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.

Pottery Show

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 Post Office was quiet as I sorted my mail. Then I heard a big sigh and knew the postmaster had run into problems. He dropped three envelopes on the front of my case and stood waiting.

“Who are these people?”

After looking at the first envelope, I had to smile at the painfully scrawled writing. It was addressed to: Mamaw, Starz, Texas. The return address said: John, Glen Rose. “This is Liz Dickson who lives on County Road 400 and it’s from her youngest grandson who ought to be in first grade by now.” I noted his raised eyebrow and explained. “Liz’s son is a basketball coach at the Glen Rose high school. They moved there two years ago.”

I didn’t explain that he and his wife spent five years trying to adopt a child and ended up with little John, a Russian baby, just before Russia closed all foreign adoptions. Nor did I explain that the entire community gave them a baby shower. Some things outsiders just don’t understand.

The next envelope was just as easy. The full name and address were written, but the writing was so shaky, I understood his confusion. “This goes to James Nellon on Farm Road 46. It’s from his father who has palsy and lives in a nursing home in Abilene.” I pointed to the return address where the town’s name was distinguishable. I didn’t bother to explain that the senior Mr. Nellon was a retired Highway patrolman who singlehandedly pulled five people out of burning cars in one of the worst pile-ups in the area during a rare winter blizzard. I know that because one of the people he saved was me. I was eighteen at the time, trapped, and unconscious with a head injury. My only memory of it was Mr. Nellon’s hand on my shoulder telling me everything would be fine. And he was right.

The third envelope took me a full minute before a light clicked in my head. “This one says Miss Elise Neugebauer on County Road 1790, but she got married three years ago and became a Krauser. We stopped forwarding her mail long ago.” I studied the return address and frowned. “This might be important. I’ll deliver it to her mom. She’ll either send it or take it to her the next time she visits.” I didn’t add that her mother visited Elise once a month to help with the new twins, staying four days each time so her daughter could take a break from motherhood. At first, Elise’s father was not happy to be left alone to fend for himself, but the last time I saw him at Edna’s café, he was beginning to enjoy the freedom. Seems as if he found a poker game. It isn’t the same one I visit, but I know several of the participants. His game has much higher stakes than mine, but Jargen Neugebauer farms five sections of land and has a larger cashflow than I do. He also has a private airplane and a mighty big boat.

The postmaster turned and disappeared toward the front counter and I took that to mean my suggestion was okay with him. Ten minutes later, I loaded and sat ready to tackle another day of delivering mail.

The first hour of the route was smooth sailing but as soon as I rounded Devil’s Curve, I saw the figure and a car on the side of the road. The girl was trying to lift a tire out of the open trunk. I pressed the accelerator, sped up and gave the horn a honk so she’d stop.

“Quit that right now, young lady,” I yelled from the open window as I pulled up behind her and parked.

She half-smiled as she turned and saw me. “Hi, Buck. Looks like I need some help.”

I nodded and pointed to the small shade that a mesquite offered on the side of the road. Gena Dinsmoor was six months pregnant. “You go stand over there while I change this tire. This heat isn’t doing you any good. And don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady. I’m out in it all day so I ought to know.”

A grin appeared as she ambled toward the ditch and stood under the meager shade. I delivered letters to her from a soldier stationed overseas for two years before they stopped. Then I held her mail for two weeks while she went on vacation. Three months later, the gal starts showing but the letters don’t continue. For three months, I saw her disappointment when I handed her the mail. Then last week, an envelope from the same soldier shows up, but the return address is from a different location. Ever since, there’s been a smile on her face. I can only surmise that the guy either smartened up and realized what he might lose or he was just in limbo and didn’t know what was happening back here in the states. Either way, Gena has a shine in her eyes that every mother-to-be ought to have.

“There you go,” I said as I brushed my hands on my shorts. “You get that tire to Jim McCravy to get patched right away. Don’t want you driving around here without a spare.”

When she hugged me, I knew she was thanking me for more than changing her tire. I just didn’t know what. I hugged her back because she seemed to need it. “You okay, girl?”

“Yes. Edna at the café told me you shamed Ernie and Monty for spreading rumors about me. Thanks.”

I nodded and held the door while she got in the driver’s seat. Books and a backpack sat beside her. “How much longer do you have in college?”

She grinned. “One more online class to finish and I’m through. I could have graduated last month, but the counselor found another class I have to take. I’ll walk across the stage in December.”

“Good for you. Any plans?”

She half-smiled. “Other than have a baby?”

I nodded, not answering because she didn’t need a smart response from me. Nor did she need advice. I suspect her mother and father took care of that. Her father farmed two sections and preached occasionally at the country church when the regular preacher was gone. Her mother taught first grade and gave piano lessons.

“I’ll let you know next month. My…boyfriend is coming home. He’s a Marine.”

“You can’t go wrong there. I’ll bet he’s a fine young man.” I shut the door and stood in the road while she drove away. Kids, you just gotta love ‘um. All of them need help along the way and they might not do exactly what a parent wants, but you can’t ever give up on family.

For the next few miles, I felt a goofy grin on my face as I reviewed my kids’ antics as they got older. Some memories made me chuckle, others made me proud and those that didn’t were easily dismissed. Traveling on the ranch road, I had plenty of time to reminisce as the closest mailbox sat five miles down the pavement.

Old elm trees line the road and although the leaves are still green, there is a feeling of autumn in the air. As I passed by a large section of bushes along the old pipe fence, my foot automatically hit the brake pedal. For an instant, I shook my head, sure that what I thought I saw couldn’t possibly be real. I had to back up since bushes hid the heifer and only when I faced her head on, did I believe the outrageous predicament to be true.

When she saw me staring, a plaintiff sound echoed from her throat and I totally understood. The lady was in a jam and I had no idea how to relieve her situation. She appeared calm and occasionally lowered her head to get a mouthful of the lush grass growing outside the pipe fence, but I couldn’t help wondering how long she had been in that position.

Country roads are rarely travelled and I knew the rancher might not come along for days. I dialed the second emergency number on my phone.

“Jake, you won’t believe what I’m seeing. One of Henry’s cows is straddling his pipe fence. Two feet are on one side and her back feet are barely touching ground on the other. She’s hung between udder and belly.”

I laughed at the sheriff’s disbelieving remark. “Okay, I’ll take a picture with my phone and send it to you. Tell Henry she’s about three miles from the turnoff and I want to know how he gets her out of this predicament.”

I snapped the image, glad the cow didn’t look to be in distress. I’d add it to all the other unusual images I collected along the mail route. Some things are hard to believe and this was in that category, but I’ve witnessed my share of odd sights on the Starz mail route. I’ve seen a bobcat sitting on top of a windmill platform, surveying the landscape as if it was his. I sat at the intersection of Farm Road 400 and Highway 84 as a young man wearing a backpack whizzed by me on rollerblades. He was eighteen miles from any town and judging from the dirt on his face and the heavy tan, had been on the road awhile. Animals and people often act odd, but there’s usually a reason. I don’t always have time to determine what that reason is as I have a job to do and customers who depend on me, but I do enjoy watching the show!   

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Texas Tradeoff: A novel by Kathy May Davies

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