Flower Power
Editorial by City Carrier Jonathan Belvin, Penn Hills, PA Post Office
I’ve been on my route for about three years now, and aside from the lack of actual bathrooms, the stairs, hills, dogs, and people, it’s pretty decent. The best thing about it is that I have almost as many vacant houses as occupied ones. The feeling of skipping past two or three houses in a row, especially on a rough day, is divine. It can only be surpassed by dying and finding out that there’s an open-bar in heaven and you’ve done just enough good deeds to make the cut. Sure there will be better parties in hell, but heaven will without a doubt have air conditioning.
The worst thing about my route is two-fold. The first part being Fort Flowers, the home of a little old lady named Mrs. Marigold. She insists that I preserve the sanctity of her invisible garden by not crossing her lawn. More on this later.
The second part is the burdock. Specifically the little seed carrying burrs that hitch a ride on the “letter carrier express” every time she makes me go around her lawn.
The house before hers is a rear delivery with two paths to Fort Flowers. One of these is a direct route to the mailbox. Unfortunately, it takes you through the garden, or more accurately, the make-believe flowerbed that Mrs. Marigold pretends exists.
The other path takes you through a gauntlet of demonic weeds that ambush any unsuspecting travelers sent their way. Once the evil stems and stalks of this plant detect movement, they unleash the spawn of the underworld—the burdock burrs.
These spiky burr seeds cling to you like Velcro and quickly forget that they need grass to grow. Instead, they choose to penetrate your clothes with stinging barbs that cause itchy rashes and refuse to ever let you go.
I confess that whenever Mrs. Marigold isn’t home, I happily prance through her invisible garden like a prima ballet dancer doing a fouetté en tournant, spinning, and bouncing the whole way. I don’t do this out of spite. Okay, I admit taking a little pleasure in it. But mostly it’s the intense relief I feel about not having to smuggle any burdock seeds across the border.
There are uniforms that I’ve washed, dried, and pressed, that I still refuse to wear to this day. That’s because I know that somewhere hidden in the fabric, waiting to poke me in delicate unsuspecting places, is an evil cluster of burdock burrs.
I often fantasize about deploying an army of burdock munching rabbits in the neighborhood, and laughing inside my mail truck as they hop from house to house delivering postal justice. For now, I’ll just go on complimenting Mrs. Marigold on her imaginary flowers and spreading the burdock menace, one hitchhiking seedling at a time.
End Tour