I shoved the last letters into their
tiny one inch slots on my sorting case
and hustled over to my parcel bin.
I couldn't believe it and started laughing.
I did not know you were allowed to mail
mail that didn't look like mail.
After a few years of delivering mail
in Seattle out of Magnolia,
Bitter Lake and North City,
I was able to get hired at Bot hell
post office as a substitute.
After five years as a sub and one
long year as a T-6, I reached the
epitome of postalhood.
My own route!
Beautiful Holly Hills mobile estates
was mine, mine, mine.
The man I inherited the route from
told me, "There's old in them hills!"
The people were all retired and it was
fun to see them at their mailboxes every day.
Mr. Powell was building a mail order car.
Every week I'd deliver a new part.
The six foot mid-pipe that would connect
his engine to the muffler
hung out my jeep window on one side a foot.
When Auntie Agnes died in Alabama,
I delivered her ashes.
I was sure she was leaking out on me all day.
When Mr. Simpson fell from heat stroke,
I delivered him to Mrs. Simpson.
But I already wrote about that.