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 little duck was waiting for me when I drove up to the mailbox. She held her mother’s hand and waved with the other. The first sign of Halloween - a week early. She must be practicing.

“Wicky weat”

I looked around the car quickly to see if I had anything to give little Kylie Samuels, spotted the red and white mint wrapped in plastic and handed it to her before giving the mail to Jessica. They both smiled in response and waved again as I pulled back onto the road.

Kylie Samuels is a miracle baby. Miracle as in, had I not punctured a tire on County Road 5960 at ten o’clock in the morning, Kylie’s parents would never have met.

I must have looked distressed that morning in July, as I lay prone on the caliche road, rocks digging into my back. The Ford was a new purchase and I had to find where to put the jack, therefore half my body was under the car as I searched for the little notch.

“Buck? Are you okay?”

I glanced over, surprised because I had not heard the sound of a motor. I only saw bare, long legs and part of a bicycle. “I’m fine Jessica – just had a flat.”

Minutes earlier, I had given her the mail as she returned from an early morning ride. Jessica Allum was close to six feet tall with shapely legs so long that anyone would stare, man or woman. She was also training for the July Bike-Athon and home from college for the summer.

“Well, I’m going to stand here so no one runs over you.”

I chuckled. “There’s not much traffic. I don’t think there’s any danger.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw what I see.”

Just as she spoke, I heard rumbling under my head. The ground was beginning to shake. I crawled out from under the car and felt my eyebrows arch. Several trucks, as wide as the dirt road, bore down on us like a herd of buffalo, raising dust that would take an hour to settle.

“What is it?” Jessica asked, edging toward me as if I would offer protection.

“A drilling rig and all the stuff that goes with it.” I surveyed my car. “Looks as if I’m going to hold them up a bit.”

A large pickup led the entourage. After the parade stopped and the motors were idle, two men got out. Luckily, a slight breeze kept the dust from clouding around us.

“Problem?”

I smiled slightly at the older man who spoke first. “Just the regular flat tire. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be out of your way.”

“I’ll change it.” The younger version of the man who appeared to be in charge, went back to the truck, removed an oversized jack and a battery-charged impact wrench. In less than three minutes, he had my spare tire on and was tightening the lug nuts. I scratched my head and marveled at the strength of young men. But, as my wife, Babe, often remembers aloud, I did lift a freezer into the back of a pickup singlehandedly. I don’t recall being as stout as the youngster kneeling by my car, but even close, would have been just fine.

When he finished, he smiled at Jessica. “I see you have a Kestral Talon. You must race.”

Her answering smile made me think I needed to give the two some space so I walked to the front of the car and spoke to the older man. “Where are you headed?”

“Three miles up the road. At least I hope it’s this road. We’re drilling on the Jenkins place.”

“You’re on the right road. I’ll pull off at the next drive and get out of your way.”

He shrugged. “Looks as if someone will have to help the little gal get home.” He pointed to the bicycle tire that was clearly as flat as mine had been. We watched the young man lift it with one hand and put it in the back of the truck. “And it looks like I’m riding with the rig. Those two seem to have already reached a solution to the problem.”

“Dad, I’m taking Jessica and her bike home. Do you want to go with us or ride in the rig?”

There was a hint of a smile on the older man’s lips as he winked at me. “I’ll ride with Fred. You come when you’ve got everything under control.”

That was my cue to be on my way. I thanked the young man and headed down the road thinking those two young people looked good together, both tall, both slim, both with a ready smile on their faces.

That was six years ago. Jim and Jessica Samuels still have ready smiles on their faces. They also have little Kylie and if I’m not mistaken, another miracle baby on the way.

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 had one hour left on the mail route, took a deep breath, stopped just before the hurt started, and pulled the car under some shade trees for a break. My back was on fire. Breathing deep was nearly impossible. I knew the cause so I opened the glove box and downed two ibuprofen tablets, paused, and then swallowed another. Driving a new vehicle always causes aches and pains until my body gets accustomed to the change. Three or four more days and I’d be back to normal.

The first time it happened, I thought I hurt my back lifting something heavy and when I mentioned it to Edna at the café as she was pouring my coffee, she insisted I go see her chiropractor. I’ve never been to a chiropractor, knew nothing about them and had big doubts, but the pain persisted. And so did she when I continued to complain, making an appointment for me. I relented and thought it couldn’t hurt, might even help. I’m usually open to new ideas.

The big guy seemed nice enough. I showed him where the pain was in my back, explained what I did for a living and how long it had been hurting. He nodded as if he understood and asked me to lie on my back. So far, so good. A moment later, he had some sort of wrestling hold on me and twisted by upper body in such an excruciating manner that the phrase exploded from my lungs in a volume that even a deaf man could hear. “OH …MY…GOD!”

The chiropractor instantly released me and tried to jump back, but I had the front of his shirt in a death grip. “You’re not going to do that again, are you?” I gasped lowly, trying not to bellow again as the pain gradually subsided. I had pulled him down so his face was only inches from mine.

“No, sir. No, I won’t.” He matched my whisper.

His eyes were wide and I uncurled my fingers from his shirt and tried to pat away the wrinkles as I inhaled slowly. When he realized I wasn’t dying or jumping up off the bed to attack him, he motioned for the nurse who had nearly escaped out the door. She was very reluctant to follow the chiropractor’s instructions to put me under the heater but as I lay there, I realized my back did feel better. My ribs hurt like the devil, though.

I paid the lady when I left and walked slowly to the car, thinking I was crazy to have come. The next day I was sore, but the pain was gone in one side of my back. Now, only my ribs and half my back hurt. Dutifully, I reported to Edna and she got a stubborn look in her eyes, saying I needed to go back in a week so he could fix the other side. I snorted in derision at the thought of getting anywhere close to that office. A week later, I sat in the chiropractor’s waiting room with my name on the sheet.

I don’t think anyone recognized me as the man who had frightened every person in the waiting area a week earlier because the chiropractor had me lie down on the same bed. Again, he got me in that wrestling hold and twisted me in that same excruciating manner but this time I was ready and did not express the Lord’s name as I bellowed in pain. This time I just yelled.

I think that’s when he remembered me, because I only caught his shirtsleeve as he tried to get away. My grip was deathlike, though, and he had to stay by my side as I gasped in a breathless whisper, “Don’t …ever …do …that …again.”

“No sir, never.” He again, matched my whisper.

After I released him, I lay still, trying to determine how I was going to get up from the bed. The chiropractor sunk onto a stool in the corner. We both had heard my rib crack. I watched him visually recover from the shock of the situation, stand and motion to the nurse, who again had escaped and stood in the doorway with eyes as wide as a week earlier. They whispered and she reappeared with a handful of items. He helped me stand, handed me an oversized ice pack, a support brace and pointed to a side door.

“There won’t be any charge. I’ll help you to your car. Do you think you can drive?”

Just like the last visit, my back felt better, but my ribs were on fire. I nodded, wanting only to get home and lie down.

He escorted me to the car and shook his head sadly. “You’ve got a cracked rib.”

The pain had subsided and I inhaled slowly, not feeling the shock any longer. “It doesn’t feel so bad.”

“It will tomorrow.”

As I drove out of the parking lot, I looked in the mirror. The man was still standing where I’d left him.

A week later, I went to the clinic, had x-rays of my ribs and discovered, besides the dislocated rib on my left side, there were two cracked ribs on my right side. Edna hasn’t mentioned her chiropractor again and I haven’t complained of my back, but on occasion, I use the big icepack. It comes in handy.

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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.

*  *  *

For a week, I listened to the radio in the Post Office without complaining. I love music as much as the next person, but this song had to go. Four steps later I clicked off the button and sighed, glad for the silence. There was three minutes of quiet before I heard the petulance in the substitute postmaster’s voice.

“You could have told me you didn’t want to listen to the radio.”

I scratched my head and kept on sorting mail in the case. “I like music. I just don’t like that song.”

“What’s wrong with that song?” LaSonda asked, still perturbed that I dared touch something of hers. She doesn’t like me to look in the refrigerator, either, afraid I will take one of her precious diet shakes and she won’t have enough to last out her two-week stint.

“It’s about a bird.”

She didn’t respond and I knew she was thinking up an appropriate answer. It might come in the next thirty minutes or later this afternoon, when I returned to the Post Office. She might even write it down and chastise me tomorrow. LaSonda isn’t the sharpest tack in town, but she is the only one willing to sit in the Post Office two weeks out of the year and on an occasional day when the postmaster is sick. All she has to do is sell money orders, stamps, postage for packages and put mail in the local Post Office boxes in the mornings for thirty minutes. Since she’s been doing it for the last few years, she knows the routine.

She has plenty of extra time on her hands and plenty of visitors. LaSonda wears clothes that attract men. Even old Mr. Asaga walks to the Post Office to get his mail when LaSonda works. She has time to visit with everyone and she doesn’t mind sharing most of her private life with whoever will listen. The lady is single, friendly and has curves in all the right places. She also passes gas frequently.

Now, I’m not one to hold things in. I believe in healthy release from any orifice, whether it is air, pain, surprise, anger or just plain joy. Sometimes, I burst into song for the pure pleasure of singing. I have learned to curb my anger responses to Babe, though, as she gets her feelings hurt easily, but that’s what civilized folks do for their spouses and ones they love.

Clearly, LaSonda has no feelings of affection for me as she doesn’t hold back at all. But it’s her life and I’m all about live and let live. Since I only spend two hours in her presence, I can be tolerant, but I keep thinking those diet shakes of hers might be causing the gaseous situation.

Fifteen minutes later, I was out of the Post Office and on my way. The minute I walked out, I heard the radio come on, blaring even louder and I had to smile. If I went back in, I’d see LaSonda dancing. And if I went back during the noon hour, she’d be taking a nap. The lady is one habit after another. Smoke breaks at nine, eleven, noon, and two; diet shake and nap at noon; diet drink at ten and two. I know because she has it written on her portable blackboard with little boxes where she checks herself off every day. She also dots her “I’s” with little hearts.

The lady makes herself at home during the postmaster’s vacation. She has her canvas lounge chair beside the desk and a pitcher of fruited ice water in the refrigerator right beside the diet shakes. From the looks of it, oranges and strawberries seem to be the favorite at the moment. Flowers float in a vase on the counter and three boxes of sugar-free chocolate candy sit on the corner of the desk. The lady does her nails several times a day and uses lotion on her hands like it is going out of style. It is either a habit or a regimen. Probably, a habit because West Texas is so dry.

Edna at the café thinks LaSonda is supported by a plentiful supply of men admirers. It’s a valid supposition as the café sits across the street from LaSonda’s driveway and she sees strange cars, especially in the evening hours.

The lady is a definite curiosity. Ten years ago, she showed up in Starz, Texas, bought a deserted house with cash, had it repaired and moved in. Three months during the winter, she leaves and I hold her mail. Her past and those three months she’s gone are the only two subjects I’ve never heard her discuss. She never gets parcels. She never gets bills, not even from the electric company. She never receives a Christmas card, a birthday card, a Valentine card or any personal correspondence.

I am intrigued by the mystery of her, but we seem to irritate each other and I’ve not gotten past that irritation long enough to ask questions. She passed the Post Office review, though, so she doesn’t have crime in her background. I knew of someone once who was in the Witness Protection Program and I wonder sometimes if she might be as well, but it’s all in my head. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone, not even Jake, the sheriff. He tells me a lot about folks around, but he’d be bound not to reveal that kind of secret, just like I wouldn’t let on to anyone that I know Heidi Owens gets child support checks for three children, even though she only has two. That third child is somewhere, I just don’t know where, doesn’t mean there’s anything fishy going on. It’s not my business to be the mail police. I just deliver – it’s called customer service.

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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.

*  *  *

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.

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