at the next question. “No. Don’t turn in the forwarding address request for Lisa Hammonds until Friday. She’s expecting her last paycheck from the school this week and she needs it to pay her babysitter. But you can turn in the one from Dicy Knowles. She’s already gone and wasn’t expecting anything important. Her divorce is final and she’s done with this part of the country. Said it’s dry, depressing, and dangerous – I think she meant the rattlesnake I found coiled on her front porch.” I shrugged, remembering the letters from the state prison. “Maybe she meant her brother-in-law.” I nodded again and answered the remaining questions before turning out into the dirt road. Another hour and I’d have coffee with Annie Oakley. Maybe this afternoon she’d have coconut pie to go with it. Cheese crackers and a diet soda for lunch didn’t hold me long.

My Post Connection

Since I was at Ruby Lane Books last Saturday for a booksigning (a big thank you to Rosa Latimer), I've been pondering my Post connections - there are several.

• My nephew married a lovely young lady from Post. (if that isn't a song, it ought to be)

• The Post area is the setting for my book, Lost, But Not Forgotten.

• I'd rather drive to Holly's for a hamburger rather than drive to Lubbock for dinner.

And the oldest connection is through my husband. His grandfather, Job Davies was one of the founding fathers of Garza County, his name engraved in the metal plaque on the square. Coming from Bresford, England to hunt buffalo, Job named a town in Texas the same - located between Lubbock and Post. In 1905, he became the first postmaster of Bresford, Texas. Five years later, because the railroad came through the area, the town was renamed Southland and moved to its present location.

That isn't exactly a Post connection, however I can't help but think that Job Davies was in Post at some time in his life. If nothing else, to bring his bride, who was also from England, to the store for a bit of civilized conversation since they lived in a half dugout and to spend the night at the historic Garza Hotel Bed and Breakfast. According to one of the teachers at the school Job helped establish, whenever he finished a story, he always ended it with...to be continued.

And that is how I will end this one because there is so much more to his story than these two paragraphs ---hey, perhaps another book?            

                                                                       ...to be continued.

 

 

First installment of Country Mailman

Tune in every week to read about the adventures of Buck Buchanan, fictional country mailman, delivering mail out of Starz, Texas. He believes it is unhealthy to hold in emotion, pain, or gas of any sort as nature has made accommodations in the human body for all of those. He wears shorts in the spring and summer because West Texas is hot and leg warmers over his pants in the winter because his circulation is not what it used to be. He takes his job seriously and knows that customers count on him to deliver every piece of mail entitled to them, even the so-called junk mail; for someone has paid for those circulars and cards to be delivered and he serves those vendors as well. He is all about customer service. With a willing ear and a helping hand, Buck Buchanan goes the extra mile.

 

INTRODUCTION TO BUCK

 My name is Buck. It isn’t my given name but people around here have been calling me that for years. I’m the rural mailman, driving 115 miles a day, 5 days a week to deliver mail in farm and ranch country around Starz, Texas. West Texas is a good place to live, sometimes the day gets so hot a coyote has to carry its own water, but a person can see for miles. I carry two spare tires and an air compressor, several bottles of water, wire cutters, leather gloves, a hoe, a shovel, and a full roll of toilet tissue – never know when an emergency might hit. I leave my gun at home because the United States Postal Service frowns on firearms in and around the workplace and I keep a bottle of aspirin and antacid in the glove box.

Delivering mail isn’t a bad job. My back hurts occasionally from riding on the rough roads and changing tires, but I see all kinds of things that other folks miss. I stop to let a family of quail cross the road. I avoid running over the occasional turtle that can’t decide which ditch to crawl into and I read Mr. Anderson’s mail to him because he is blind. I have coffee every afternoon with Annie Oakley Grayson and eat whatever she envisioned for the day. Most times her cooking is good, but when her concoctions aren’t, I push the plate away and tell her its bad. She doesn’t get her feelings hurt, just gives the food to the dog. That’s my kind of woman. Annie is at least seventy years old and doesn’t like to wear many clothes. Rarely do I see her in anything but shorts and a tank top, even in the winter. She says she’s always hot.

Edna at the café is another regular on the route. I’ve been carrying a new mailbox in the back of my SUV for six months, but can’t find time to replace hers. That beat-up old piece of tin she has still holds the mail, but has been run into by so many tractors, the dents are bigger than the mail opening. Glen Allison is another customer I see regularly, only because he’s the on-call guy when I get stuck. If he isn’t available, he leaves the key in his tractor so I can use it to pull myself out. There are other farmers along the route who do the same, always appreciated. And there are customers who occasionally leave me touches of home in the mailbox. Lela Owens makes the best peanut brittle in the county. I know because she showed me her blue ribbon from the County Fair. She doesn’t make it often, but when she does, there’s a little sack of it waiting for me, along with her outgoing mail. Cassie Hernandez makes brownies, Jimalene Hawkins leaves cookies, and Ada Martin leaves me a diet soda or a bottle of water sporadically during the summers.

Jake Smith is the county sheriff, who also doubles as the local plumber when Flint Howard goes on a drinking binge and can’t be found. I deliver Jake’s mail, both personal and county, to the office. He gets The Wall Street Journal, Money, Forbes, Kiplinger’s, Fortune, Bloomberg Markets, Economist, and two men’s magazines whose covers have brown sleeves so as not to offend the mail carrier. He’s tried to get me to join the local investment club for the past twenty years. I’m still thinking on it. He said it’s never too late to invest in the stock market so I’m not in any hurry. The one reason I hesitate to show up at the meetings is Shirley Mont. She is absolutely the loudest woman I have ever met. Being in the same room with her hurts my eardrums. She gets two gun magazines and three Christian magazines every month, along with parcels from a winery in New Mexico. I want to suggest she wear earplugs when she visits the practice range because I’m sure she has hearing loss from the gun blasts. I can’t think of any other reason for a woman to be so loud.

The Starz Post Office is a two-man shop; me and the postmaster. The present one lives forty-five miles away, isn’t interested in anything but coming to work and going home. Occasionally he makes me view a video on safety, rides with me on the route to make sure I follow the rules, and inspects my vehicle. He made it clear when he started that he didn’t want to hear about any problems so I try my best not to create any.

There have been all sorts of postmasters in Starz. One looked in my car every evening when I returned from the route to make sure I didn’t leave any mail in the car. One made me wash my windows every morning before I set out on the route, never mind that I drive on dirt roads all day long. One even tried to make me take an hour for lunch, two fifteen-minute breaks, and finish at five every day. That’s when I called my union rep and got that straightened out. Even though I don’t belong to the union, I knew that wasn’t right. A mailman gets stuck, has flats, and visits with too many folks to be under such a rigid timetable.

Rules send me straight to that bottle of antacid pills in the glove box. I don’t mind the ones that make sense, like lock the car when leaving it or turn in the time sheet to get paid. But what kind of rule should keep me from delivering an unwrapped football? One of the postmaster trainees wanted to return it because it wasn’t in a container. I just shook my head, pointed to the postage attached, the address clearly written, and popped it in the McAllen’s mailbox. How hard is that?

I’ve delivered unwrapped coconuts from Hawaii, a pair of unwrapped sneakers, an unwrapped feather duster, and an aluminum water tub that was clearly too large to go in a box. All had the correct postage. All had a distinct delivery address. I did tie the shoelaces together in a knot so I could keep the shoes together and I put the water tub on Jim Jeffer’s porch. All were deliverable, just a bit unusual. I even delivered the wheel of cheese that smelled like rancid fish. Luckily I had a plastic sack in the Post Office to put it in since cheese oil had leaked through the cardboard and left the package moldy and disgusting. But the postage was still affixed as well as the address label. I saw no reason not to deliver it – all part of my job with the US Post Office – customer service.



A Perfect Model and a Review

a perfect model:

While editing A Hint of Satin, only one model would work for the cover: Summer. And when asked, she immediately said Yes! We tried several background settings, but as it turns out, none of them mattered as I inserted my own (the same satin material as the foreground). The progression is as you see it: remove background, insert foreground, insert background, and add the title.

Summer is my daughter-in-law and a pediatrician – yes, this lovely young lady is not only beautiful, she is also dedicated. We are so lucky to have her in the family and feel as if she is one of us (just hoping she feels the same).

a review:

Louise Wise, British author who also writes book reviews, recently offered her opinion of Hint of Satin. The review is much longer than the one here and I only included the good parts. I am ignoring all the negative comments as I am sure she didn’t have her daily dose of chocolate and vodka, and was feeling a bit cranky. If you want to read the review in its entirety, you can bribe me to tell you where on the internet it is located.

The title Hint of Satin has an erotic feel to it, and I'm wondering what I'm about to read. The blurb, however, indicated mystery crossed with a bit of horror.

But over all, Hint of Satin is a sweet romance, nothing erotic (not even a sex scene!), between two people thrown together in exceptional circumstances.

The book was visual and it did have two very likeable characters who you rooted for throughout the book. There were some terrific lines and scenes of intense sexual tension, and even comedy with Blake and Macho as they argued and teased one another.

Hint of Satin suggested at more to come, maybe there will be a Hint of Satin 2, there was certainly enough intrigue and plot for more with Lee's background history.

Kathy May Davies is an author who can only grow and get better. Hint of Satin has lifelike characters embroiled in intrigue and sweet romantic moments.
….Louise Wise, author: Eden, A Proper Charlie, Hunted