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 sang along with the melody playing on the radio, just as loud as if I was singing in church. I don’t have any parcels to  deliver for at least two hours and that makes any mailman happy. And today is check day. Two people have already met me at their mailbox, glad to get the envelopes. Happy folks tend to visit and since the mail is light today, I don’t mind spending a little extra time catching up.

When I saw the figure walking along the side of the road, I exhaled sadly. “Aw, Essie.”

Driving up beside her slowly so as not to frighten the lady, I leaned over and yelled out the window. “Need a ride, Essie?”

The silver-headed woman was dressed in a blue nightgown and wore terrycloth slippers that were coated with dirt. The back of her hair looked as if she had slept hard and sparse tufts spiked in all directions. She peered at me suspiciously through black eyes that still sparkled even though age had taken the rest of the sparkle from her life.

“Do I know you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m your mailman. I played basketball with your son, John.” I shrugged. “Many years ago,” I added, under my breath so she didn’t hear.

“I’m going to the café. Edna needs me,” she said as if she had never asked the question.

“Climb in. I’ll take you.”

She looked at me again, still standing by the window. “Do I know you?” she asked again.

I shook my head. “No, ma’am. You don’t know me. Can I take you to the café?”

“Will you take me to the café?”

I smiled slightly. “Yes, ma’am. I sure will.”

After ushering the older woman in the front seat, I hesitated to call the sheriff’s office to let them know I’d found her – seemed blatantly patronizing and even though the lady didn’t understand what went on around her, I just couldn’t do it. I’d call when I got to the café. It was closer than her daughter’s house.

After leaving Essie to drink coffee with the cotton gin crew taking a morning break, I called the sheriff’s office, feeling like an informer. Essie escaped several times a month, but rarely made it past the front drive. Her daughter had installed all kinds of alarms, but clearly, the old lady sidestepped them all this morning.

Essie Kling is a legend. Not known to many, she was a member of WASP. Essie didn’t know when the group was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal because her mind had already been lost to the unknown, but the ones who knew her appreciated the latent honor. Her daughter has the duplicate bronze medal sitting in the glass cabinet beside the front door. Only one gold medal was made, but all the members of WASP received a replica – at the time only a third of the group was estimated to be alive.

In 1943, Essie asked her father for five hundred dollars so she could get a pilot’s license. It was a lot of money at that time. She didn’t know how her dad managed but he gave it to her and she learned to fly. The license was a requirement for applying to the Women Airforce Service Pilots program and Essie wanted to see the world. She also wanted to serve her country during the war and that was the only way she could figure out how to do it.

Since her uncle worked for the railroad, he let her ride on the caboose down to Sweetwater, where she then hitched a ride out to the airfield. All the applicants had to get to the Texas training site on their own and she was lucky enough to live only a hundred miles away. Five foot, two inches was the minimum required height so she stuffed socks under her heels in her shoes to add an inch. Approximately one thousand young women finished the program, Essie being one of them. They weren’t military; they were considered civil servant employees. The program was instituted to relieve men pilots so they could participate in the war, leaving routine flight jobs in the United States to women. Thirty-eight of the participants were killed during the short two-year program in either training or routine flights and each time, their cohorts pitched in money to send the bodies home to families.

Essie’s first job was to ferry planes from manufacturing plants to military bases in the states. During one trip over Nebraska, smoke poured into the cockpit. Instructed to bail out, she hesitated because her parachute was too big. She very likely would have shot out of it and been killed, anyway. Staying with the plane that was only smoking, not flaming, she made an emergency landing and discovered some wires had been crossed, causing the trouble. A few hours later, she was back up in the air, delivering the aircraft as planned.

Next, she towed targets behind a plane for artillery gunners to practice their shooting, using live ammunition. Perhaps because she had proven herself as being dedicated and competent, she began to fly B-26 and B-29 bombers from manufacturing facilities to air bases. Essie said it was the grandest feeling she ever knew. That alone was worth all the hard work and five hundred dollars she repaid her father.

As the war began to wane, the program was disbanded and Essie came home to Starz. She had not seen the world, but she had seen a lot of the United States. And she brought a soldier home with her, settling on the family farm and raising three sons and a daughter.

Records of the WASP program were labeled classified and sealed when the war ended. But when the Air Force began admitting women as pilots, the role of WASP was re-examined and Congress granted veteran status to the participants in 1977. Two years later, the pilots were awarded honorable discharges and finally in 2010, Congress recognized the valuable service the women played in World War II. The group as an entity was issued the Congressional Gold Medal, the highest civilian honor that is bestowed. Now, there’s a museum dedicated to the WASP located in Sweetwater, Texas. It houses a little known story of the first American woman air force. I know about it because I live in Starz where Essie Kling will always be a legend to me. Some people you meet in your life are unforgettable. Whenever I see her, I picture a tiny, young woman in the pilot’s seat of a B-29 bomber. What a woman!

 

Country Mailman

 

!!!!Announcement!!!!

The book, Country Mailman, in both E-book and Paperback form will be available this week on Amazon. But not to worry, Buck will continue to appear on my blog every week (or not, if there is a holiday) until....well....until he doesn't. I am thinking about a sequel, Country Mailman 2, and if that reaches fruition, you will hear from Buck for quite some time. Happy New Year!

 

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.

*  *  *

Since my seventy-year old, afternoon coffee partner, Annie Oakley Grayson, is off visiting her son in Galveston, I pulled in to the café. Today, the mail has been extra heavy and I am ready for a break. Fifty-six parcels nearly set the record for any month that isn’t December.

Piper Smith waved as I walked in and I got ready for the corny joke. He’d tell it pretty quick. Sure enough, he motioned for me to sit down and as soon as Edna poured coffee in my cup, he let me have it.

“My wife heard on the radio there was a man driving the wrong way on South Loop 289 yesterday afternoon. She knew I was headed that way, called and told me to be careful and look out for a car going the wrong direction. I told her there wasn’t just one car going the wrong direction, I was seeing hundreds of cars and they were all honking.”

I smiled as I took a sip. Within five minutes, he’d work another joke into the conversation. But I was wrong. He got a text and left after putting two dollars on the table. Since no one else was in the café, Edna sat down at the table and pointed to LaSonda Robins’ driveway, in clear view from the window. LaSonda, the substitute postmaster, was due to start her annual three-month vacation next week.

“Guess whose car I saw going to see LaSonda yesterday evening?”

I paused, wondering if she wanted me to guess or if she just wanted to tell me. I was tired, though, and didn’t feel like guessing. “I have no idea.”

“Gus Richardson.”

My hand paused in mid-air before I set the cup on the table and looked strangely at Edna. “Could be all kinds of reasons for that,” I said. The postmaster who lived forty-five minutes away might have had business with the woman who takes his place on occasion. Even if it isn’t business, I wish the guy luck. LaSonda doesn't seem all that bright, and if you can overlook her obsession with nail polish and lotion, she is nice to look at.

She raised her eyebrow. “Do you know where she goes every year about this time?”

Again, I shook my head, not having the inclination to play the game well. “Not a clue.”

“New York. And do you know what she does?”

By this time, my patience was just about gone and I stared at Edna, thinking she’d get the hint that I wasn’t up to conversing. But she didn’t. The café owner must not have had much business today for she was bubbling over with information.

“She’s a hand model. She goes to New York to have pictures of her hands taken. And those strange cars I see coming and going in the evenings during the week – they’re students from the massage therapy school in Lubbock. She gets three hand massages a week and pays them to come to her house. Can you imagine!” 

I realized my eyes had widened involuntarily. For years, I imagined much more about LaSonda than the simple explanation given by Edna. That certainly explained the overuse of nail polish and lotion, fruited ice water and diet shakes. It explained the monthly check from the New York bank and it explained the evening traffic. But it didn’t explain why the postmaster, who was always anxious to go home, would stop at LaSonda’s house. I didn’t feed Edna’s gossiping frenzy by acting interested so she put Piper’s two dollars in her pocket, refilled my coffee cup and left the table.

Gus and LaSonda. I should have known. He had asked her to come in for extra computer training several days in the last weeks. Well, it isn’t any of my business and what happens at the Post Office stays at the Post Office as far as I’m concerned.

I left the café, with only ten more stops on the route. A mile later, I saw the white bird perched on the low fence in the distance because it stood out against the dark gray clouds on the horizon. With the sun still shining, rain in the distance and a fresh smell in the air, I kept the windows down to enjoy the autumn afternoon. Suddenly, I wasn’t quite so tired. Perhaps it was the nearness to the end of my day or the caffeine in the coffee that did the trick, but I found myself relaxed and content.

As I got closer to the bird, I saw the coyote sneaking through the grass toward the fence. If I honked to startle the bird, the coyote went hungry. If I didn’t, nature took its course. Having plenty of time to think it through, I decided to drive on by and let the creatures work it out amongst themselves. Sorry, fella, I thought to myself as I drove past the white pigeon. Startled, I pressed the brake after seeing a reflection on the bird’s leg. It was banded and that changed things. The bird wasn’t raised in the wild. He was at a disadvantage.

A blur of motion from the grass erupted and just as the coyote leaped for its prey, the bird flapped its wings and flew straight toward me, escaping. I put my arm up instinctively, but felt silly after a moment and realized the pigeon was inside my car, perched on the back of the passenger seat, staring at me with warm, liquid brown eyes. We looked at each other for a minute and I didn’t see any sign that he held a grudge against me for not warning him against the coyote. The little guy even acted as if he wanted to stay. I didn’t see any harm in it so I headed toward the one house I knew might be of help.

Cole Adams had racing pigeons. I didn’t know if this one was his, but if the little fella was still in the car by the time I got there, Cole might know how to get him home. He clearly was lost.

I drove up the paved drive, glad to see Cole’s pickup. I honked; the sign for every person who lives in the country to come outside, and watched the lanky man come out of the barn. He leaned on the open window, saw the pigeon calmly perched at eye level and blinked in surprise.

“Well, what do you have here, Buck?”

“I’m hoping he’s one of yours. He flew through the open window and lit right there. He’s been riding with me for the past fifteen minutes. Seems content.” 

The pigeon acted indifferent as Cole picked him up with one hand and examined the band. “He’s not mine and I don’t recognize the number. You want me to take him?”

I nodded. The little fella wasn’t a bad riding companion, but I doubt people want bird droppings all over their mail. The car was safer than a low fence out in the field, but he’d be better off with Cole.

I left with a nice feeling in my chest. All was well with everyone except the coyote. But coyotes are survivors. Jake, the county sheriff, thought he hit something one early morning on the way to work, but couldn’t find a sign of an animal, living or dead, on the side of the road. When he came out of the coffee shop, he noticed a tail hanging from the front bumper. A coyote was wedged sideways between plastic and metal, eyes alert and ears up, but clearly stuck. Since the bumper was already damaged, Jake got a tire tool, bent the opening wider and that coyote hopped out like he had just been napping. The animal didn’t appear hurt, merely trotted across the parking lot and disappeared as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Animals are like that. No drama, just a get-on-with-life attitude that makes things appear simple. That coyote didn’t blame Jake for trapping him in his bumper and that pigeon didn’t harbor any ill will toward me for not warning him.

Maybe I can remember their good nature the next time I see a car driving in the left lane and not passing. It is a pet peeve of mine, an irritation when drivers don’t respect others on the road. A lot of people in Texas don’t know it is a traffic violation to cruise in the left lane of a multiple lane roadway with a fine starting at $200. Passing a car, turning left and avoiding a hazard are the basic reasons for not staying in the right lane. I keep reminding our county sheriff of that, but he merely nods and pulls at his earlobe when I happen on that subject. My wife, Babe, rolls her eyes when I start complaining about other drivers. I may go overboard on the subject, but when I’m on the highway I respect others and I expect them to do the same. It’s the right thing to do.

Pencil Drawing

This is a father/son drawing that I have been working on. Ben is my nephew and Keller is his son.

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.

Book Release Date!

My pottery is now in a retail store!

 

The perfect unique Chirstmas gift!