Beware of Cat (2 page)

A Splendid Day

There is no question that delivering mail in the deep freeze of a Minnesota January is difficult. The thing to remember about an Upper Midwest winter, however, is that it’s a familiar, known entity, and while it may be relentless, it is at least honest and straightforward. Letter carriers will forget a snowstorm with a foot of snow within a couple of weeks. We brag about delivering mail in twenty-five-degrees-below-zero temperatures; wind chills must reach sixty below to be remembered until the end of the season. These hardships are expected in the winter, and we slug it out with felt liners and Vibram soles on the ice, while piling on layers of wool and cotton flannel against the cold.

It’s the
length
of our winters that make them so demoralizing. Well into April my fellow letter carriers maintain hunched-over shuffles, with fur hats and woolen scarves always near at hand. By then, the snow cover is receding grudgingly, like a bully grown tired of the game. But we know not to let our guard down, for there’s a deceptively brutal day each spring that sneaks down out of the far North Country to smack us with a wintry sucker punch.

The day begins in a harmless fashion, with nothing more than a light drizzle. Maybe a little rain from time to time, but mostly just a cold mist hanging in the air, a continuous cloak of dampness to walk through. Temperatures hover around the freezing point all day. At the end of a block, and sometimes between houses, an icy wind off the Canadian snowpack pokes and prods at the layers of clothing. After several hours of this, tendrils of Arctic air finger their way through coats and sweaters, meeting up with the freezing rain that inevitably finds its way beneath collars and gloves. It doesn’t matter how many layers we wear, or what the fabric. Eventually, the cold wins out.

Carriers plod back to the station at the end of their routes, pulling off wet clothing, clapping hands together to thaw frozen fingers. There’s no need to commiserate, no use seeking sympathy, for every carrier has just endured the same miserable day. Slumped on your stool, exhausted, you look around to take stock of your comrades.

“Where’s Joe?”

“Not back yet.”

If the missing carrier is older, or has recently been sick or injured, you may get some volunteers to go back out with you to help. A supervisor might ask a younger carrier with less seniority. These are the days we truly dread, and it seems that Old Man Winter relishes this one last laugh at our expense every spring.

But now we had put even April behind us for another year. It was the first truly mild day of summer, with the sun resting warm on my face. My stride opened up, and my neck and shoulder kinks began to loosen. A soft breeze out of the south carried the first taste of humidity, the first aromas of a reawakening Earth. Even the mail volume was lighter on this delightful day.

Near the end of my route, I spotted Mr. Harris standing on the city sidewalk looking up at the bare treetops. I was earlier than usual, so I sauntered over to talk. Mr. Harris had been retired for more years than I had been on the route, and I encountered him regularly working in his yard. He wasn’t the greatest talker, however, and we never got beyond the usual greetings and brief discussions of the weather. Sometimes, like today, I saw him slowly walking around the block. He was very old and stopped often to rest.

“Hello, Mr. Harris,” I called as I approached. He gave me just the briefest glance, then returned to his inspection of the treetops. Nothing could spoil my mood, though, so I put on a big smile and asked, “How are you? Isn’t this a lovely day?”

“My bird escaped,” he replied. I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly, but then he added, “He must have opened the cage door by himself. He’s a real smart one, you know.”

I followed his gaze up into the treetops. “He escaped? What kind of bird is it?”

“A parakeet. He’s bright green and yellow. No bigger than your fist, but real smart. Smarter than most people I know,” he added, finally looking at me.

Ignoring his sarcasm, I asked, “He can fly? I thought they clip their wings or something.”

“Don’t you believe it! That’s what they tell you, but those little devils can fly. Not very far, mind you, but you can bet they’ll take off if they get out of the cage. And fast? Turn your back for a second, and they’re gone.”

I looked down the street, scanning trees and bushes, wondering what we’d do even if we got lucky and spotted him. Suddenly, the old man let go with a piercing whistle. I jumped back, almost dropping a handful of mail, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. The tremolo echoed through the neighborhood.

“That’s what he sounds like,” he said, peering through the leafless trees like a squirrel hunter searching for dinner.

“Green and yellow, you say?”

“Yup. He’s small, but real smart. If you see him, just whistle like I showed you. He might come land on your shoulder. But remember, that little guy is mighty clever.”

“Sure. I’ll keep an eye out.” Setting off again on my rounds, I called back to him, “Good luck, Mr. Harris.”

I was glad to get away, but I felt bad for the old guy. He wasn’t the type to admit it, but it was obvious that bird meant a lot to him. The least I could do was keep alert, maybe catch a fleeting glimpse of green and yellow, and come back to tell him about it. If the bird hadn’t been missing long, he couldn’t have gotten very far.

This wasn’t the first time I had searched for a lost bird. A few years earlier a resident on my route had lost a cockatiel. She put a big sign in her front yard and tacked flyers to telephone poles offering a reward to anyone who spotted it. About two weeks later, on a rainy, gloomy day, I saw the bird on the ground between two houses. The poor thing looked exhausted and bedraggled. It wouldn’t last long with all the cats roaming the neighborhood.

I drove back to the house to tell her where I had seen the bird. She came running, barely believing the cockatiel could still be outside and alive. It was, and after a few days of loving attention, it made a full recovery. The signs came down a day later, and I never heard a word about the reward, but at least the bird had survived its little adventure.

I looked back at Mr. Harris. In his prime he had been a big fellow, but the years had withered him down to a mere shadow of his youth. He shuffled along slowly with his hands in his pockets, eyes aloft.

At the corner I crossed the street to work back up the other side. With the old man’s pace, I would get to his house at the far end of the block long before he did. He startled me with another loud whistle as I drew up directly across the street from him. When I looked over, I realized he was too caught up in the search to be aware of my presence.

I continued looking for the bird. I had the idea that the little creature probably couldn’t fly up into the tallest trees, so I narrowed my search to hedges and bushes. It would be nice to help the old man if I could; besides, I was early and in no hurry.

I’ve always liked older people. Perhaps it’s because I’m interested in history, so I enjoy listening to their stories. And I always remember something my father told me years ago. We were driving in his car when an old man suddenly turned in front of us without using his turn signal. My father was known for his short temper.

“Doesn’t that make you angry?” I asked, waiting for him to hit the horn.

He looked at me calmly and replied, “You have to cut the old folks some slack. We’ll all be old some day, you know, and it can’t be easy.”

Walking into Mr. Harris’s yard, I saw his wife sweeping off the front steps. We exchanged greetings as I handed her their mail. Pointing back over my shoulder, I said, “I saw your husband down the block. I’m sorry to hear your bird got away.”

A bittersweet smile spread across her face as she looked down the street at her husband. “We haven’t had that bird for twenty-five years,” she said softly.

I suppose I should have seen that coming. It certainly explained some of the odd conversations we had had. But I was surprised, and saddened a little as well.

“It’s been happening like this for the last few years,” she explained. “The first warm day of the year, when the breeze blows just so, often triggers a memory for him of when we had a parakeet, and it did escape for a few hours.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just stared down the block at the frail old man. With a back bowed under the weight of his years, and hands crammed deep in his pockets, the old eyes still searched the treetops with an earnest intensity.

“But it’s okay,” she said. “At least he’s getting some exercise.” I turned to meet her friendly smile, and she added, “Isn’t it a splendid day?”

Office Hours

When Danny decides to grace us with a song, the entire station stops to listen. Not because he’s a great singer, which he isn’t, but because it’s just so startling to hear a middle-aged man suddenly break out in song on the workroom floor. He ignores our groans and catcalls. If he starts in a key that’s too high, he stops, holds his hands up, and shouts, “Wait! Wait! Let me start over.” Then, amid jeers and laughter, Danny begins again. Soon he’s ripping headlong through “New York, New York,” “Back in the ussr,” or “All Shook Up.” He may not be Frank, or Paul, or Elvis, but he knows all the words to all the verses, and he isn’t afraid to belt them out.

Adding to the fun is our unspoken anticipation. We peek down Danny’s way to see if he’s about to let loose. He doesn’t take requests, and if we ask him to sing he refuses, but when he finally gets going, we yell out guesses as to the original artist and when the song was recorded. We grimace when Danny strains to reach the high notes and laugh out loud at his hip-swaying, finger-snapping style.

DANNY’S A CAPELLA RENDITIONS
are a welcome diversion on Saturday mornings after a long week of work. The only days that all letter carriers have off together are Sundays and holidays, so our Saturdays are like everyone else’s Fridays, and they tend to be a little more festive. If someone wants to treat the station to rolls or cake for a birthday or anniversary, they do it on Saturday. With all the miles we walk each day, letter carriers are not timid about early morning calories.

A few years ago I worked with Carla, a letter carrier who owned a lakeshore cabin a couple hours north of Minneapolis. During summer months she often wanted to spend weekends with her family at the lake, but her rotating schedule gave her a Saturday off only once every six weeks. So she devised her own little escape plan. After sending her husband and two children ahead to the cabin on Friday night, she came to work on Saturday morning with a large bag of fast-food breakfast burgers. She opened the bag and then set about sorting mail. Because we start our workday so early, people often skip breakfast for an extra snooze on the alarm. It didn’t take long for curious letter carriers to investigate the mouth-watering aromas.

“What’s in the bag, Carla? Have any extras?”

“Take a block off me and you can have one.”

By nine o’clock she had given away most of her route, and by noon she was on the beach at the cabin with her family. Of course, the supervisors sanctioned none of this, but it was easy for fifteen or twenty letter carriers to absorb an extra block each, especially when the price was so right.

ONE SUMMER,
word got around our post office that a young woman living nearby liked to sunbathe topless in her yard. Like most other people, she had weekends off, so Saturday was a big tanning day for her. To get the best angle on the sun’s rays, she lay out in her side yard, almost in the path of her letter carrier. Not too many Saturdays went by before our supervisor addressed us on the PA system. “Listen up, everyone. We just received a complaint call. Last Saturday nine postal jeeps were spotted driving past a certain nearby house. That was nine jeeps before 12:00 noon.” He couldn’t help laughing along with the rest of us. “Just knock it off,” he concluded.

IT’S A CHALLENGING JOB,
with physical demands and the ever-present knowledge that all that mail has to be delivered every day regardless of the weather. A certain determined individualism is necessary for survival. People not physically up to the task don’t last very long. Several years ago, during a short stretch of time, five new letter carriers began working in our station. Before their ninety-day probations were completed, two had been let go for not moving fast enough on the street and the other three had quit. I once saw a new substitute carrier standing in the middle of the workroom floor at the end of a long day, his face flushed red from exertion. He leaned forward to ease the ache in his back, his jacket open and his head and shoulders slouched in defeat. “I don’t know how you folks do this for thirty years,” he lamented. “I’ve been here thirty days, and I’m done.” He walked out the door, and we never saw him again.

I work with a fellow who has two brothers delivering mail, and another’s father is a retired carrier. The mother of yet another co-worker runs sorting machines downtown. There are many more. In a way, I’ve felt like an outsider my entire career because, as far as I know, no one else in my family has ever worked for the United States Postal Service.

The family connection seems to foster loyalty to the job. The uniform might play a small part in it, but more significant are the stories handed down by family members: tales of freak storms, crazy dogs, and the countless miles walked in a career. These carriers with a family history in the post office are the ones who keep telephone books handy to seek out correct addresses for misaddressed envelopes. They’re the ones who, after work and on their own time, bring stamps out to their elderly patrons or mail packages for them at the holidays.

On our station wall is a black-and-white photograph of the letter carriers, clerks, and supervisors working out of our station half a century ago. In the back row is a smirking young man with wavy black hair at the beginning of his career. When I met Bob at the beginning of my own career, he was still smirking, but his hair had turned gray; he was a soon-to-be retired grandfather. More than thirty years older than I, he could still whip me on the tennis courts. He had the physical stamina and competitive spirit that is needed to wrestle a walking route under control every day, year after year.

The job of delivering mail hasn’t changed much from the time of Bob’s career to mine, but a couple of facts can be extrapolated from that old photograph. For one thing, there were more carriers in the station then, which means there were more routes, which in turn suggests that the routes were shorter than they are today.

The gray steel shelving in the photo is still in use today, and it’s identical to the shelving found in post offices across the country. I could transfer to Florida or Alaska, and I would be right at home in the workroom. These massive steel shelves are known as “cases.” Each unit has five tiers of pigeonholes, with one slot for each address; three units per route are arranged in a U-shape, allowing the carrier to stand in the center and have access to all the slots. “Casing mail” is the term we use for sorting into these shelves.

Most of today’s mail is transported by air. All the commercial airlines carry mail, even on Sundays. That’s the reason that we handle nearly twice as much mail on Mondays. Throw in a Monday holiday, and Tuesday mornings greet us with three days’ worth of mail.

Carriers arrive for work even earlier than usual the day after a holiday. Dispatches of mail have been arriving at the station since the middle of the night. Many times, one or two dispatches will have arrived during the holiday. Mail handlers and clerks disperse the mail to the routes. The familiar white usps tubs filled with “flats”—magazines and catalogs—as well as plastic trays of letters are stacked hip-high around the cases.

We dig into it, and a silence borne of concentration and anxiety settles over the workroom floor. The Postal Service has established minimum standards for casing mail, but working four or even five times standard on heavy days can feel like a losing battle. Packages pile up, and mail is stacked everywhere. The dock doors bang open and groans erupt: more incoming mail.

Carriers rock from foot to foot while shoving mail into cases. Hunched shoulders and wired-tight postures reflect the tension. A morning radio talk show drones in the background, while some carriers isolate themselves in their own headphones. Occasionally, a stack of tubs tumbles over, spilling flats across the floor. The nearest carriers turn to look to make sure the avalanche hit no one, and then quickly resume the task of casing. Everyone is aware of the morning ticking away. In our station, we have an unwritten rule that no one should mention the time out loud, as that only intensifies the anxiety. And all this mail still has to be delivered today.

Eventually, the first carriers begin leaving for the street, and an earnest panic sets in on those still casing. There’s the fear of not being able to get the job done, of having to call in to the supervisor to send help out to finish the route. Worst of all is the possibility of having to find addresses in the dark. At some point in their careers, all letter carriers have had the experience of stumbling around in the dark trying to read addresses by streetlight, especially during the early winter evenings.

If this sounds like a nightmare, it is. Our morning routine is the backdrop for many carriers’ bad dreams. After hearing my descriptions of these early morning trials, my wife began having sympathetic nightmares for me. She has the details down, too. In her dream, which varies little from the ones my friends at work have described, she tries frantically to put letters in the case, but she can’t fit them in the slot. She discards letters and grabs new ones, while carriers around her leave for the street. Eventually, she’s the only one left, and she still hasn’t put a single letter in the case. In another version she pulls up to a corner with a jeep full of mail. Opening the back door, she finds trays of mail stacked to the roof. She doesn’t know where to begin, and it’s getting dark out. (In letter-carrier nightmares, it’s always getting dark out.) Frantically running up to houses, she finds that none of the addresses match those on the mail. She finally wakes herself up with her fitful tossing and turning.

When casing mail, we encounter a steady stream of undeliverable letters. These consist of misaddressed envelopes and mail to be forwarded or put on vacation hold. It might be mail with a good address but an unknown name, or a letter to someone who moved years ago. There are a number of specific reasons why a piece of mail may be undeliverable, but the stack of letters, bundled together, is known as “skulch.” The regular carrier on the route is responsible for sorting through this stack every day, directing the individual pieces to the proper channels for processing.

Skulch is a term that is unique to the post office. You won’t find it in the dictionary, but ask any letter carrier about skulch and you’ll get a response. I’ve wondered about the word for years; where did it come from, and who coined it? Bob, the retired letter carrier, once told me the term was in common use fifty years ago, and had been around for decades before that. It may be a funny sounding word, but skulch is a term we use every day in the post office, and it describes an important facet of a letter carrier’s job. Ask your carrier about skulch sometime. The fact that you even know the word will probably get a grin out of him, unless he’s just returned from vacation, in which case he probably has several bundles of it back at the station demanding his attention.