Through the Eyes of a Delivery Goddess |
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Memorial Day, 2011 I passed many mailboxes Sunday and Monday that were decorated with either a splash of Patriotism or a complete dedication to our Boys who have fought on behalf of the Red, White and Blue. This one caught my eye Sunday morning; nothing too fancy, yet repetition of the American Flag proudly staked out this person's property boundries.  It was just enough to make me pause for a moment, remembering my dad who served in the Army and my husband who served in Viet Nam, and the many ancestors my mother has found through research that served in the Revolutionary War, and many other wars along the way. I smiled as I remembered an older Gent who would meet me at his mailbox on Sundays when I was running late. It's a portion of the paper route we passed on to some other poor unsuspecting sort; I haven't delivered to that area in a half dozen years or more. The fellow was nearly 90 years old when I first met him; he was not shy about telling me he served in World War II. On mornings when he was particularly chatty, and I didn't give him the indication that I needed to hurry to get done (which was most of the time), he would elaborate on his adventures from years ago. He had a German Shepherd that would saunter out to the mailbox at his side - the few times I was REALLY late, I would see him and his companion walking up to the little store on the corner for his morning cup of coffee. It was probably a half mile from his home, but it kept him young. One morning he related to me a handful of Russian soldiers he encountered face to face, and I'm ashamed to tell you I don't really remember much of what he told me, only that, other than the one that escaped, he was the only one left standing. How sad I've blocked that from my memory, but at the time, most of what was running through my brain was all of the customers waiting for their papers while I sat in the car and listened to the Veteran Sole slowly pass along his story. On one occasion, he explained to me how he dismantled, cleaned and reassembled his rifle. Another time, he told me about being close to the bombing and being shot at by sniper fire. He took me by suprise one morning, he was bent over right behind his mailbox, and I hadn't really seen him - as I pulled away in my truck, he stood up and nearly scared me out of my skin. He cocked his head and said to me, "Pretty little thing like you - how come you drive a stick-shift pick-up truck?" I laughed, and he proceeded to tell me about some of the jeeps and trucks he tried to keep running for the rest of his guys. If I remember correctly, he was in the Army, but I don't remember what his specific duties were. He seemed to have a wide variety of skills, but I believe the wars of the past - prior to the wars we have been fighting over the past twenty years, are a very different type of war. There were no unmanned drones, no satellite photos, nothing equipped with lasers for accuarcy. If you survived a war from earlier in the twentieth century, you are genuinely a hero.I have to assume the old soldier has passed on by now, but I hope his family has taken enough of an interest to preserve some of his memories and stories for generations to come. How sad that we lose much of our past because we don't communicate with the older generations. There is a fellow who is often out walking in the mornings along Bob's route. He recently told Bob that he is publishing his memoirs for his children to cherish after he's departed. What a great idea!  And, in keeping with the flavor of the "Curbside Etiquette" series, I snapped this photo Sunday morning of a proud, angry American. How do I know? The paper carrier who did this route previously, myself, and my route manager have all encountered this tense fellow who insists that his paper be put in his green "tube" (paper box) every single morning, no matter what. Over the winter, the water runs off of the neighbor's yard creating a challenge for me to VERY QUICKLY stuff the paper in the tube as I skate past with my tires locked up on ice. I am completely suprised (and thankful) that I have not taken out his mailbox yet. If you put yourself inside my car and look closely at this photo, you'll see the other challenge this Patriot presents on and off about fifty percent of the year. So far, as I drive under the American Flag, it has not caught on any part of my truck, but I tensely await the day... This flag stays out until the weather abuses the cloth into fragments, which is when I hold my breath coasting underneath, hoping I don't catch some of the holes or tears in the material and drag it off of the mailbox with me. Oh, it looks nice, but I'm not sure it's the smartest way to display our nation's Flag.Did you really think I'd get through one installment without some kind of gripe? |