Our mailman's name was Jim and true to his creed, he delivered the mail every day, rain or shine, sleet or snow. He was an average looking man with an easy smile and a full head of silver hair and he made friends along his route, taking the time to learn the names of all the children and even their pets. We would often walk with him or trail along behind and he would tell us stories about delivering the mail through hurricanes and navigating the neighborhood dogs. He always knew if we were waiting for an important letter or a package and during Christmas he drove a small red, white and blue truck and often had a helper. I wondered about his life - how someone could walk for miles and miles every day without fail and stay cheerful and optimistic. He cared about doing his job and doing it well.
Jim delivered my college acceptance letter, wedding invitations, birthday cards, thank you notes, draft notices, circulars and catalogues and mountains of bills. Life and Look and Readers Digest all arrived faithfully along with the church newsletters, the tiny Nova Scotia newspaper, postcards, tax notices and bank statements. The outside world - before computers and email and cell phones - communicated and kept in touch through Jim, a serious responsibility rested on his broad shoulders and he wore it well, never complained or faltered, was rarely late, never seemed weary. He was a simple letter carrier with a sense of pride and confidence.
At his retirement party we learned a little more about him - he had been a high school dropout, a decorated soldier, had survived a bout of polio as a child, had a wife, four daughters and two labrador retrieivers. He drank bourbon and played bridge, loved modern jazz, and was a lapsed Catholic who questioned the existence of heaven and hell. He leaned left politically and right on the death penalty, supported leash laws, was a Red Sox fanatic and planned to visit Ireland at least once before he died. The neighborhood families embraced him, this generous, outgoing civil servant, raised their glasses to him and wished him the best of retirement. He was accepted and cheered and would, they assured him, be sorely missed. It was an evening of friendship and fun and might have lasted into the early morning hours except for the late arrival of his family. His wife, a tall, slim, stunning and elegantly dressed black woman walked into the crowd and made her way to him with a brilliant smile. Four young girls with coffee and cream colored skin and arms linked together followed closely behind. The party froze and quieted instantly, glasses were put down abruptly, silverware clattered in the dead silence and several sharp intakes of breath were heard. My mother turned and made for the door without a word, just as her beloved letter carrier was introducing his family. Several couples, faces ashen with shock and disbelief, followed, their hurrying footsteps echoing sharply on the wooden dance floor, their muted conversations hushed but appallingly clear.
A moment I will always remember followed - my Sunday School teacher and her husband approached Jim and his family with smiles and outstretched hands and my daddy nodded to the small pickup band in the corner. The music started again and while some additional couples left, others stayed, following the example of my teacher and her husband, following what they had been taught and what, I hope, they believed in their hearts.
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