Free Beware of Cat by Vincent Wyckoff Page B

blanket?” I called to the crowd.
    Within seconds we were deluged with blankets, beach towels, and sweaters.
    Her eyes opened again as I covered her. A glint of light appeared, and I thought she actually looked at me. “You’re going to be okay,” I lied. “Help is just seconds away.”
    Then her eyes rolled back to a ghostly white stare. This time she really seemed gone. Squeezing her hands as hard as I could, I pleaded, “Please, don’t go away! Not after all this. Don’t you dare die on me!”
    A paramedic nudged me out of the way. Her lifeless hands flopped to the street as I let them go. I staggered through the crowd. That final vision haunted me for days.
    One morning a few days later I overheard a fellow carrier describing how a car had hit a “dear old patron” on his route. I knew it had to be the same woman. Through him, I learned that she survived, although doctors had to put her in a coma for two weeks to protect her brain. Months later she was home, telling her letter carrier all about her injuries—and her revised tour plans. Within a year, the seventy-year-old woman completed her long-delayed journey to Norway. I’ve never seen her again, although I probably wouldn’t recognize her if I did. That first meeting was enough for me.

    FOR A WEEK OR SO around Christmas I augment my uniform with a Santa Claus hat and beard. The little kids have a blast with that, and most of their parents enjoy it, too. One year I wore a full Santa outfit on Christmas Eve Day. Fortunately, it was cold enough to warrant the extra layer of clothing.
    Santa Claus seems to bring out the child in all of us, and many adults get into the spirit of it, too. They greet me with a “Good morning, Santa!” whether they have children at home or not. The Santa hat and beard brings smiles to their faces and a bit of cheer to the neighborhood. But the little children are the ones who really make it great. They stand at the door, excitement pulsing through them, too shy to actually say anything. It’s even better, should I happen to have a package for them.
    “Thank you, Santa,” they say timidly, eyes full of wonder.
    Then I have to tell them, “I’m not really Santa Claus, you know. I’m just his helper. But the next time I see him, I’ll tell him what a great kid you are.”
    The excitement bubbles over then, and words tumble out of even the shyest ones, joyful at meeting Santa’s helper. I have to admit, though, it’s twice as much fun for me.

    ONE SUMMER DAY the rumble of an approaching Harley-Davidson broke through my midday musings as I delivered mail. A full-dressed police motorcycle was leading a funeral procession. Warning lights flashed on either side of the windshield, with another one rotating from a post extending off the rear fender. The uniformed officer raced into the intersection to secure it for the long line of cars that followed.
    Whenever I see motorcycle cops I’m compelled to watch them pass, perhaps because they seem like a throwback to a less complicated era in history and law enforcement. Or, more likely, it’s simply because there aren’t that many of them around anymore. With flashing lights and deep-throated engines, polished chrome and glistening paint, starched uniforms, a heavy brass badge, and law enforcement insignia on the shoulders, you have the classic picture of police power and prestige.
    The motorcycle sped into the intersection, stopping at an angle to face crossing traffic. A knee-high boot stepped out to support the bike. Dark aviator-style sunglasses peered out from beneath a short black visor on the helmet. An Adam’s apple bobbed as a gloved hand rose to halt oncoming traffic. Only one vehicle approached, driven by a young man I recognized from my route.
    Still a teenager, Darryl had been driving for only a couple of years. He used the old family car to attend a nearby two-year college. Slouched low in the seat, his head barely rising above the dashboard, he held the steering