Man's Best Friend Is Not

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Dogs have always been attracted to my mailman husband, but not in a “man’s best friend” kind of way. It’s been more along the lines of them thinking he was a giant chew toy, waiting to be pulled apart. There is a reason that the top-selling bumper sticker among letter carriers is one that announces, “I hate your dog!”

Anyone who has delivered mail for any length of time accumulates mutt stories, and Paul is no exception. There was the beast that took Paul’s daily appearance on the scene as his cue to tone his muscles by doing body slams against the picture window. The day came when it shattered. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. How melodic falling glass shards sound! Fortunately for Paul, the window was double-paned, and Pooch must have decided that was enough exercise for one day.

Then there was the pit bull that was tied to the front porch pillar — and ripped the pillar off the porch in his frenzy to devour the mailman. He made his dash for the kill, but Paul, not having time to grab his mace can, called out, “Help me, Jesus!” and the dog swerved past him and kept running.

Just like with people, some dogs are sneaky types. Paul experienced one that seemed to be the model of comportment while his owner was standing nearby, but the moment the man’s back was turned, the dog took a quick look to make sure he would not be discovered, and then wrapped his teeth around Paul’s kneecap.

Letter carriers keep mace handy for the emergency cases, but putting their mailbag between themselves and the aggressive dog is usually the first line of defense. Mace is generally a last resort, since dogs who have been treated to mace are not forgiving. If they merely wanted a little snack of flesh to entertain themselves with before, once maced, their intent is murder and a full course meal. Most people probably don’t know, but before mace was invented, mailmen packed guns to dispatch any troublesome canines. Bizarre, but true.

Dog owners are mighty defensive about their darlings, and generally have the notion that Fido wouldn’t harm a flea. Maybe Fido leaves his fleas alone, but the mailman is another story. Paul has had the beasties growling and lunging, their lips curled back over their teeth, while the owners stood by doing nothing, except to assure him from a distance that their baby wouldn’t hurt anybody, and is just playing.

On one occasion, when Paul resorted to his can of mace, the dog’s owner suddenly appeared from out of the bushes, and snarled at him that if he ever did that again, she would bite him herself. Paul’s eyes got wide, but he wisely refrained from saying anything, and just kept movin’ on down the street.

Paul has never had hand-to-hand combat (or shall we say, mouth-to-mouth combat?) with any critter, but one of the other carriers did. The dog bit him — and he bit back. It must have been one of those moments when survival instincts rise to the surface and dignity takes a leap off the cliff. I wonder what dog ear tastes like?

As retirement drew near, Paul began to fantasize about farewell messages he would like to leave for several of his favorite pooches. He talked about how much fun it would be to finally get back at all the mutts who had tried to nibble his fingers through those mail slots that are on the doors of some homes. He could just squirt a little mace through the slot and go on his merry way, whistling Dixie, a satisified smirk plastered on his lips — but it wouldn’t have been fair to the letter carrier destined to succeed him.

Fortunately, although there were a few small bites through the years, Paul never had any dog chomp down badly enough to break the skin. I attribute this to my daily prayers for him that God would protect him from accidents, bad dogs, and terrorists — but terrorists are another story for another day.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Postal Romance

Over 50, Still Kickin'

I don’t know if you have noticed, but elderly people spend a lot of time looking out the window. No, not just to see what the weather is doing. They are watching their neighbors for entertainment purposes — much like other folks watch TV. Apparently, our life was an ongoing soap opera for one of our neighbor ladies for awhile.

We’ve been blessed with Paul having a mail route close to our home for most of his postal career. This meant he could come home for lunch. It’s been wonderful for the girls and me to be able to connect with him midday. For the few years when this was not possible, the day was sooo long without him!

Most of our neighbors got the idea fairly quickly that the mail truck parked out in front of our house everyday about noontime was Paul’s, and that he was home for a sandwich. It was pretty much a no-brainer — except for one elderly woman, who got the notion in her noodle that the lady at our house had something of a peculiarly spicy variety going on with the mailman. Now, she was partially right; the lady at our house does have a spicy little romance going on with her mailman, but since he’s my husband I think it’s probably OK.

In vain did her son explain to her that it was all right. “He lives there, Mom! He’s just home for lunch. They’ve got a little girl. She’s home during the day, too.”

But the idea that something soap opera-ish was going on had lodged in her cranium, and there was no getting it to budge. The possibility that the mailman could live in the same neighborhood that he delivered to was incomprehensible. Perhaps the idea that the mailman lived a normal, ho-hum existence outside of delivering mail was incomprehensible as well. Every day, she watched for that mail truck to pull up in front of our house. Every day, she timed how long it sat there. And every day, she clucked her tongue to her family about the shenanigans going on over at the neighbors’.

We heard the whole tale over the back fence from her son many months later, and all had a hearty laugh over it. I had never dreamed of being such an interesting character. That my neighbors would give me more than a few seconds’ thought — and that the thoughts would be of such an unusual nature — was a novel idea in itself! I doubt if he ever did convince Mom.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

The Eve of Retirement

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Today is my husband Paul’s big moment — his last day as a letter carrier. He has finally fulfilled the requirement of 55 years of age and 30 years of service. He’s been excited about making this change for months now, and the day has arrived at last.

Yesterday they had a little party for him at the P.O. They told him he could make a speech to everyone and say whatever he wanted to. If you knew Paul, you would have already guessed — he told them how he came to know the Lord, and invited them all to give their hearts to Jesus. They gave him a large crystal eagle sculpture, and he brought home enough leftover cake to add five pounds to his wife’s hips. (No, I will NOT let that happen!) They also chipped in for a monetary gift, which was overwhelmingly generous.

Truth be known, letter carriers are like Marines: once a Marine, always a Marine; once a postal worker, always a postal worker. Paul will still make snide remarks about FedEx every time we pass one of their trucks on the street. He will continue to roll his eyes in contempt every time his wife runs to the UPS station with a package that must get somewhere within days (not weeks).

Paul has always loved his job. He has built mutual bonds with many of his customers and fellow workers through the years. He has helped them with their postal frustrations, listened to their personal troubles here and there, and prayed with them when they or their families were sick, most of the time on off-duty hours. He’s kept an eye on the elderly by letting their families know when they haven’t emptied the mailbox for a few days. Small wonder that postal workers are the most trusted government employees in the nation.

Some of his customers know frightening amounts of details about our personal life — not because Paul has told them, but because they have gone to great lengths to find out for themselves. They know how many kids we have, their names, and how old they are. They know exactly when Paul comes home for lunch — and call or show up on the doorstep for personal attention during that time. I’m hoping they don’t know our social security or bank account numbers. When the girls were small, there were special little gifts just for them from some of the grannies at Christmas time. If people are going to know so much about us, at least it’s good that they like us!

It’s going to be a big adjustment for Paul’s girlies, having him home with us so much. He has volunteered to help with the home schooling. We’ll see. People who had to take remedial math courses throughout high school should not be teaching their daughters algebra. But we may let him get his fingers in on the science labs or let him expound on Civil War history once in awhile. (And shop class — he can teach shop. Beebee informed me the other day that she has no clue how to use the back side of a hammer to remove a nail from the wall, so she hurt her fingers trying to do it bare-handed. We will have to explain shop class, or she will think Daddy is going to give her a guided tour of Old Navy and Target.)

Paul does have some plans for his future — and God has bigger plans for him than Paul does! (So does my mom. She can’t wait to have her own personal lawn care and maintenance man.) But we’ll let the ol’ guy have the first few weeks to just enjoy doing whatever he pleases — unless he starts to drive us nuts, in which case we’ll launch him into his future career sooner than he anticipated!

I suppose I will have to tell thirty years’ worth of postal anecdotes in days to come. Some are pretty entertaining. I feel a series coming on!

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Rummage Sale vs. Lawn Mower

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Every year we have a rummage sale (a.k.a “yard sale” or “garage sale”), and every year, when it’s all done, I vow I will never have another one. They are just too much work. But come summertime, my teenager gets the bug for cleaning out the junque, and I comply again.

Once we have everything set up and ready to go, I usually decide rummage sales are not so bad after all. I settle into my lawn chair, open my eyes wide, and wait for something bizarre to happen. If I stay carefully observant and wait long enough, something will happen, guaranteed.

There was the year the lady next door decided she did not appreciate us having a yard sale. I don’t think she liked the cars parked in front of her house. (We had heard about this before: “Do not park in front of my house. I want MY friends to be able to park there.” Well, it wasn’t my friends or myself parked in front of her house this time; it was the rummage customers.) Anyway, she decided to display her displeasure with our rummage sale, using her lawn mower as her prop.

Our tables were parked flush with the edge of our driveway. Never mind that we own six feet of grass on the other side of the driveway. She expressed her distress at not being able to mow her lawn with the rummage sale going on next to the grass. My husband assured her she need not worry about it; he would mow the strip of grass next to the driveway when we were done with the sale. However, she did not want to wait. Besides, she had already planned that the lawn mower would be her vehicle of exhibiting her displeasure with us.

She proceeded to mow. When she got close to the strip along the driveway, I noticed that her grim facial expression was crescendoing into one thunderhead of a scowl, and her mowing action was becoming decidedly more emphatic. Violent would be a better word. I was dealing with several customers right at that moment, but I remember seeing her throwing that mower in and out under a table and thinking she was getting mighty close to the table legs and what if — too late. CRASH! She took out the table legs. Everything went sliding to the ground. Fortunately it was all clothes and books, not breakables.

Her face had a fearful, stricken look upon it. She had not intended to destroy, only to communicate disgust. She was desperately hanging onto one end of the table, trying to stop the avalanche, but to no avail. I ambled over, helped her wrestle the rest of the mangled mess to the ground, cleared my throat, and said in a relatively even tone, “Maybe this was not a good idea! Perhaps we had better let Paul finish the mowing later!” Truly I know she felt bad. The table was a total loss, legs snapped right off the bottom.

I tried hard not to be annoyed. It was a monumental challenge. I had succeeded in being calm with the neighbor lady (after a fashion), but I had not continued smiling pleasantly throughout the incident. (So, tell me you would have done any better!) But I consoled myself with having a story to tell among all my acquaintance for weeks to come. I love stories! They tend to make up for most of the unpleasant events that birthed them in the first place.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Happy Music for Happy People

Over 50, Still Kickin'

A while back, an acquaintance commented that Latinos listen to polka music. I’m sure I gave her a blank stare. They listen to Dick Rodgers? Romy Gosz? Alvin Stacinski? Why?

If you do not live somewhere in the belt between Milwaukee and Rhinelander, you may not only be asking “why,” but “what.” You can see and hear “what” at http://www.polkacatalog.com. (Sorry, it might not work in Firefox.) If you’ve ever lived in Wisconsin, you don’t need to visit the polka link to know what (but it will still make you smile if you do). Polka, at one time, was so much a part of our culture that I had to learn the dance steps in gym class (I flunked). My high school band director used to give us hysterical imitations of Alvin Stacinski playing the accordion and stomping to the music. He sang in Polish while he did it! We have polka festivals all over the state all summer long — but it is an aging cultural form, and I have sometimes commented that when the retired people of today die out, polka will die with them.

Apparently this is not true! Polka lives on in the Mexican people of our area. I am so relieved! Why should such a wonderful art form be gone with the wind? I thought, when my friend told me about the Latino connection, that she had been slurping something laced with … something. But no, she knew what she was talking about. I have our rummage sale last summer to thank for setting me straight.

We had been having a few quiet moments at the sale, when suddenly the air was filled with happy music (Polka — “Happy music for happy people” — see the web site). It really was happy music! And it was in Spanish! A couple of happy-looking guys got out of a happy-looking pickup. Unfortunately, they could not speak a lot of English, so I opted out of asking about the music.

We had an interesting conversation about the backpack one of them purchased, though — “For mi niña,” he explained. He informed me, with pride, that it had a tag saying it had been made in Mexico. The other one pointed to a box on my garage floor, and said the kids in Mexico carry their books to school in boxes. I think he was trying to express the oddity of backpacks being made in Mexico for U.S. kids, while the Mexican kids use boxes instead. Well, one father was making sure his little girl was going to use a backpack instead of a box from now on.

But polka — we were talking about polka, sort of. When Paul and I were a young married couple, we used to entertain ourselves by going to the Cinderella Ballroom on a Saturday night. We didn’t boogie, disco, line dance, or square dance. We did the polka. We were the only young folks in the place. The seniors all smiled and pointed at us. This may have been because they thought it was odd that young people would want to polka. It may have been because they thought we looked funny. But it was probably because we didn’t really know how to polka (remember, I flunked that course in gym class), and just sort of hopped around without stamping on each other’s feet. We didn’t care. We were having a good time in our own little way. But it wasn’t a good time when they had a “change dance partners” song. Then I stepped all over the old guys’ feet. (Paul knew how to keep his toes out of the way.) I learned quickly — when it even mildly looked like they might do a change partners song, I made a beeline for the ladies’ room.

The Cinderella has been gone now for almost twenty-five years, and all the old folks with it. Sigh! But polka lives on — among the Latinos.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

TV Dinners

Over 50, Still Kickin'

We just finished supper. I can’t believe what we ate. There was a sale on TV dinners at the grocery store this past week — 10 / $5.00. We swallowed the bait, and ended up with four chicken, four barbecued pork ribs, and two tamale dinners.

When I was a child, we ate TV dinners frequently at our house. I remember them as being a good feed, a satisfying experience. But for one reason or another, in twenty-nine years of married life, I don’t think I have ever bought TV dinners. They are not the same as I remember from childhood days. This is an understatement, by the way.

They looked rather appetizing from the picture on the box. You’re either laughing at me or just rolling your eyes in disgust. Ha! You knew the outside of the box was not a true picture of what was inside. I, however, am a trusting, naive little creature. I believed the box! But they lied. And believe me, it was NO Banquet!

Upon looking inside, my first thought was, “I’ve been had!” (OK, so I shouldn’t expect much for $.50 per box.) There were about ten little french fry crumbs in one cubicle of the tray, and some black stuff that would have been soupy if it hadn’t been frozen in another. Mystified as to what it was, I consulted the box picture again. Oh. It was a brownie waiting-to-be. The chicken strips looked more promising, but I couldn’t help but wonder how this was going to feed one whole person.

We cooked enough of these little entrees to feed one and a half medium-sized humans — but since that was three dinners, and there were three of us, it wasn’t an abundance of food. It provided a lot of table conversation of a jovial sort. Fun conversation is an important part of every meal, so I suppose we really got more than our money’s worth (if humorous quips were figured into the purchase price).

After entertaining ourselves with our four or five forkfuls of food and the witty remarks they magically produced, I got curious as to what we had just done to ourselves. Oh, horrors! 470 calories per meal, with a whopping 27 grams of fat each! 42% of our recommended daily fat intake, according to the fine print. It will be dry bread crusts dipped in diluted skim milk for the family for the next week, so that we can recover and unclog our arteries!

I have decided that TV dinners are an experience to remember … but not to repeat.

Over 50, Still Kickin'