jeez, louise

I was told today by my half-former employee and half-gym coach that I am to take the day off from working out. I only went the one day, so I was confused by that, but apparently, there are requisite rest days between working certain muscle groups. I don’t know enough about that to question it.

In the absence of anything productive to look forward to, I laid in bed from approximately 5:00 a.m. until 12:30 p.m., rolling and nodding and lamenting the empty Wednesday. I typically don’t wake up that early, but I had a weird dream that left me feeling more bereaved than rested. Pablo was laid up to me the whole time and his incessant grooming started to look pretty good, so I went and shaved and put on lotion and all that. Ready for the …! Nothing, clear docket. I hadn’t run into this problem yet- usually I had at least one task on my list that I could use as inertia.

I’ve had the urge to go see Ms. Jacky’s house recently. I first became acquainted with Ms. Jacky during my brief stint as a postman. As a postal worker, you begin as a CCA, which basically means you have no labor laws and also no set route. One day, I was lucky enough to be assigned to City Route 16, the shortest route in the office that ran zig-zags through the city’s older neighborhoods, covering a few apartments at the start and then houses, half with curbside boxes, half with mail slots in the door. A lot of my coworkers didn’t like this route, due to the amount of dismounting one had to do to service all of the door slots, so when the regular went on leave, I put a hold-down on the route (which is a temporary assignment where you have that route everyday until the regular returns). A hold-down was a great thing, it allowed me to develop relationships and routine on the route. Which brings us to Ms. Jacky, which isn’t actually her name, it’s just what KV, my best friend at the post office (this was not mutual), dubbed her. Ms. Jacky would get at least three packages a day, which tended to be on the small side, but my first foray to her cottage-like home tucked in a quiet loop between two major roads had me dropping off five large boxes. As I pulled up to the curb in front of her house, the first thing that caught my eye was the sheer amount of flowers in the yard, pops of yellow and blue creating a semi-circle from driveway to property line that crested at the front door. See, the first day on City Route 16 was filled with these moments that forcibly rip you from your head and shoot you towards the world, all the ivy laden old-brick homes and gardens with little wooden gates. I noticed a pair of shears waving at me from behind a rectangular shrub. The shears disappeared and were replaced by a thin, older woman with short hair and a welcoming grin. She came up to the truck, I can only presume that’s because she knew today was a big delivery. We made small conversation that I don’t remember, but I do remember her grabbing at a box to help me carry it. Now, these boxes were like 30 pounds each, which isn’t a ton, but perhaps past the level where I’m comfortable letting someone grandmother-adjacent carry them. So, I insisted on making multiple trips. Ms. Jacky interpreted this differently than I did, so instead of walking with me to her front door, she directed me down the driveway to a side door.

“You can just place those in the room down the hall.”

Now, people generally are very hospitable to postal workers. I’ve been given cakes and candy and water and all that, plus there’s an added institutional trust between the USPS and the general population (at least where I’m at). I’m default trustworthy because I’m wearing my tiny blue shorts and driving a deathtrap from the late 1970’s. But inviting me into your home? That’s a little much. But I couldn’t say no, not to Ms. Jacky. There was something about her that was too warm, like laying on hot pavement. So, I moved the boxes into a spare bedroom in her room in a couple trips, all the while making small-talk. That’s when I first fell in love with City Route 16.

I had similar experiences with other people along the route- there was one house that I was particularly smitten with. Unfortunately, I don’t have the architectural vocabulary to paint a good picture of it, but I’ll try. It was a two-story brick home, with perfect green grass a white picket fence outlining a small box right in front of the entry way. On the left side of the property was a kudzu-infused iron gate, leading behind the home with a cobblestone pathway underneath. The windows were always open, but only to about 45 degrees. These always gave me the impression of a cartoon where there’s a pie on the windowsill. Well, one day I was bringing a package to the mailbox which sat on top of the fence and the owner walked out of the front door to receive me. I told him I loved his house, it’s my favorite one in the city. This must have tickled him greatly because next thing I know, I’m in the living room.

“This house was built in the 1920’s and these are the original pine walls! This is the original staircase! That’s why it smells like wood in here.” He explained, pointing around the house. He told me about how he and his wife found and bought the property. It was the 70s or 80s and they were renting a place on an adjacent street, about a block down. One day, they were on a walk and saw this house with a “For Sale” sign out front. As they admired the house, much in the same way I did, the owner came out, much in the same way he did, and talked with him. The house had been put on the market four hours ago. And so the cozy brick building traded tenants.

So, today, I had a craving for seeing these houses from my memory, for taking a walk along City Route 16. Luckily, it’s only about fifteen minutes from my apartment, so I headed out. Perhaps I’d have as serendipitous an experience as the owner of that pie-on-the-windowsill house, you really never know. The walk wasn’t much to talk about, no one was outside but pest control and landscapers, but still, I’m happy I went. Because something could have happened. I stopped by Ms. Jacky’s house and smelled the (googling what the flower could have been) primroses that sat along the sidewalk, I slowed my stride in front of the brick house and imagined the original pine walls. I took a little detour to look at a house styled like a French Quarter home with a wood door and gate blocking entrance to both the garden and the home behind it. Unfortunately, there were no familiar faces to greet me and I unfortunately didn’t have my recognizable uniform on, but still, it was worth the attempt, I had a really great day.

Moseying doesn’t necessarily have to be purposeless, I mean, I had a purpose today. But there wasn’t really anything to gain from my walk, not in any material sense. That made it all the more worthwhile. The point wasn’t to learn or to put on muscle or to clear my head, it was just to see some old houses and some old faces and maybe be offered a deal on a beautiful home that had just been put up for sale. I woke up this morning a little dejected from having nothing to do, no way to make strides in my grand project. But maybe it’s the seemingly purposeless days that affect you the most. You can never really know what will happen when you’re out and about. So, mosey more. Life is out there to be experienced, for its own sake.