A Conversation About: Timing

By Jean Thomas

I had a talk with my mail carrier the other day. She and I often beep and wave as she goes about her appointed rounds. We steal a few minutes whenever she has to deliver a package too big for the mailbox. She hands over the item and we talk about the gardens we tend. And what chat with a neighbor is complete without weather and seasonal observations? She’s nearing her retirement and has seen her route grow to several hundred patrons and a daily circuit of seventy five miles. At seventy five miles a day, over the same terrain, over a couple of decades, she has developed a fine-tuned appreciation for the passage of the seasons. My own, more stationary, observations during the same decades, mesh with hers. Ours is a relationship of a rare purity. Our paths converge over delivery of stuff I want, and who doesn’t think well of the bearer of stuff they want? We have swapped plants and veggies over the years. And sometimes personal stuff seeps into the conversation. Never politics or gossip… we’re too busy for that. Out longest conversations last for minutes, not hours. No leisurely chat, although an occasional baked good transaction happens.

So what was the latest conversation about? It’s March… Lions in and lambs out and ice storms with trucks sliding past mailboxes or dogs learning to skate. And timing. I reminisced about the St. Paddy’s Day they were golfing in shirtsleeves at the course next door. She remembered a cold snap that froze daffodils, usually impervious at this time of year. We compared notes on the seasonal events we were seeing. I told her about seeing flowers on a maple by the road, but had to admit it was only by squinting at a low branch and the “flowers” were only at the smallest of bud stages. We smiled and enjoyed the talk of the coming blush of red on the maples and the golden gleam of the willows against the sky. We also agreed it couldn’t be soon enough for us. (Neither of us is afraid of a cliché.) She has a section of her route that’s a little lower elevation than the rest, where she keeps a sharp eye out for signs of spring. She’s seen some pussy willows, and swears that she saw buds on some Forsythia. I choose to believe her.

As we stood chatting, I with my precious carton of new books, we must have presented a comical sight. The dog lay on the warmest spot of gravel he could find, resting after greeting her, his BFF for the past decade. She in her USPS uniform and I in my jammies and slippers, we stood side by side, never making eye contact. We were too busy scanning the lawn and driveway flowerbeds for greenery. From time to time one of us would point and the other nod. She lives a tad up the mountain from me, so my spring happens a bit earlier than hers and I’m happy to share.

Time for her to go. Dog says goodbye, she cranks her elderly vehicle into reluctant motion, and continues on her day. Our discussion was done for now. We agreed about our weariness with winter, and looked forward. I don’t know about her, but her quick stop with some new books was perfect timing.