It's difficult to stop for a while delivering in the winter. The worst thing you could do is actually warm up, because you have to brave the frigid temperatures which causes a demoralizing cycle of readjusting to your surroundings. Simply eliminate the unnecessary warming up periods and you will amaze yourself that when you are comfortable in the cold, the more it doesn't bother you as much. Believe me, that is the mantra I chant in my head to continue on.
I have a quiet hatred for people that have nothing better to do than to wait for the letter carrier. For the most part they insist on starting a conversation that just goes nowhere before it even starts.
There are, of course, exceptions to this rule of mine.
On one hand is Miss Evelyn. An elderly black woman who spends most of her days in the common area looking outside and being overly miserable. At first, she would barely look at you and simply grunt when you hand-delivered her mail. Over the many months, she has warmed up to me immensely. It is a true testament for anyone to know that being pleasant and respectful to people goes a long way.
See, I would see Miss Evelyn everyday and would always greet her with a "hey, how are you?", and after my deliveries are finished for the housing area, would tell her to "have a nice day". It is now at a point where I make an effort to get her to laugh or at least smile when I give her excuses to why she didn't get mail for that day.
She wears her life on her face. I feel responsible to make sure she has something to look forward to daily in her later years.
Anyways, so I am at an apartment complex in town stuffing the boxes with a paper salad of bills, magazines, and circular promoting night classes at a local High School. All the while, my cold-as-rock fingers are getting cut up due to the jagged mailboxes.
Out comes this man wanting his mail.
During the summer I see him everyday and we talk while I sort out the mail for the building. We discuss the weather, as all older people do. We talk current events, and within only a few minutes, I hand him his mail and I am off to finish up.
I see him today and I notice that his Parkinson's disease is getting the best of him. He is at a constant state of unrest. To the point where it makes me uncomfortable just watching. It's a case of being unable to be of any help.
After saying thanks, he turns to go inside. As he does so, he drops a letter. Trying to recover before he notices, I snatch it up and handed it back to him.
"Thanks", he says again while dropping another letter. At this point he begins to rumble at himself in disappointment. Without hesitation, I bent over and grabbed the letter. As he was thanking me, I just had this image of him as a younger man. Being a member of the Boston Police, I couldn't help but picturing him in his earlier days cracking a youth in the mouth for disrespecting him.
And now time had thanked him by imprisoning him with this awful affliction.
"Oh, don't worry about it. Have a great day." It came out automatically. Like something had to have been said.
It was the only thing I could say.
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