I noticed the flag a couple of weeks ago. The first time I saw it, I immediately knew what it was about.
I'm talking about the red flag on the side of the mailbox. It signals that there is outgoing mail inside. When it's up, it says "mail inside!" And even if the mail carrier has no mail for you that day, he will still stop at your box, open it, and retrieve your mail.
But I knew before I opened it and saw (no surprise) that there would be no outgoing mail inside.
It's a major pet peave of mail carriers. Folks either misunderstand what the red flag is for, or they understand but try to use it as an indicator that "you've got mail!" anyway -- assuming that the mailman will drop the flag upon delivering mail.
Usually the mail carrier doesn't. It aggravates most mail carriers so much that usually the mail carrier doesn't play that game. Usually the mail carrier puts the mail in the box ... and leaves the flag up.
The flag isn't there to tell you when you've got mail.
But here's the thing:
A few weeks ago I was speeding down 700S like I do every day. In the far distance I saw the very caricature of a little old man -- faded denim blue clothes hanging loosely on his shrunken frame -- tottering, stumbling, shuffling across the street to retrieve his mail. Each step only carried him a foot. No more than that.
He gets a newspaper. That makes the retrieval all that much more important to him. It's his connection to the world, and more importantly, to the town he's known for ninety years now.
I don't think I'd be exaggerating to say it probably took him every bit of 30 seconds to finally get across the street. I had first noticed him enter the street when I was still at least a half mile off. By the time I got to the house next to his, he had only just arrived at his mailbox.
And that's why he had started putting his flag up. It was to signal the arrival of his paper. As I had suspected (when I noticed the flag being up) it was costing him dearly to make that trip to the box ... only to find it still empty. He needed a way to save himself wasted trips.
I had a package for the neighbor next door and that took a minute or two to scan and deliver. By the time I finally reached him, he had made it -- empty handed -- back to the original side of the road. Back to his driveway.
Rather than pull beside his mailbox, I instead pulled my Jeep across the street and lowered the window opposite me -- the window that was now beside him. I said, "I bet you were waiting for this. Sorry I'm running late today," as I handed him his paper. I thought he looked surprised to see me there. But, no. That's the facial expression Parkinson's has left him with. Permanent surprise. And he couldn't stammer out anything intelligible. I took his brave attempt to do so anyway as "thank you", and responded, "you're welcome" and then I drove on.
Humbled. A little broken.
For weeks afterward I looked for him. I wondered if I'd catch him crossing the road again. I started imagining a longer story of him -- his situation, his health, his family (his is the family that still owns and farms more than a square mile of land behind and around his house).
Mostly I kept an eye out for him in hopes of telling him that I could, if he wanted, deliver his paper to his door if he would get one of those portable mailboxes with the concrete anchor foot.
Yesterday was the day. As I pulled up to the mailbox and looked across the street to his house (as I do every day) there he sat on the front porch. He and his wife.
I shut the mailbox I'd just opened and pulled my hand and the paper it was holding back into my Jeep and swung the Jeep around and up the long driveway.
I parked the Jeep, got out and as I was walking toward the porch, the old guy stood up and shuffled to the edge of the porch to greet me wordlessly. His wife remained seated behind him.
I handed him his paper and began explaining that I could bring the paper up to the house every day...
...and then realizing that he couldn't respond, I looked toward his wife. And then I looked back at him. I felt awkward. I didn't want to not look at him, rudely acting as though he wasn't there, though the only conversation that was going to happen -- I realized -- was with his wife.
And she said, "Well, that's his job every day. Getting the mail. That's his job."
And I thought so. Remember I said I'd been pondering the man's whole story ever since the first encounter? That's what I thought. I thought that the ritual of getting the mail was what passed for meaningful activity in this proud and once able man's diminution.
And now I was threatening to take even that away. Even though I had the best of intentions. I was patronizing.
God, how I hate patronizing old people. Just hate it.
And I was doing it.
"But" she continued, "he's getting worse...and the road traffic...and" And she asked me to clarify what kind of mailbox, and then concluded with "I'll talk to our son about getting a mailbox".
I walked away. I didn't feel good about it. I still don't.
Today the flag was up again. I looked over at the porch to see if a portable mailbox with a concrete anchor foot is there now. So far, so good. I haven't yet taken the old man's job away.