I was walking out the door yesterday to get Richard and found the mail had just been delivered.
Including a package that was addressed to the woman four doors down.
It was raining and I didn’t want to be late, so rather than run down there and back I simply pulled my car in front of her house and rang the doorbell. No answer. Huh. Do I put it in the slot on the garage? Is that where it usually goes? Would she find it if I put it by the door? Would she find it on the floor in there if she always goes in and out through her garage from her car? (Which she does. To those reading this and looking surprised, I know: a Californian who actually uses her garage for her car. She’s the only one I know who does.)
Eh, keep it simple, the door, it’s out of the rain–while the mailman sat in his truck directly across the street from my car, avoiding eye contact.
I sent her off a note this morning telling her why her package was where it was if that was a weird place for it to be.
She emailed back a got it, thanks–and said she’d seen it when she’d come home from the central coast at eight last night: returning home from going to meet her first great grandchild. In pride and great joy she told me his name and she said being a great grandma was the best!!! with three exclamation points.
I might not even have known till the next Labor Day block party. Instead, because the mailman was in a little too much of a hurry to get out of the rain, my sweet neighbor got a chance to share just how very happy she was and I got to celebrate with her.
Perfect. I’m going to thank him next time I see him.
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