Free Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 16 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant Page B
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
to what could only be described as heroic effort: the grapevines stretching and straining to reproduce the cut-away. The other something surging, just below the window, turned out to be crabgrass. When she leaned forward from the waist up, careful not to slide, she saw it waving, already higher than the camellias, so high it almost blocked out the Jeep Wagoneer that passed and re-passed the driveway, glowing orange.
If growth continued at its current rate, Roger would need a scythe to reach the front door. Finding someone to sell him a scythe after five o'clock might pose a problem. But Roger was resourceful. She had faith.
She sat back on her heels, electing, in what seemed her best interests, to stay quiet and uncompetitive. The larger black hat with the sweeping veil had definitely begun to crowd. At least there were no sailor hats among the bunch. Roger would be very glad to skip that standoff. No negotiating with sailor hats. No sailor hats to distract or cause distraction. She had absolute confidence Roger would take full advantage of that strategic blunder, when and if the crabgrass let him through.
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Three Urban Folk Tales
Eric Schaller
I. The Postman
There was a postman whose father was a postman and his father a postman before him. Like them, the postman wore a blue-gray uniform with a stripe down the pants leg and, like them, he delivered mail on six days out of the week, resting on Sunday as was the tradition. Times change and traditions change, and many of the postman's brethren took to wearing running shoes. Some even wore spikes so as not to slip on the icy winter sidewalks. But the postman still wore black leather shoes and polished these to a high gloss before he went on his rounds each morning.
The postman walked most of the time, but at a pace that made the pedestrians seem statues frozen in mid-stride, he a breeze sliding amongst them. Over the years, he came to know his postal route so well that he could predict under which awnings the birds would build their nests and the number of icicles that would descend from any given rain gutter. He could have walked his route blindfolded. He even did this once, at night, when the entire city was dreaming, just to prove to himself the possibility, and did not stub a toe.
When your feet know the path then your mind is free, and so the postman was never bored, whistling a tune as he walked that put the birds to shame.
One day the postman found that roadwork had begun on the street adjoining an apartment building to which he delivered the mail, along the route that he normally followed. Large machines now tore the street apart and other machines layered asphalt and tar, all under the supervision of men in uniforms. Furthermore, a tape of orange plastic with the words NO TRESPASSING blocked his path.
He approached the tape and touched it with his right hand.
A man dressed in blue and wearing a yellow hard hat called out to him. “Can't you read?” the man said. The question did not invite an answer.
The postman was bound by his code of employment to deliver the mail and so he decided to follow another route to the building, one of which he had heard but previously had no reason to use.
The route he chose was down a dark and narrow alleyway and was shorter than his normal delivery route. But, as luck would have it, he was set upon by a pack of dogs just when he thought he had reached the door to the building. These bit him and ripped his clothes, then raced off taking the bag of mail with them. The postman did not know whether to follow the dogs or to run off in the opposite direction. He sank to his knees and wept, for he was a proud man, and resolved to try yet another route.
The next day he followed the alleyway where the garbage from the apartment building was stored. Officially, the garbage was removed once a week but, at the time of this tale, the garbage collectors had been on strike for over a month and garbage
If growth continued at its current rate, Roger would need a scythe to reach the front door. Finding someone to sell him a scythe after five o'clock might pose a problem. But Roger was resourceful. She had faith.
She sat back on her heels, electing, in what seemed her best interests, to stay quiet and uncompetitive. The larger black hat with the sweeping veil had definitely begun to crowd. At least there were no sailor hats among the bunch. Roger would be very glad to skip that standoff. No negotiating with sailor hats. No sailor hats to distract or cause distraction. She had absolute confidence Roger would take full advantage of that strategic blunder, when and if the crabgrass let him through.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Three Urban Folk Tales
Eric Schaller
I. The Postman
There was a postman whose father was a postman and his father a postman before him. Like them, the postman wore a blue-gray uniform with a stripe down the pants leg and, like them, he delivered mail on six days out of the week, resting on Sunday as was the tradition. Times change and traditions change, and many of the postman's brethren took to wearing running shoes. Some even wore spikes so as not to slip on the icy winter sidewalks. But the postman still wore black leather shoes and polished these to a high gloss before he went on his rounds each morning.
The postman walked most of the time, but at a pace that made the pedestrians seem statues frozen in mid-stride, he a breeze sliding amongst them. Over the years, he came to know his postal route so well that he could predict under which awnings the birds would build their nests and the number of icicles that would descend from any given rain gutter. He could have walked his route blindfolded. He even did this once, at night, when the entire city was dreaming, just to prove to himself the possibility, and did not stub a toe.
When your feet know the path then your mind is free, and so the postman was never bored, whistling a tune as he walked that put the birds to shame.
One day the postman found that roadwork had begun on the street adjoining an apartment building to which he delivered the mail, along the route that he normally followed. Large machines now tore the street apart and other machines layered asphalt and tar, all under the supervision of men in uniforms. Furthermore, a tape of orange plastic with the words NO TRESPASSING blocked his path.
He approached the tape and touched it with his right hand.
A man dressed in blue and wearing a yellow hard hat called out to him. “Can't you read?” the man said. The question did not invite an answer.
The postman was bound by his code of employment to deliver the mail and so he decided to follow another route to the building, one of which he had heard but previously had no reason to use.
The route he chose was down a dark and narrow alleyway and was shorter than his normal delivery route. But, as luck would have it, he was set upon by a pack of dogs just when he thought he had reached the door to the building. These bit him and ripped his clothes, then raced off taking the bag of mail with them. The postman did not know whether to follow the dogs or to run off in the opposite direction. He sank to his knees and wept, for he was a proud man, and resolved to try yet another route.
The next day he followed the alleyway where the garbage from the apartment building was stored. Officially, the garbage was removed once a week but, at the time of this tale, the garbage collectors had been on strike for over a month and garbage
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