Reflections - Little Things Make the Season

Janet Writing Cards

 

I should relax. But the pressure of preparing for the holidays can close my throat which makes swallowing a challenge. It’s a price I’m willing to pay for the pleasure of hearing from distant friends and relatives once a year. 

One person I hadn’t heard from since last December, for example, was Jamie, a Pennwriter who exchanged writing feedback at past Meadville meetings. I reveled in the photos and season greetings that arrived Saturday, December 2. Jamie had traveled to the south, discovered a swarm of bees in her shrubs, and still had her cat Iggy. She’d also tucked in a handwritten note which began “I hope you’ve had a productive writing year . . .” 

Penning a Christmas card Sunday, I included a message to thank Jamie for the holiday letter and wish her good health. I ended by answering, “I published one story, submitted five, and am working on two.”

Monday, December 4, Spence volunteered in Cleveland to make homes lead safe. I gathered Jamie’s card, another card, and three boxes of presents. The boxes weren’t heavy, but stacked they covered my front from waist to chin. I set them on a porch chair to lock the cats inside. Thankful for a purse with a strap to drape over shoulder and chest, I toted the boxes—letters balanced on top—and walked, without too many wibble-wobbles from my essential tremors, down the road to our detached garage.

Dave Brubeck’s “Winter Wonderland” tinkled through the speakers while I maneuvered the Subaru around curves, past dried seed heads, and under ominous dark clouds. I parked in the Cochranton post office lot and collected the boxes. Slipping the letters on top again, I secured them with my chin to slam and locked the door. 

Straightening up, I inched toward the crosswalk and waited for traffic to clear on North Franklin. Instead, a white pickup slowed to a crawl and stopped. 

I stepped as briskly as I could and braved lifting one hand from under the packages to wave thanks. 

After I passed the truck, the driver beeped—I assumed to return my wave. I didn't dare stop.

A gray haired woman with a hand full of letters jauntily strode out of the post office. She stepped back, grabbed the door, and waited for me to cross the wide sidewalk in front of the building.

“Thank you.” I entered the lobby. “I appreciate the help.”

Cochranton Post Office

“My pleasure.” Over her shoulder she called, “Merry Christmas.”

Shifting the boxes, I opened the inside door to the empty service area and set them on the counter. The tall male clerk hustled from the back. He lifted the box I’d addressed for my brother. A letter slid off.

I picked up the envelope and searched for the other card I’d intended to mail. Not there. Yikes! “I must have dropped the other letter. I’ll be right back.”

The clerk’s lips curled slightly at the edges. He nodded and set the box on the scale.

Hurrying, I passed through both doors to the outside sidewalk where a man I’d never seen extended his hand to me. In it was the envelope addressed to Jamie. “You dropped your letter in the street.”

Caught by surprise, I squeaked, “Bless you.”

“I honked and honked. You didn’t stop.” His words scolded but his voice and eyes were forgiving.

The unseen man in the white pickup hadn’t been returning my wave. He’d been warning me. Even if I’d understood, with my wibble-wobbles and the load, I couldn’t have bent over in the street to pick up the letter. 

He inclined his head toward Mercer Bank catty-corner from the post office. “I parked in the bank lot.”

Tongue tied at his kindness, I muttered, “You are such a blessing. Such a blessing.”

He touched his baseball cap and walked away.

I watched the back of his plaid flannel jacket. He’d taken the trouble to park his truck, fetch my card in the street, and find me. I wish I’d found the words “Thank you” in time. 

In the post office, the clerk’s slight smile had expanded into an ear to ear grin. “He had the card for you.” A witness to the scene through the glass wall, the clerk shared the delight which bubbled like a babbling brook inside me. 

I handed him Jamie’s card. 

Tossing it into a bin behind him, he picked up the second box addressed to an aunt in New York and chanted the familiar, “Are there any liquids, flammable, or hazardous . . . ”

Later, two fellas chatted behind me. I freed my VISA from the credit card machine. 

The clerk marked the paper receipt to indicate the dates each box would be delivered before addressing the first guy. “What’s your post box number?”

The fella swirled and barged toward the counter.

Glad I didn’t hold the boxes, I dodged away from him.

The friend grabbed the barging fella by the shoulders. “Whoa, boy. Don’t knock the little lady down.”

“Oh, I didn’t see her there.” He doffed an imaginary hat and bowed. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

“No worries. I was just dancing to get out of your way.”

And I waltzed out of the post office. The kindness of strangers and the postal clerk kindled Christmas cheer, breezing through my open throat and tickling every cell in my body. Little things make the season.

Cards and Christmas Tree