This morning, hunkered over my bookbag in the post office lobby, fanny to the front door, I heard, "Hello, Robley!"
"Hi, Harold," I said, without turning around.
Sewanee is that kind of place. I knew from the sound of his voice that my mechanic had come in.
Upright, writing my card on a counter, I heard peeping, and turned to find Harold re-entering the lobby from the customer windows. He held a box with multiple holes.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Twenty-five Rhode Island Red chicks," he said, beaming.
I stopped in the garage between the post office and The Lemon Fair, and there on the desk was the box, peeping away.
Who knew the post office delivered such precious cargo? Not I!
"When I was a kid," Harold told me, "the mailman would bring them to the house. Now you have to come into town for them."
And to think -- the post office may stop delivering to everyone on Saturdays and stop delivering altogether to hundreds of small towns in rural America.
Then who'll bring the chicks? I wonder.