Category: Family and other dramas

On a recent morning walk with Pepper, I stopped at the corner of Aspinwall and Perry, watching the traffic go by. Busy morning commuters pretended not to notice us hovering at the edge of the crosswalk. I waited patiently. (I know what you’re thinking, “Sarah, patient? That’s unusual.” But at 7:30 am, I’m not really in the mood to pick a fight with Boston driver. And I like to start my morning with a little calm, knowing it won’t last throughout the day.)

I waited patiently until a big, green, Brookline sewer maintenance truck stopped for me. When the truck stopped, the cars coming from the other direction took the cue and stopped as well. I was clear to cross. Except for the woman in the Volvo pulling out of Perry Street and turning left onto Aspinwall through the crosswalk before me. She too pretended she couldn’t see me—a physical impossibility as she was stopped at the corner as long as I was, and I was clearly in her line of sight as she watched and waited for her chance to turn. She made the left while Pepper and I stood in the street in front of the big green truck.

There were two men in the truck. The one in the driver’s seat stared at the woman in the Volvo. I should say, he glared down at her from his high perch. He commanded and scolded as if the tall black bench seat was a throne; he hurled insults like thunderbolts as she passed.

The man in the passenger seat grinned merrily at me and waved as I crossed. I smiled back and returned his cheerful wave.

I have no idea what the driver said and neither does the woman in the Volvo. Both windows of the truck were closed. If I had heard him, I imagine would have thought something like, that’s no way to start my day. Without the words, I will remember the chivalrous driver who stopped and his companion’s happy smile.

On my way home from Coolidge Corner, I watched a mailman open a mailbox on Harvard Street. It was one of the relay ones, not the ones you can put mail in. He then sat down on the edge of it, pulled a magazine out of his bag, scooted back, and pulled his feet inside.

I almost stopped to snap a picture on my BlackBerry when all I could see were feet on the sidewalk. It was as if the gray metal box had sprouted a pair of human legs clad in khaki trousers and was getting ready to stand up and walk away. But I didn’t think I could get to my phone fast enough. And I was worried he would see me, and it would get awkward. So I kept walking, resisting the urge to stop and stare.

As I walked away slowly, I tried and failed to form an opinion about this. Not a judgment, just a simple opinion like, that’s interesting or people are strange. Nothing came. My mind was a complete blank.

My rule is this. I strive to never criticize a man for the way he does his job if it’s a job I would never want to do myself. The mailman performs a thankless task six out of seven days a week for 52 weeks a year. In doing that job, he pledges himself to the USPS creed,“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” I have several opinions about this.

1.      This is not an easy creed to follow day in and day out.

2.      You’ve gotta’ appreciate a man who follows a creed.

3.      It mentions nothing about tired feet.

The mailman takes a break on his solitary and repetitive path through the neighborhood by tucking himself away in a confined space away from prying eyes. That’s okay with me.