Reflections on the Seventh Week of Spring – My Kind of Postmistress

    One of the charms of living in rural Pennsylvania is the powder blue post office a four mile bounce down winding country roads. It’s open two hours on weekdays and two hours and forty-five minutes on Saturdays. Limited supplies give me a choice of American flag or birds in snow stamps year round. There’s seldom a line, but the occasional sound of clanging pots penetrates the flimsy walls that divide the cramped office from the resident’s side of the house. The best feature is Stacey.

    I first met her in January 2015 because, plowing snow, Spence backed his tractor, the wheels slid, and the bucket “just tapped” the mailbox breaking its post.

    Needing to cancel mail delivery, we drove to the post office. I imagined a bureaucrat sneering at our mishap and complaining about burdensome paperwork.

    But Stacey, over six foot tall with skinny hips and long blue-jeaned legs, greeted us in a melodic voice. “You know, lots of mailboxes have been knocked over by plows.” Her wide hands tossed long, sandy blond hair over a broad shoulder, and she handed Spence a form. “Fill this in, and I’ll hold your mail.”

    While Spence wrote our address, phone number, and date, I watched Stacey’s dangling earrings swing. She was my kind of postmistress.

    When I could tweak my schedule to fit the limited hours, I took my mail to her.

    Once was the Tuesday after Christmas that same year. I’d hustled to finish a lap quilt for

Mom, who was unhappy about being ill in a nursing home. After snipping the last thread, I threw on my coat, grabbed my purse, and dashed out the door with the lap quilt under my arm to drive to the post office.

    With ten minutes to spare before closing, I said to Stacey, “What’s the fastest way to get this quilt to my mom in Florida?”

    “Priority mail.” Stacey pointed to boxes leaning against the wall behind me.

    I selected one, stuffed the quilt inside, and addressed the mailing label. “Do you have mailing tape?” I didn’t have time to drive back home to tape the box shut.

    Stacey opened drawers and peeked under counter clutter. “The sub, who took my place while I was out for eye surgery, moved everything. Now I can’t find anything.” Stacey checked several more drawers and located a nearly empty roll. She pried at the tape’s edge with short fingernails.

    The clocked ticked.

    The tape stuck.

    “Oh, phooey.” She threw the tape across the room, rummaged in yet another drawer, and pulled a thin roll from a back corner. Muttering, “The postal system doesn’t stock small offices properly,” she pulled off four inches of tape followed by brown paper. Sighing, she dumped the empty roll in the waste basket and retrieved the thrown roll. At one minute to closing, she secured the box with two strips of tape. “That will have to do.”

    The quilt reached Mom Thursday. My brother held the phone to her ear so she could talk to me. “It’s precious,” she said.

    Mom died that night.

    I wrote letters to my cousins and added a half dozen photos of Mom. Did the heavy envelopes require one or two extra stamps? I drove to the post office.

    Stacey put a letter on the scale. “Only needs one extra stamp.”

    “Thanks, and thank you for your efforts getting the package to Mom. She got it Thursday.”

    “Oh, I was so grouchy about the tape. I’m sorry.”

    “Mom died Thursday night after the lap quilt arrived.” Tears pooled in my eyes. “My brother said it was the last thing to make her smile.”

    Stacey flipped open the counter top, pushed the gate aside, and stepped into the customer area. She hugged me and said, “I lost my mother about a year ago. I know how hard that hurts.”

    “I still have Mom in my heart,” I whispered.

    Stacey let me go. “You know, people aren’t really dead as long as we speak their names.”

    Over the following year and four months, we spoke of our mothers, compared eye operations, and shared kayaking adventures. At home, I sewed a quilt in memory of Mom.

    Last week, I finished the quilt the same day Spence and I read a twenty-five page contract for a solar cell installation on our roof. I tucked the quilt into a large blue pillow case, stuffed the signed contract in a nine by twelve inch envelope, and drove to the post office.

    In shorts and with a bandage around her right calf, Stacey hobbled to the counter and said, “Hi, Janet.”

    Forgetting my errand, I said, “What happened to your leg?”

    “Oh, I attached a spring toothed harrow to my tractor and was standing in the wrong place. The hydraulic system engaged unexpectedly and a spike went through my leg. I needed twenty-eight stitches. What can I do for you?”

    Uttering a silent ouch, I handed her my envelope.

   While she weighed it, I pulled the memorial quilt from the blue pillow case. “I have something to show you.” Unfolding the quilt, I said, “I made it from Mom’s housecoats.”

    After setting the envelope beside the credit card machine, she leaned over the counter, took the sides of the quilt in her large hands, and gazed at the half-square triangle blocks on point. “It’s so pretty,” she whispered. “It must have taken you hours and hours.”

    “Yes.” I didn’t add it took hours and hours for months and months.

    While I folded the quilt, bagged it, and paid the postage for the contract envelop, we talked about kayaking on French Creek and the challenges of losing her right eye to macular degeneration. She gave me the usual parting phrase. “Say hi to Spence for me.”

    When I got home, a message waited on the answering machine:

Hi, it’s Stacey.

    Janet was just here, and we were talking about places that you could kayak. And, you know, you could put it up at Shaw’s Landing and paddle upstream and downstream from there. That’s a big pool all the way up to Wilson Shute and down to the rapids just before Cochranton.

    Okay. I thought I’d mention it. Other than that I’ll let you know when we’re going and maybe you’ll want to go with us.

    All righty, bye-bye.

    Maybe we would.

    This past Wednesday, I showed Mom’s memory quilt to my quilt guild then boxed it to send to my nephew, who’d visited Mom daily when she was in the hospital and nursing home.

Friday, I could have stopped at one of two post offices I’d pass on my way to get a driver’s license photo, but I drove four miles in the wrong direction to see Stacey.

    I parked next to the only other vehicle in the lot, a red Subaru pickup. Where was her gray hatchback with the “I could use a good” – picture of a kayak – “paddling” decal on the back window? Was Stacey’s leg or eye giving her trouble?

    I opened the door and walked down the narrow hall past post office boxes.

    Stacey’s melodic voice rang out, “Hi there.”

    Reaching to the window, I watched her stuff letters into sorting boxes and said, “Did you get a new vehicle?”

    “No, that’s my sister’s. She hit a deer so I’m taking it to the insurance agency after work.” With a welcoming smile Stacey said, “How can I help you today?”

    I handed her the boxed quilt rather than voicing the real answer of fancying a chat. Surpassing the snow, rain, heat and gloom of night postal dedication, Stacey serves with kindness, friendship, and emotional support. Everyone should have a postmistress like Stacey.