Through the Eyes of a Delivery Goddess |
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After looking back through my list of stories, I don't THINK I've told this one before, although, I find that hard to believe, so, if this one sounds familiar, I appologize. The stories are all familiar to me, and considering I can't remember what I had for dinner last night, there's no way I'd remember every story I've told over the past two years. I've done several different routes over the seventeen years of my newspaper career. On every street, there is someone who gets up early and meets you at the mailbox, and someone who leaves you nastygrams (notes) in their paper tube, there are dog-walkers and joggers, friendly people and shy people. Depending on how lonely the early-riser-friendlies are who meet you at their mailbox, the people at the end of the route could receive their paper anywhere from ten to thirty minutes late. I used to try to get to one area early enough that I avoided an older gent. I realize that sounds rude, but when you have other customers waiting for their paper before they go to work, you try to get done as quickly as possible, and waste as little time as possible chatting along the way. If I was later than 5:15am, I would run into Mr. Danhill. That was not exactly his name; when he signed his Christmas cards, there were a few more letters in the last name than that, but those were the ones I could read. Over the course of three years, I learned that Mr. Danhill was a World War II Veteran, and at the time I had that particular route, he was, if I remember correctly, 94 or 95 years old. He was in remarkable shape, considering his age, and had an old German Sheperd that walked with him a mile each way every morning to the local general store. You know the type - the little local store run by the third generation imigrant son who is also over 60 years old and sells the local newspaper, donuts and coffee in the mornings, and sandwiches at lunch time. It's the place where all of the older gentlemen in the neighborhood meet every morning to have a cup of coffee and brag about their jobs or families. The road Mr. Danhill and his four legged companion walked along was dangerous and without sidewalks, or even berms in most places, but he managed to never be in an accident, or be the cause of one. He would stand by his mailbox hoping I'd get there before he headed out for his morning meeting. He told me about driving tanks, and cleaning his guns. He told me about other fellows in the service with him, and would tell me about the Russians, which someone pointed out to me later, was probably incorrect. I'm not sure if he was confused, or if I misunderstood - he would tell me about beating up the Ruskies. Maybe he said Nazi's and I couldn't tell. Or perhaps the fights with the Reds were from his childhood, moreso than his military adventures. He had a thick accent of some kind, but at his age, it was littered with difficulties speaking in general, so I'm not one hundred percent certain of everything I heard. Most of the folks in this area who were born before 1930 were born in Russia or Croatia or some other Soviet sovereignty, and were coal miners during the prime of their lives here. He often told me about his daughter who lived next door, and his grandkids who seemed to be uninterested in his war stories. How sad that we are all so busy in our own lives, that we miss out on such valuable and precious history as told first hand by our aging families. One morning, as I tried to pull away after a three or four minute conversation about the surrounding fog, he started to make a big deal about me being a woman and driving a standard-shift pick-up truck. I guess that was unheard of during his generation of life, even though it was second nature to me; it was what my parents had when I learned to drive. He would be over 100 years old now, (I doubt he is still amongst us), and the owner of the little store up the road passed away about a year ago. I wonder where the folks are meeting now, or have most of them moved on to the next coffee shop of life? On this tenth anniversary of "9-11", take some time to look around at the reality that surrounds you. Listen to the first-hand history when you have a chance. Ask questions and if you don't think you'll remember the answers or the stories... write them down or record them. They are valuable. My Grandmother on my dad's side, (my dad's mother) never spoke much of her early days of life, so when one night, she had a few things to say about her grandfather, I listened closely. She passed on a phrase from her grandfather that I hadn't heard before, but will never forget. "The day is but a blink", a statement of the coming nightfall. Don't let life blink past you. |