I had communion at the Post Office this morning.
I'd finally finished stuffing, labeling, and sealing all one hundred sixty-four packages of catalogs. Manhandling the three tubs full of packages into the Taurus was another adventure. I was mentally dissing myself for being such a wuss and thinking they were heavy when I discovered that each package weighed 1.01 lbs. Do the math.
While I was making my second trip into the P.O. with a tub, another car pulled in. A rarity in this small town. The middle-aged lady stomped out her cig and slammed the door of her rust-spotted truck. We exchanged good-mornings and she seemed pleased when I commented on the two Jack Russels bounding around the interior of the truck, ricocheting off the windows and barking devoutly. Inside, she brushed off my apology at her having to wait so long to be waited on (my mailing took half an hour to process with the level of technology granted a Post Office of so little consequence) with "No, I don't mind. I have to stack wood when I get back home, so this is great." She grabbed another Sharpie and helped me write "media mail" on all the packages (a Post Office of so little consequence does not own a stamp of the sort). And we talked. She's trying to sue her credit card company. She canned tomatoes yesterday. I should never buy furniture from a company downtown because it's inferior quality. The lazy boy she bought from them keeps breaking down. She used to work in an office. "Thank you for calling me a lady! No one ever calls me that."