The Summer I Held the Chisel

Fifth Friday

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.

*  *  *

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.

Pencil Drawings

All it takes to create one of these is a #2 pencil, colored pencils (if you wish), a 15”x20” Crescent board, and a child (or a picture of a child), and an eraser/smudger. That’s all.

Once you have all of those together, sit down on the sofa, watch television and start drawing. HINT: Start from upper left to lower right if you are right handed so as not to smear the lead.

MORE HINTS: Don’t draw in the car as road surfaces often create lines where you don’t want them. Draw in a public place and you get a lot of comments – if you aren’t feeling good about your drawing, stay home. If you really aren’t feeling good about your drawing, only work on it when no one else is home as there will be comments that you might not want to hear. Don’t ask for criticism. You will get it without inquiring.

OKAY, so you’ve got a blank board and a picture. Roughly sketch the image starting with the nose. Then the eyes. Next the chin and move on over to the ears. You should have two of those. Even if one is hidden by hair, you should have an idea of where it is on the board. I find that hair is the most difficult to draw, that’s why I like hats. Even braids are more structured than unrestrained hair. Don’t worry if one eye is larger than the other – that’s normal. If one cheek is larger than the other, there is a problem. Ears usually mirror each other so if you can draw one, you’ll succeed with the other.

The key is not to get discouraged. I drew my first pencil portrait when I was nineteen and have been drawing ever since. That first one is not as refined as the ones I draw now, but since it was a self-portrait, my mother still has it hanging on the wall. It is in the back bedroom (right next to the closet door) so I wonder if she stores it in the closet and only takes it out when I come to visit. Doesn’t matter, it’s the thought that counts.

If you remember, I suggested you watch television while you draw. It provides a sense of worth, that you are doing something important instead of just sitting- eliminating that sense of guilt. Even those dirty dishes in the kitchen sink are not as important as creating a lovely image of a beautiful child. ABOVE ALL: draw on a board, not on paper. No one takes you seriously if you don’t look professional. Don’t put your pencils in a plastic zip-lock bag – find a nice box with lots of compartments that looks classy. You deserve the best.

ADVANTAGES OF DRAWING: Creates self worth. Uses up all those pencils in the kitchen drawer. Provides an excuse for not doing all those things you should be doing. And one day, you’ll look at your finished piece and think: “hey, that’s not bad.”

Book Cover Models

I am so fortunate to be surrounded by willing individuals who don’t mind pacifying me – this one being my son, Taylor. I needed broad shoulders and the outdoorsy look for BRUNO. I had the body available and I had the photo taken in Arizona near Sedona. I just didn’t have them together, but easily done as I sat down with my friend, Photoshop. After deleting the background around Taylor and adding more of the coat to look cozier, I placed him in front of the background – found I needed to flip the photo horizontally for the movement to work and magically – there it was! I added the font in InDesign and suddenly the Arizona story came alive and Bruno was visually brought to life. 

A Country Mailman Adventure

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 shoved the three postcards in Earlene Mont’s slot in the sorting case and knew Shirley Mont was on the outs with her own mother again. When the mother-in-law gets postcards from Europe and the mom doesn't, that means Shirley is mad. Nothing new. Shirley Mont stays mad. For a woman who travels a lot, she has a way of reminding people of her presence. The woman laughs loud, speaks loud and never hesitates to let her feelings known. She has three grown sons who do the same. I never knew her husband, but they say he was twice her size and twice as loud. When he died, the household must have seemed like a tomb.

When they first moved to the route, I delivered eight different gun magazines every month. Since the boys have moved out, I only deliver two. Lately, she’s been receiving Christian magazines and a newspaper from South Africa and as I shoved one of them in her slot in my case, I sat down on the stool and inserted a long pink-colored card as a reminder to hold her mail. I sure don't want to upset Shirley Mont.

I put the three, hard, plastic cases from the National Library Service into the Anderson slot. Mr. Cado Anderson receives from five to ten audio books a week. He’d meet me at the mailbox today. Only during bad weather is the blind man not sitting in his chair under the large elm tree when I stop at the mailbox. We always trade plastic cases and occasionally he tells me about one of the books he found interesting. And he always insists I read his mail to him. Seems as if he believes Mrs. Anderson neglects to read every word and he isn’t shy about expressing the opinion. The one day I saw her in the grocery store, she thanked me profusely for reading aloud every letter he gets, including the electric bill and bank statement. I frowned at the envelope in my hand addressed to Mr. Cado Anderson. The last one he got that looked like this created a disaster.

In April, Jake Smith, the county sheriff, spotted Cado walking along the highway, carrying a backpack filled with a pair of house shoes, half a loaf of bread, a hunk of ham, slices of cheese, a bottle of water, and two packages of chocolate candy. He had his walking stick, wore a jacket with corduroy elbow inserts and a tweed Trilby hat. In England, he'd fit right in, but on a four-foot gravel shoulder along Highway 84, the old gentleman was more in danger of getting run over rather than seen. He was headed to Austin. Mrs. Anderson refused to take him to collect the $500,000 that the Clearing House declared he won.

I tapped the envelope against the case. I have to deliver it, but getting it past him to Mrs. Anderson would be a trick. I reached for the circular, slipped the envelope inside it and taped it in four places so it wouldn’t move. He might think it is part of the advertisement and not ask me to open the envelope. If not, well, I’d have to think of something else. We can’t have Mr. Anderson setting out on his own again. A blind man and a heavily trafficked road don't mix well, no matter how well he dressed.

I paused at seeing the next envelope. It was thicker than normal, but the return address caused a disturbed shiver down my back. Young Brenda Yager’s father did not send a birthday package in July like he normally had for the past twelve years. Here it is, the middle of August, and a letter with his name and a prison address shows up – looks as if his mother died or was unable to send the yearly birthday package. I always knew the man was in prison. Now, Brenda will know, if she didn’t already.

The fifty or so parcels sitting in the gurney cart by the back door weighed heavy on my mind, especially since I’d have to pack them carefully in the backseat so they would all fit. I knew the ones going to Darla Gibbons held ribbons and they wouldn’t be heavy. The ones going to Marcy’s Décor could wait until after I finished the route. But that only eliminated five. The Millers were at it again. The yarn Debby used to make the saddle blankets wasn’t heavy, but the leather James used had plenty of weight. I’ve seen those saddles he makes - top notch. Tooled and decorated with silver, they are mighty fine. When James inquired about mailing a saddle to Austin, I realized it was headed to the Governor’s address and got this bright idea to take it myself. James doesn’t travel much, now that he’s in a wheelchair, and my wife and I like to take weekend trips.

Off we went one Saturday morning with a saddle in the backseat and a phone number to call to gain admission to the Governor’s mansion. My wife had gotten up an hour early just to do her hair so when I suggested we put the top down on the mustang, she frowned and shook her head. Normally, she jams a cap on her head and doesn’t mind the wind but I guess a visit to Austin is something special. It was a seven-hour trip and we only stopped twice so by mid-afternoon, we sat in front of a black wrought iron gate that only opened electronically. I dialed the number, spoke to someone about the saddle and within thirty seconds large doors began to open. I drove up the paved drive and saw a woman dressed in jeans, boots and a blue work shirt waving to attract attention. She stood beside an open garage, indicated for me to park and when I got out, introduced herself. It wasn’t a name I recognized but since she spoke my name, I knew James had talked to her. The saddle was soon sitting on a carpeted table in the garage and my job was finished. The delivery took less than ten minutes and so uneventful that I knew my wife was disappointed because I was as well.

My cell phone rang just as the gate clanged shut behind us and as I listened, I felt a small smile on my lips. Repeating the address, I motioned my wife to write it down. I didn’t tell her that the lady dressed in jeans was the Governor’s secretary and that she was only at the house to accept delivery of the saddle because it was a surprise from the First Lady of Texas to her husband. And I didn’t tell her that we had been invited to a bar-b-que hosted by the First Lady just outside of Austin. I did suggest she put on lipstick, though.

It was a fun evening and we met some folks that were nearly as interesting as the boys at the domino hall. The ribs weren’t quite as tender as I’m accustomed to but the brisket was just fine. The beans had chili powder in them. I’ve never understood why a person would ruin a pot of beans by adding ingredients that don’t belong, but the cherry cobbler was perfect, not too doughy and plenty sweet. My wife had a good time and all was back to normal the next day as we drove home; the car top down and her hair stuffed in a baseball cap.

Lost But Not Forgotten

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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.

* * *

Walking in the half-summer, half-autumn weather can’t be beat in West Texas. I survey the cotton fields just beginning to show signs of white cotton underneath the green leaves and even though I have to look closely, the crops appear promising.

After the brisk, fifteen-minute morning walk to get blood pumping in my veins, I unlocked the SUV – ready to continue on the mail route. I don’t mind parking at the coffee shop with a car load of mail since Edna has a keen eye for unusual activity. At this time of the morning, she rarely has customers and takes a few minutes to drink coffee before the noon rush.

I heard the crunch of gravel behind me, looked in the rear view mirror and thought Jenny Robins would ask for her mail or see if I had her packages. Every three months she practically stalks me until she receives the new DVD’s from Jazzercise and the new work-out clothes and goodies she gives away in class. Instead, she drove her white jeep adjacent to my window and gave me a smile that could warm the coldest heart. Jenny is a pretty girl, always has been. The weight crept up on her, though. I noticed at one time, she had a hard time fitting in the chair at the coffee shop and a harder time, breathing. I suspect she bordered on three hundred pounds. Not long after, she went to the hospital in an ambulance and came home with a baby.

Now, I’m not one to disbelieve, especially when it comes to women and their bodies, however, when my wife told me Jenny had no clue she was even pregnant, I did feel my eyebrow raise automatically. But my wife and Jenny’s mother are good friends and since it isn’t any of my business, I didn’t comment. That experience changed Jenny. She had to have lost over a hundred pounds. Now, she has curves in all the right places, looks healthy and if she weighs more than a hundred and twenty pounds, I’d be surprised.

The round, black, magnetic sign on the door of her jeep that says, Jazzercise, is the reason – or rather, the method. I’m sure there is more than one reason Jenny decided to change her life. Now, she teaches Jazzercise in the activities building of the church several times a day and several days a week.

“I’ve got new music for this afternoon, Buck. Are you coming?”

I nodded. “Looks like I’ll be finished in time. I’ll be there, but Nancy Carson didn’t like it last time when I got behind her. She looked real nervous and by the time class ended, she’d edged around behind me.”

Jenny nodded. “Women generally prefer men to exercise in front of them.” She shrugged. “You don’t mind being in the front row, do you Buck?”

“Only when you do new steps. You know how long it takes me to learn.”

She smiled, nearly laughing. “That’s what makes it fun when you come. You make people laugh.”

I shrugged, almost frowning, and then remembered the jokes about Jenny when she weighed over two hundred pounds. Being surrounded by a room full of women dressed in tight fitting exercise garb isn’t anything to frown about, even if they do find my exercise steps amusing.

*  *  *

After greeting the regulars heartily, I noticed a few women I didn’t recognize. They were on the back row in the activities center which isn’t surprising. Most new Jazzercisers prefer to stay incognito until they’ve learned the steps.

Izzie Isham and I stood on the front row as Jenny started the new routine. Shaney Cook moved between the first and second row. No matter what the choreography, she is a free spirit who usually holds her hands in the air and sways whenever she feels the urge. I suspect she does the same in church on Sunday mornings. Occasionally she sings to a tune no one else hears.

At eighteen, Izzie looks professional, no matter what new song Jenny throws at us. She is interested in being an instructor and can dance nearly as good as anyone I’ve seen. I moved and watched Jenny, trying to mirror her dance steps. Even though she tells us what to expect through that little microphone she wears, I’m never ready. Half the time I can’t understand what she says – Babe, my wife, thinks I’m going deaf because I keep the television loud. She doesn’t understand that when the volume is up, I don’t hear the phone ring. And when I can’t hear it, I don’t have to get up to answer it.

I did the hip thrust, though, fully comfortable with that move. I was so comfortable with it, I did it several times even though Jenny had moved on to something else. Then I sauntered, when I should have sashayed, but what the heck, I was moving. Halfway through the new routine, I was just about to give up when Izzie saw me stop. She moved into my arms and we started two-stepping around the room and in a minute Jenny had everyone with a partner and we were all dancing in a circle to the sound of George Strait crooning the way that only he can do.

All of it is exercise and since Jenny keeps it fun, I enjoy my Jazzercise sessions. It keeps my heart beating fast and my muscles moving. I don’t advertise that I attend. I’d just as soon be the only man in the room as I learn a lot from the conversations: the best place in Lubbock to get a Brazilian wax, the cleanest tattoo parlor that does permanent eyelid lining and the advantages of a hot stone massage versus deep tissue.

These are not men conversations, totally opposite of the talk I hear in the domino hall. It’s healthy to experience both, keeps a person in tune and since everyone in Starz is a mail customer, I like to keep in touch.

Jenny Robins keeps in touch with her Jazzercise customers. I’ve seen her take Mrs. Hatchet all the way to her house after she locked her keys in the car on a Jazzercise day – twenty miles. During icy, winter weather, Jenny picks up the older ladies who exercise and brings them to town for the hour-long session. And she still looks after Jackie Singleton, even though the lady broke her leg last year. It wasn’t Jenny’s fault that Jackie tripped over Shasta Crow’s feet during the cardio workout and ended up with a cast. Thankfully, the melee didn’t affect Shasta any since she landed on heavy padding, furnished by inhaling those packages of banana crème cookies and candy bars I see stuffed in her work-out bag. Being our Jazzercise instructor, Jenny takes our well-being personally, and always shares with Shasta the value of fruit and vegetables in lieu of processed foods. But, as she very well knows, a person has to make a solo commitment to change and until Shasta decides to come to Jazzercise more than once every two weeks, I suspect the shape of her body won’t change. I don’t begrudge her the cookies and the candy bars, either. I have my own stash at the house.

Wine Update

This year I had no grapes to make wine – second year in a row and I’m very sad about that. But I’m ready for next year, plenty of rain and a plan to keep the birds out of the vineyard (it isn’t a vineyard, I only have sixteen grape vines, eight Merlot and eight Riesling).  If I had it to do over, I would plant sixteen Merlot vines as there is not as much production from that particular variety.

Plan: Keep birds from making nests in the grape vines- that would solve the greatest problem.

I’m ready to start drinking my wine made from 2011 and 2012 – surely, it’s aged by now. If not, well… I’ll just have to drink every bottle to determine if it has.

The labels depict an adventure during the year that the ‘Four Grans’ experienced. Whitewater rafting in Colorado was a hit (with Timmy as the guide) and the Trail of Tears journey quite informative. The Paris, Normandy, Belgium experience where we stayed on a river barge on the Seine, just below the Eiffel Tower will never be a wine label as that was one of the grape failure years. The Marfa trip is in that same category. Hopefully, the great jaunt across the ocean to Great Britain next year will be added to the wine label library and become another visual of great memories. (Hoping to find Jaime Fraser in Scotland…a resemblance would do just as well.) The label title: A taste of Jaime!

 

Country Mailman Episode

 
 

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.

*  *  *

Friday - always a good day for me since I don’t work on Saturday like some mail carriers. Way ahead of schedule, I head up the long drive to Zeke McCarty’s house and get out with his mail in one hand and a grocery sack in the other. He's on the porch in the rocking chair, his bent shoulders rounded and gnarled hands resting in his lap. The white-headed man never sits outside during the day in summertime, only in the evenings, so I wondered why on this particular hot day. He still lives by himself and drives to town when he needs groceries. Everyone knows Zeke's old, black Cadillac and avoids him, easily done since he rarely drives over thirty miles an hour. In the city limits, he creeps along with two wheels touching the curb because he doesn't see so well. Occasionally, he calls me to bring coffee when he runs out, but as yet, has never asked me to bring him his chewing tobacco. It wouldn’t matter to me – I’d bring whatever he needs, including the kitchen sink. Zeke McCarty is a hero.

Suddenly, I realized he was sitting out on the porch, specifically waiting for me. It is July 30 - his anniversary, or rather, the anniversary of his horror in the shark-infested waters of the Philippine Sea. Zeke McCarty is one of the 317 survivors of the U.S.S. Indianapolis.

I delivered Zeke’s mail ten years before I discovered his story. In a brief conversation with his daughter about a missing check, she revealed he had been on the Indianapolis, which sent off signals in my brain. That evening I went back to Zeke’s house and listened to the bone-chilling, heartbreaking account of survival. He didn’t mind telling it, in fact, said I was the only person in years who asked to know about the experience.

After listening to the account, I understood more fully the sad situation of the war tragedy. The episode was full-fledged horror, punctuated with a selfish thread of hope that the next man would be the target. Men tried vainly to save themselves as well as reach out to the buddy who didn’t have a lifejacket; all the while waiting to be drug down to the depths of the ocean to be devoured by a man-eating fish.

The U.S.S. Indianapolis delivered the world’s first atomic bomb to the island of Tinian on July 26, 1945. It left shortly afterwards to join another battleship and was hit by two Japanese torpedoes on July 30, just past midnight. The bombs hit the ship in such a way that it split and sunk in twelve minutes. There were 1,196 men on board and approximately 900 made it into the water. Some had time to grab lifejackets. Others merely jumped to escape the fire and explosions. There was no time for lifeboats.

The shark attacks began at sunrise and continued for the next four days. Men floated alone and in groups, sharing lifejackets for buoyancy. There was no drinking water. There was no food. There were only sharks.

Pilot Lt. Wilbur Gwinn was flying on a routine antisubmarine patrol and spotted men in the sea. A seaplane and ship heard the call and responded. When the pilot of the seaplane saw the circling sharks and realized the situation, he went against orders and landed on the ocean. He pulled as many men as would fit, into the plane before dragging others from the sea and tying them to the wings with parachute cord. He saved 56. Others were saved when the ship arrived and a total of 317 men lived.

Zeke talked about the captain of the ship being a survivor, as well, but then court-martialed for failure to issue orders to zigzag. The commanding officer was reinstated and retired a Rear Admiral but later took his life, for reasons anyone could surmise - another tragedy, added to all the others. Those were the facts that I remembered of Zeke’s story, but there was so much more. In the telling of it, he paused several times, sometimes to regain composure, sometimes to reflect, perhaps to even suppress the more horrifying memories. But he got through it and we became friends.

Now, Zeke sat in his rocking chair outside on a hot July afternoon­­. I pocketed the ten-dollar bill he always gave me for the coffee and leaned against the porch rail.

“It’s a good day to be alive,” he said.

I nodded. “It’s hot and dry.”

He smiled slightly, a hint of teeth showing. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” The smile disappeared and he got a strange look in his eye. “Do you think I’ve made a difference, Buck? I promised my buddies if I made it out of there alive, I’d make my life count for something. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve done enough.”

I didn’t answer quickly because I knew his friends didn’t make it home. “You raised a daughter who became a doctor. That counts. You taught at the University for thirty years. That has to mean something. You’ve written three books about subjects I can’t even pronounce so that has to be important to somebody. And you send a check to St. Jude’s Hospital, your church and the March of Dimes every month – have for as long as I’ve been a mail carrier.” I nodded. “Yep, you’ve made a difference. Have you made enough difference?” I paused and shrugged my shoulders. “I’m just a mailman, Zeke, just a mailman.”

As I drive down the road to the next mailbox, the remark isn’t easy to forget. Have I done enough? The question is worth pondering but I can’t ponder long or I might put Lydia Smith’s mail in her mother-in-law’s box by mistake again. Not such a terrible error, except that Lydia’s mother-in-law had not looked at the name on the front of the envelope, opened it and discovered the DNA test results that caused a divorce in two families. That day I had done a bit too much.