Since spring hit, every morning when I drive down the long, long driveway, I see blue birds, gold finches, and rabbits zipping about in the grass, across the road, and through the air. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a real blue bird before.

What our taxes (don’t) pay for:

Example A:

A couple of years ago, according to the story told by our log cabin neigbhors, a discussion came before the county board about putting aside funding for the library bookmobile. One of the councilmen was fed up with people asking for more money, and he slammed his fist down on the table (at least in my version) and said, “If they want a bookmobile, let them use a wheelbarrow!”*

Example B:

We don’t have garbage pickup; instead, we have to toss the trash in the back of the truck and drive up to the dumpster village at the top of the street. Luckily, our dumpster village is not only very close but is also right across the street from the nearest convenience store/gas station/pizza place/tax filer/massage therapist. (Drop off trash…pick up pizza!) But…this isn’t the point. Yeah, we don’t have garbage service. Fine. We don’t pay nearly enough taxes for garbage service. I do think, though, that we pay enough for a couple cubic yards of dirt to fill in the St. Bernard-sized potholes that make the dumpster village look like it’s located in Baghdad.

*The next day a wheelbarrow appeared in the library and quickly filled with donations for the bookmobile.

The scythe arrived on Friday after a drawn out discussion with our rural letter carrier via notes in the mailbox. If we’d been in the city, I’d have had it on Monday evening. Tuesday morning at the latest. You see, when you live in the city and a package needs a signature, you merely leave work fifteen minutes early and swing by the post office. Out here, work and the post office are an hour apart, so we are at the mercy of the all-powerful rural letter carrier.

Shortly after we moved here, we received a pamphlet and a greeting from our rural letter carrier, Pat, and her backup, Debbie. Pat wanted to let us know that she was our post office on wheels. She shared this with us through the pamphlet that was, I’m fairly sure, a xerox copy of a mimeographed copy of a document pounded out on a typewriter sometime before I was born.

Some helpful hints from my post office on wheels:

— Rural customers need to affix postage onto their envelopes. (No longer can you put a chicken in the mailbox and expect your letters to get to their destination.)
— Do not alter your address as it was given to you by the post office. (Damn.)
— Rural carriers are not responsible for money left in unattended mailboxes. (Or chickens.)

Luckily for me, my mother was here and able to wait for Pat to appear with my scythe. According to my mom, Pat was a finely coifed little old lady. She sat in the passenger seat of her car. The steering wheel was in front of the driver’s seat. To steer the car, Pat reached over with her left hand and spun the wheel. My mom could only guess that there were pedals on Pat’s side of the car, but perhaps she has extremely long legs.

If all rural letter carriers drive like Pat, the helpful hint on the pamphlet to keep children far away during mail delivery time makes a lot more sense.