Beware of Cat (5 page)

My Brother’s Brother

For a short time a young mother, with her son and daughter, rented the first floor of a two-story duplex on my route. I didn’t get to know them all that well because they moved on again in just a little more than a year. From change-of-address labels I knew they arrived in Minneapolis from the Red Lake Ojibwe Reservation in northern Minnesota, and they returned to the reservation when they left.

The six-year-old boy caught the school bus on the corner where I parked when delivering mail on their block. His thick black hair sprouted out in wild tufts, and he lugged a Winnie-the-Pooh backpack. His older sister, perhaps ten or eleven years old, accompanied him to the corner to catch the bus.

When we spoke, he always referred to me as “Sir,” or “Mister.” A couple of times I was startled, turning from putting mail in a box, to find him, watching me in silence. He had an odd way of staring off to the side when we talked. Sometimes his expression became so serious that it looked like his eyes didn’t quite line up, as if he were studying something no one else could see.

Because he was so young his vocabulary was limited, but he spoke with that intriguing, musical Ojibwe lilt. He had a peculiar way of stringing words together, or maybe it was simply his delivery, that reminded me of an old man.

One day, he told me about a dog his family had once owned. When he said the dog’s name was Blackie, I thought of a black lab, or some big, mixed-breed animal, until he informed me that the dog was actually yellow.

“Just his name was Blackie. He was a
good
dog,” he said. “We played together in the woods near our house. I could go there only if Blackie came with me. He was a
good
dog,” he repeated several times, shaking his head.

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“My uncle shot him,” the boy replied. “But he was a
good
dog.”

Sometime later, I learned from his sister that Blackie had been very old, and his uncle had put him down when he became sick.

The strangest conversation we had, however, occurred one morning when I encountered them waiting for the bus on the corner. Getting out of my jeep, I asked them how school was going. We stood there talking, the little boy describing a pet turtle he kept at school. Then the weirdest thing happened. I never saw the boy look up, but all of a sudden, midway through his description, he stopped and pointed at the sky. Then he slowly tipped his head back and searched the sky above us.

“Sis!” he exclaimed. “An eagle! We have to go home and do the tobacco.”

His sister put an arm around his shoulder, explaining that it would be okay to wait until after school for the tobacco. She used an Ojibwe expression for the ritual, which I didn’t understand. Because of the way the boy pointed at the sky before even looking up, I was a little suspicious of a practical joke. When I finally snuck a quick peek overhead, however, I was shocked to see a mature bald eagle gliding in lazy circles just fifty feet above the intersection.

I’ve seen many eagles in northern Minnesota, or along the Mississippi River, but never over a residential section of South Minneapolis. And the fact that the bird flew so low was a little unnerving. The strangest part was that he looked down at us. He was probably just wary of our presence, but I would have sworn he looked right at the little boy.

We watched the eagle for several moments before I asked the girl what her brother meant by “doing the tobacco.” It took a while for her to respond. She was thinking, pursing her lips, and I wasn’t sure if she didn’t want to say, or didn’t know how to say it. Finally, she told me they burn an offering of tobacco to honor the eagle’s spirit.

I asked her why they honor the eagle. Even though she seemed uncomfortable talking about it, in the end I guess she decided it was okay because I was a friend of her brother.

“The eagle is my brother’s totem,” she said.

I nodded, although I wasn’t too sure what that meant. Then she added, “The eagle is my brother’s brother.”

There were several ways to consider that answer, but the bus came before I could ask any more questions. Within seconds the children were gone, and the rumble of the school bus faded away around the corner. Before heading off down the block to deliver mail, I took one last look above me, but the eagle had disappeared, too.

Pride and Prejudice

While casing mail one morning I came across a photo on a postcard that caught my attention. I have to admit that taking a peek at the picture side of postcards is a habit. It takes but a moment to look at the picture and move on. I know that other carriers do the same, because when a truly unique card comes along, we tend to share the picture with each other. Of course, after you look at postcards for a couple of decades, they begin to lose their novelty. After all, how many views of the Grand Canyon, or some nameless beach in the tropics, do you want to see? But glancing at the photo side of cards has become a habit, if for no better reason than to break the monotony of casing mail.

Sometimes I’m amazed at the things people mail. I’ve delivered stamped coconuts from Hawaii, the address and message written in permanent black marker. One time I delivered a letter rolled up and sealed inside a plastic bottle. The address was written on a self-stick label, and the postage strip was wrapped around the neck of the bottle. I’ve listened to live pigeons in shipping crates with air holes, and handled cartons containing thousands of mealyworms for fishing. But perusing picture postcards as they come along is a daily affair. How some of them are allowed through the mail system is beyond me.

That was the nature of the postcard I came across this particular morning. The subject was a beach volleyball player in action. As she dove for a shot, she appeared to have played her well-endowed self right out of the top of her bikini. But the thing that really shocked me was that the card was addressed to a woman named Audrey, an elderly widow on my route.

Upon closer inspection, the handwriting looked familiar. Sure enough, the signature revealed that Audrey’s retired next-door neighbor, Lorraine, had sent the card. Having raised their families next door to each other, they had been close friends for nearly fifty years. Both are widows, and I often see them with Lorraine’s sister, Marilyn, driving off to garage sales or a day of shopping. They always honk and wave at me like a carload of teenage girls. Lorraine was on a short winter vacation in Arizona, thus the subject matter of the card.

I’ve always been a firm believer in the sanctity of the mail, and everyone’s right to privacy. On the other hand, the message sides of postcards are right out there for anyone to see. This particular card had tweaked my curiosity. I knew Lorraine had a great sense of humor, but I couldn’t imagine why she’d be sending such an explicit postcard to Audrey. So, even though I don’t approve of reading someone else’s mail . . .

Lorraine began with all the usual stuff, the sunny, warm weather in Arizona, and how nice it was to see flowers blooming in January. Then, right in the middle of the text, in capital letters, I read, “HI VINCE!” I was so surprised; it was like getting caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I actually looked behind me to see if anyone was watching. She went on, “I’m guessing that if you see this picture you’ll be reading the card. I’ll find out when I get home. Hope you have a nice day!” She even added one of those smiley faces.

I thought about playing dumb, but the next time I saw Lorraine I cracked up. “Aha!” she exclaimed, laughing at my inability to keep a straight face. “I knew you’d read that card.”

IN THE AGING BLUE-COLLAR
neighborhood where I deliver mail, I see many retired folks on a regular basis. Over the years I’ve developed some really close relationships. For instance, I’ve been invited to Lorraine’s annual Christmas party for the last ten or fifteen years. The whole neighborhood, for blocks around, shows up. It’s a huge open house with wonderful food. The party gives me the chance to talk with patrons for more than the couple of minutes I have when I see them on the route.

Another elderly woman on my route makes homemade caramel candies. She gives me a package of them each year, about fifty bite-sized, hand-formed squares meticulously wrapped in waxed paper, all tightly packed into a box originally used for chocolates.

This woman is also one of three retired ladies who scrounge the neighborhood together collecting aluminum cans. Wire baskets attached to their bicycles hold the bounty of their harvests. Dressed in sweat pants and old jackets and wearing rubber kitchen gloves, they’ll even help each other climb into dumpsters in search of their quarry. When a chain slips off or a tire goes flat, they get their fingers right in there, smudging themselves up good with chain oil and grease. Sometimes they walk the neighborhood together, clearing cans, as well as other garbage, from the curbsides. When they’ve collected half a dozen large garbage bags of crushed cans, they haul them to the recycler, collect their pay, and use it to go out to lunch together.

I tease them regularly about their fashion statements, but they just laugh. Either they’re beyond the age of caring what people think, or they just know better. I don’t wave at them when they’re on their bicycles anymore, though. Not since the time one of them took a hand off the handlebar to wave back and nearly crashed into a parked car.

It’s a wonderful project on many levels. Not just the fact that they clean up the streets and parks, although that’s certainly worthwhile in itself. I so admire this independent spirit of getting out and doing something. Instead of soap operas and sedentary retirements, they’re out rain or shine, biking and walking and laughing. I love seeing them outside, getting exercise and having fun together.

ONE OF THE LAST STOPS
on my route is a city park building that houses programs and classes for neighborhood residents. There’s a lot more joking around than actual bending or stretching in the weekly stretching and yoga class for seniors, but at least they’re out there. Then they all pile into vehicles, drive one block to the corner bakery, and hang out eating pastries and drinking coffee.

One day when I entered the park building, music of the Big Band era reverberated around the lobby. At first I thought it might be a dance class in the auditorium, but closer listening revealed several notes landing flat or tailing off sharp. I suspected it wasn’t a recording. One thing for sure, it was lively and loud!

I don’t know the names of those old swing tunes, but they immediately put me in mind of the 1930s or World War II. Les Brown and Glenn Miller.

After delivering the mail to the front desk, I asked where the music was coming from. A young man looked up from his computer terminal and nodded toward the hallway. “There’s a bunch of old guys down there practicing.”

“Think they’d mind if I looked in on them?”

He laughed. “They probably won’t even know you’re there.”

The sound grew louder and the amateur quality became more apparent as I got closer. A clarinet continually squealed off at the end of phrases. A window in the door allowed a view of several rows of chairs lined up in arcs facing an elderly band- leader. All the band members were men, and a few women, probably wives, stood off to one side.

The audience of women was watching with toe-tapping enthusiasm. It was easy to envision them listening to this same music fifty years ago. Their wavy ringlets had all turned gray, and flashy high heels had been replaced by sensible, wide-soled support shoes, but they still had energy and fun on their faces. They reminded me of a group of teenage girls from my generation hanging around listening to a garage band playing rock and roll.

A quick twist of the doorknob and I ducked inside. The young man at the front desk had been right; nobody seemed to notice my entrance. A double bass threatened to fall over and squash the slender little man plucking away on it. He wore his white hair slicked straight back, and his whole body rocked with the rhythms he produced as his left hand rappelled up and down the neck of the huge instrument.

Two violins, a cello, and several reeds took up the front row;
I thought I spotted the squealing clarinet. But brass—trombones, trumpets, and a tuba—constituted the majority of the band,
lining the back rows.

The overall effect was a haphazard unison. The bandleader wore a sport coat with trousers that stopped about three inches too short. His gestures were emphatic, the baton and his arms swinging far and wide, but try as he might he could not slow down the momentum of this group of musicians. The song ripped ahead with an energy all its own. Legs bounced out the beat as bodies rocked to the rhythm. A bow tie here, a “proud grandpa” T-shirt there. A dapper, pencil-line thin mustache, and shorts with knee-high socks.

From a technical standpoint, the music really wasn’t very good. But it had an undeniable passion. These were the guys that, as young men, had marched off to confront fascism and the Rising Sun. They had charged ahead with an irrepressible fervor. Later, they had built families and industries, and now, in their golden years, they continued to exhibit their independence and a zest for life through their music.

I couldn’t stop my foot from tapping any more than I could keep the smile off my face. The whole building struggled to contain the strength and independent spirit of this music. The conductor desperately tried to keep up with his band, the clarinet continued to squeal, toes kept tapping randomly, and the grin on my face grew larger as the music swept me away.

When three trombone players in the middle row suddenly stood up to lead the way through a solo passage, I laughed in delight. It was not a crisp, unified movement for this group. Because of physical infirmities they sort of staggered to their feet. Even the conductor looked startled to see them rising. But I knew the classy image they were going for, and when they once again were seated the women and I spontaneously began clapping.

As far as I know they don’t make any public appearances, but once a month when I hear that catchy swing music cascading down the hallway, I pause for a moment to listen and soak up some of their energy.

MY INTERACTIONS WITH
elderly patrons on my route are many and varied. Sometimes senior citizens who host block parties for National Night Out get a kick out of having the mailman in attendance. On the other hand, I’ve paid my respects at several memorial services. Occasionally, I get a chance to help an elderly patron by mailing letters or buying postage. I push cars out of snowdrifts a couple of times each winter, and I’ve even hauled in a bag or two of groceries. For my part, it’s comforting to know that if I slip on a patch of ice and get hurt, or get sick and can’t go on, there are literally hundreds of people nearby who are willing to help me.