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.