Delivering House to House

by Silas House

I go into work by 6 a.m. every day. For about three hours, as I put my mail in order, I look forward to being out on the rural route. That’s where I see favorite customers, where I find little notes and small presents in the mailbox, where I watch the new seasons spread out over the landscape.

Being a rural carrier is distinct within the postal service. Rural carriers drive their own vehicles and do not wear postal uniforms. We drive from the “wrong” side of the car, sitting in the passenger seat and stretching our legs over to control gas and brake. I travel gravel roads that swirl dust out onto the wildflowers in the summer and require four-wheel drive in the winter, when melting snow turns the lanes into muddy traces that threaten to seep right down the hillside.

I have been required to ford creeks to deliver parcels, walk through a yardful of hens that do not pause from their constant ground-pecking to even look up as I take a certified letter to the door. I deliver to what I consider the best people: country people. A special dignity exists in people who live in rural areas.

Customer appreciation

The best time of year to deliver mail is in the spring and summer, simply because that’s when most people are out. They sit among piled-high yard sale tables set close to the road, or in groups beneath a shade tree as they take a break from sowing or tending to their crops.

Often, they’ve hung out laundry to dry. If the breeze moves just right, that fresh scent sometimes comes to me as I fill the mailboxes. I wave to women sweeping their porches, men mowing their grass, children playing in the yard. Children love mail carriers. They run out to my truck and ask, “Is it hard to drive from that side of the truck?” They ask this every day, and are always delighted when I reply, “No, that’s the fun part.” They offer cold glasses of Kool-Aid in the summertime. One little boy always stops playing long enough to produce a sucker from his pocket and offer it to me.

My customers truly appreciate me. In the summer, Dorothy Kelsey comes walking out of her tall corn to present me with tomatoes still warm from the sun. They look so delicious that I sometimes eat them on the route, biting into them like an apple. Once a man gave me a whole gallon of blackberries, his hands still stained from picking them. That night, my wife made dumplings from them, and we ate them out on the porch. Savoring their taste, I had to say a thank you to him on the summer air.

I have had customers ask me to come in to take lunch with them. Sometimes I do and hate to leave their company because I have to get my work done.

At Christmas, I see mailboxes with their flags up and open them to not only find outgoing letters, but also gifts. An Amish couple always leaves a loaf of raisin bread. In packages neatly wrapped in Christmas paper, tied with ribbons, I find boxes of chocolate-covered cherries, pecan logs, a package of new ballpoint pens.

Post office on wheels

Some customers have become friends. Arlene Wagers, a busy working mother, has exciting news one day: Her son is engaged and finishing college.

Arlene often leaves me 340 pennies for a half-book of stamps. She puts them in a Ziploc bag and always encloses a scrap of paper with “Sorry” written across it. I don’t mind. Her pennies spend just as well as anything else, and because I have talked to her at length, I know that she tosses all of her change into a dish on her nightstand. Every week she counts out the pennies to buy stamps. I can picture her, counting them out one by one, for postage to send off bill payments.

Wilma Cornett is another friend. A widow who takes care of her home and herself very well, Wilma prefers money orders to pay her bills. A rural carrier is supposed to be a “post office on wheels,” so we carry money orders, stamps, change of address forms—basically anything a customer should need to get mail delivered correctly.

Wilma simply puts her flag up with the unsealed bill envelopes in the box—my sign to pull into her driveway. Wilma doesn’t want me to work any harder than I have to, so she always rushes out to my truck with money in hand. “Now, figure it again,” she says, “’cause I never was much at math.” But Wilma is much better at adding and subtracting than me and always knows exactly how much she owes. Several times I have calculated wrong, and she’s said, “You better try that again, honey. I believe you’re off a penny or two.” She’s one of those customers I’m always glad to see.

She always comments on “what a pretty day” it is, always asks if I’m working hard. She grows beautiful gladioli and other flowers and offers tips on how to make them bloom like hers. Wilma is incredibly honest and trusting. Sometimes I don’t have the correct change, and she will tell me to just bring it tomorrow. “I trust you,” she’ll say. And I trust her, as well. There is nothing so good as a mutual respect.

And there’s Shade Owens, who always leaves a Milky Way in his mailbox when he has outgoing letters. This is his way of paying me for having to “fool with his mail,” as he says. These folks don’t ask for any favors. They like to pay their way. And I think they just like to give to others.

Welcome solitude

Another of my greatest satisfactions is watching the world. I am on personal terms with the weather. Everyone has heard the old post office brag that we deliver in “hail or rain or sleet or snow.”

We do, believe me. Even though it’s sometimes a hassle to fight pounding rain and snow that creates treacherous roads, it’s always a sight to appreciate. A summer thunderstorm is a wondrous thing, and I actually enjoy being out in them most of the time. And an awesome silence accompanies snow. A mail route offers a chance to reflect on such things. That sound of silence is something I learned to hear on the mail route.

When I first started at the post office, I didn’t think it would be this way. I figured I would spend my days in solitude. I had just become the father of a baby girl and was a struggling writer. I saw the postal service as a way to make good money.

But the job has become much more than that. I have formed friendships and discovered the ways of the land. I am the first to see mountains turning red with new buds, the first to feel the hint of autumn in air touched by the scent of burning leaves. I drive by houses where I know friendly people reside. Children lean their bicycles against my truck and tell me their plans for the long summer day. What more could a worker ask for than to be outside in fresh air and be surrounded by good country people? If there’s a better way to make a living, I sure don’t know what it is.

Silas House, of Lily, Ky., (pop. 1,200) who recently published his first novel, Clay’s Quilt, composes stories as he drives his mail route.

first appeared: 10/21/2001