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.

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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.