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Not-So-Happy Hour
Louise Keeling | Cuchara Drive

There was a time when my elderly good neighbors down the street looked forward to the five o’clock hour (pm). They’d kick off their shoes, pour the chardonnay, and enjoy looking at what was left of their ocean view.

Now it’s more complicated. The U.S. Post Office delivers the daily mail and it’s just come......so time for the man of the house to bend over slowly to put on his sturdy walking shoes, stretch his stiff arms into his sweater (because it’s chilly outside by now) and search for the necessary items: the basket to carry the mail, the head-lamp given to him by his son...so he doesn’t have to use a flash-light, and his sturdy walking stick that helps him get out his door, down the driveway, and approach the dome-shaped box. It’s pitch dark by now, and with luck he opens the box, gathers the day’s contents and slowly makes his way back up the driveway to the house. Hopefully he doesn’t drop any of the many mailings because bending over to pick it up is not so easy, and the head-lamp might slip. Back in the house, he doffs the sweater and shoes, and realizes it’s too late for cocktails.....time for dinner.

Hope springs eternal when one goes for the mail....maybe, just maybe, there’s a personal note amongst the many ads for after-Christmas bargains or announcements of the million dollar houses for sale in the neighborhood.
My Hope is that this coming year our street will not be the last one on our faithful mailman’s route, as we have learned it is now. It’s our turn to be getting mail before our afternoon naps and chardonnay.


 

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