More Postal Shenanigans

So last week we got a bill for our "free" post office box. We were told that we got it free because we weren't on the mail route. I was hoping the bill was a mistake. Today I made an extra effort to walk to the post office to talk to the lady who works there despite the fact that the morning sunshine was quickly turning into threatening clouds.

Funny story, we are on the mail route. All we have to do is put up a mail box. Most frustrating is that we could have done that when we moved in and then had mail delivered to our house. Seriously? All the drama and issues that have surrounded the simple act of getting the mail was all unnecessary? Grrr.

Our Little Red Wagon

Today I deemed it warm enough to walk to the Post Office. It was the third time we’ve been able to take out our new Radio Flyer All Terrain Wagon. And there’s only been a handful of other times we’ve been able to walk to town since we moved here months ago. Stupid winter.

Well, just over 40 degrees out, only a light wind. I convinced my daughter to put on pants so we could bundle up the rest of the way and head outside. She loves playing outside—and every time we go outside she tries to walk down the road. So a trip walking to town? Tons of fun. She gets to ride and look at the birds while I pull the wagon.

I don’t know if it will be any different in the spring and summer, but when we walk down to the heart of Bickleton, it feels a bit like a ghost town. There are houses and buildings but absolutely no people out. There’s nothing to listen to but the occasional dog barking at you and the jingle jangle of the wagon riding over gravel and poorly patched pavement.

And then, I heard a new sound. The light tinkle of a bunch of little metal pieces falling off the wagon onto the road. I stopped and turned around to watch the front of the wagon slide off the axle and rest on the ground. And my daughter looking at me wondering why we had stopped.

What do you do with a young toddler and a broken wagon a quarter of a mile from home? After a moment of hoping that maybe this wasn’t actually happening, I took my daughter out of the wagon in case it fell more. Then I grabbed the pieces of the wagon and pulled it all to the side of the road. We were right next to the tavern so I hung the blankets that had lined the wagon over a horizontal wooden rail that probably was used to tie up horses a century or so ago.

Long story short, I did not have the tools to properly reattached the front axel and wheels, but I got it just enough so it could limp along without me having to toss the handle and front wheels in and pull it along on its back wheels, making it so my daughter would have to walk the rest of the way home—which was my back up plan. I did this while intermittently yelling out to my daughter to stay close to Mommy. Not because there was any real fear of cars coming by, but it’s a good habit to learn not to run into the road. And if I’d let her run free, I’m pretty sure she would have been to the other end of town before I finished putting the wagon more or less back together.

We walked to the Post Office, said hello to the lady who works there, and headed for home. My daughter was content to walk home instead of ride, but what she really wanted to do was stay outside indefinitely and run wild down the side streets of Bickleton. So then I carried her. And eventually put her kicking and fighting back into the wagon. Our walk home was much longer because I had to stop every few yards to retighten the nut/bolt thing that was keeping the whole thing precariously together. (Eli will have to use his Daddy skills when he comes home to rebuild the front of the wagon.)

And thus begins a spring and summer full of frequent walks to and from town.

Disclaimer: I love our all terrain wagon, despite it falling to pieces. Can you imagine what the roads would have done to a cheaper wagon? Plus it pulls quite easily through gravel, mud, slush, and snow.

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.

Postal Predicaments

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” (Found here.) But your house? Well, your house is just too far to drive to.

We don’t have a mailbox. We don’t get mail delivery to our house. But we get a free PO Box since there is no mail service.

The tiny Bickleton Post Office was shut down without warning this past spring—we hear it’s because some federal official came by and discovered that there was no bathroom for the single employee in the building. When it was shut down, they moved all the mail to the next closest post office 25 miles away. So Bickleton residents, and those on its outskirts, had to add 25 miles to their drive for their mail. After residents rightly put up a fuss, the mail was delivered to the PO Boxes in Bickleton again. Now the residents are waiting for the post office itself to reopen.

And that was the status when we were looking into living up here. Just before we came, we got the good news that the Bickleton Post Office was reopening the Monday after we moved in. Hurrah! I wouldn’t have to live in a place so desolate that not even the United States Postal Service could touch it.

Monday Morning: no sign of life in the post office building. So we drove the 25 miles to the closest post office. The woman working there was the regular Bickleton Post Office employee.

No, no, she told us. Our informant had been wrong. The new PO was opening the following Monday. And could we wait till then to open our PO Box?

A week with no mail—not even a place for it to be sent to? Um, no thank you. (What would she have done if it was months until the new PO opened?)

We compromised. She told us our new PO Box address so we could do a change of address, but we would have to wait for the keys until next Monday when she opened the new PO at 8:30 a.m., and we should be warned that she would be swamped with customers since she’d been shut down for so long.

The Next Monday Morning: Eli was back to work so Ivy and I were alone with the task of getting to the PO. It’s a half a mile there and back, which will be an easy walk in good weather. But with the wind, cold, ice, and snow of early December, there was no way I could make the walk with a toddler in tow. So we bundled up with coats, hats, boots, and gloves and got strapped into the car for our drive to the PO.

And no one was there. It was a little past 8:30, but to give her the benefit of the doubt, I drove around town for a bit (not that it takes long to see the entire town). There was a dog that insisted on resting in the middle of the road and staring at me as if I were intruding on his private space, but still no sign of life or business at the new PO.

We drove back home, got out of the car and unbundled, and I tried calling the Bickleton PO. No answer. Next I called the PO 25 miles away. The Bickleton Postmaster answered. The PO would not be opening that day, but I could go by while she was there after 11:00 to pick up our key. By then she should have gotten a hold of the woman who used to have our PO Box and get the keys from her.

(Um, excuse me? We’ve been sending our mail to a PO Box that someone else has a key to? – The problem with a small town is that you can’t get upset at the people you deal with every day, because you will be dealing with them the next day and the next and you’ll see them at the market and the tavern and the church.)

She was there as promised with keys in hand, and had even brought our mail inside so I didn’t have to walk across the icy street with my toddler to get it out of our PO Box. The whole experience has been a weird cross between being frustrated with nothing being done in what I consider the usual way and being surprised by the little acts of kindness that are unusual in the world I come from.

So we can get our mail now. But what about packages? Without a PO to hold them behind the counter, packages represent their own problem.