The Problem with Packages

The Bickleton Post Office is open! I can get my mail at an indoor PO Box (though that’s actually a little harder for my situation because when it was outdoors I could pull up to it and leave my toddler in the car). Best of all, if I get a package, it’s waiting for me behind the counter at the post office.

But before the PO was open, packages were held in the local market for pick up. No big deal, the store is close to the PO Boxes (in Bickleton, everything is close to everything else). The problem was that I got my slip of paper saying that my package had arrived on a Wednesday. The market is closed on Wednesdays. So I waited till Thursday.

On Thursday there was no sign of life in downtown Bickleton (you might not believe it, but there are usually at least half a dozen cars parked in the area during the day). The door of the market had a handwritten sign saying that the market was closed for the day due to plumbing problems.

But they didn’t forget about us poor residents whose highlight of the day is getting our mail—getting a package is the most exciting thing that happened to me all week. The sign said that I could go across the street to the tavern and they’d let me in the market to pick up my package. I looked across the street and saw that the tavern was closed—due to plumbing problems. The alternative to the tavern was to call R. at the given number to be let in.

Making a phone call used to be easy from anywhere. But another little quirk about Bickleton: no cell phone service. So I had to drive home, get my toddler out of the car, trudge into the house, and make a call from the landline. And what did R. have to say? Go across the street to the tavern. I told her that it was closed. “They’re closed for business but N. is there working, just knock on the door.” Maybe a local would have known that. I may live here, but I’m not a local yet.

Back into the car we went. Back down the street to Bickleton. Back out of the car.

I parked at the market so I’d have a shorter walk with my packages. As I got Ivy out of the car, an old man drove in his pickup truck.

“I think the market’s closed today.”

“I know. They said I could go across the street and get the key for my package.”

“Yeah. Well. I was sposed to meet someone here today. Guess I’ll have to wait in the truck.”

It was freezing cold and we were bundled up, which made carrying my daughter and walking across the icy street a bit awkward. I made it without slipping and knocked on the door of the tavern.

After a wait that made me wonder if anyone was really there, N. cracked the door open and I told her I needed to get a package from the market.

“Wait here, I’ll get you the key.”

I stood on the wooden porch of the tavern and waited till I was handed the keys. Another precarious waddle across the street and I unlocked the door to the market.

Now, I know I’m trustworthy. But how do the people of Bickleton know I’m trustworthy? They just hand me a key to the market and let me wander in on my own. I could be anybody. Of course, the only things readily available for stealing are cans of food. My husband and I lock our doors in Bickleton, but it’s really more for the sake of keeping in the habit than anything.

There were large piles of packages on a table near the front of the store. The fact that it was a few weeks before Christmas probably had something to do with it. But I also suspected that you had to buy more things online when you lived in Bickleton since it takes so long to drive to a store. I was expecting one package, but found three addressed to us. None of them were heavy, but one was large and awkward by itself—and I was carrying a bundled up and cranky toddler. I dragged the large package out to the porch and then got the two smaller ones and stacked them on top. Then I tried to lock the door to the market.

Tried being the operative word here.

I may have only been trying for a minute or two, but that minute or two seems much longer with a child in your arms and an old man sitting in a truck behind you with nothing to do but watch you struggle. He could have at least gotten out and offered to help.

I finally figured out that the door had to be at just the right spot to lock it (I had been trying to close it all the way like a door to a house would need to do). Then I picked up the two smaller packages and stepped off the porch—completely forgetting that I was on a porch. Oh, and it was icy and slick. I’m sure my stumbling-sliding-juggling act was very entertaining for the old man in the truck. When I found my footing again, I was still holding my packages and, more importantly, my daughter. I wasn’t sure if I should be embarrassed to have an audience or proud of the fact that I hadn’t dropped anything or fallen on my butt.

When I’d half dragged/half carried all the packages to the car, the old man in the truck knew the show was over, I mean, got tired of waiting for his friend, and drove away. The only time there was someone sitting around in downtown Bickleton that day was the five minutes in which I made a fool of myself.

I returned the key and got to the car and drove home without incident. Except for not being sure if I should laugh or cry. If I ever live somewhere that gets packages delivered to the door or the mailbox, I will always remember to be grateful for the ease and the service.