So Mojo, as we have said countless times in the past, lives in the sticks. There are about 1,200 people in town, and I probably know about half of them--the ones that frequented the library, as well as those serving on various town committees and other sundry political offices, and service folk I frequently encounter--mostly the postmistress, since as far as service industries go it's that and the general store, and I sort of got out of the habit of going to the general store when the old owners left and it was not functional for a year or so. But I digress.
Anyway, the town is small enough that if you just stick your head into the window at the post office, the post office lady greets you by name, yells at you for not picking up your mail as often as you should (thanks to the innertubes I conduct most of my bidness online now, so the mail is not as crucial as it once was), commiserates about the passing of your next door neighbor (that was awful; poor Pete), and runs and gets your packages from the shelf without bothering to consult the little yellow slip of paper she had left in the mailbox. Everyone in town has to come to the PO because there's no delivery, so she probably knows more people in town than I ever did, but that's beside the point. Consequently, thanks to years of chatting, I pretty much know where she lives--at least the street--and since no one really lives out here, being about two miles away makes us just about neighbors. So we are reasonably friendly and chatty on those rare occasions when I bother to pick up my mail, especially for someone as dour and misanthropic as Mojo.
Indeed, being the sort who is not behaviorally suited to serve others without a great deal of grumbling and eye-rolling, Mojo does her best to treat those who *DO* serve others with Kindness and Gratitude. In fact, just around Thanksgiving, when I had stuck my head in the window to pick up something or other, I acknowledged that the holiday season was coming up, and some people are not as jolly and peaceful as the carols decree, so I thanked her in advance for what was going to be her busy (and perhaps occasionally awful) time and promised not to make a pest of myself any more than usual.
Thanks to new and improved family gift-giving rules, I REALLY didn't have much shopping to do, and what little I had was done fairly quickly and easily and barely involved the U.S. Postal Service one bit. (The poor dears are going down the tubes, aren't they? But again, I digress.) I am also the sort who OBSESSIVELY TRACKS my packages and makes sure they are where they are supposed to be. Which left me today, on Christmas Eve, with but one not delivered. THAT one was a gift to myself, a book from Amazon (Okay, so it was TARTINE BREAD, if you must know) and it wasn't due to be delivered until December 30th. So I was all good.
I spent the morning elsewhere--it involved nuns; I will leave it at that--and stopped on the way home for some last minute groceries so we won't starve to death on Christmas day, and came home. It has been DREARILY RAINING all week, and as I sloshed to the house I noticed some skid marks in the mud that I was pretty sure were not there when I left in the morning. So I was all like, hmmm, and idly wondering if I was to encounter pirates or bears or a horde of circus freaks when I went inside the house, but there was nobody but Fred and Rosie to greet me. (Sadie is still with us, but she utterly ignores me unless she happens to be hungry, and is usually cowering upstairs if someone comes anywhere near the house.)
So I do all my coming home chores, putting away groceries, getting bread dough ready for tomorrow, bringing in firewood, getting the wood stove stoving again, and I finally sit down to a late lunch while watching DVDs. (Okay, so it's the latest SIMPSONS--season 17, if you must know. I've watched them all once already, but now I must go through them all and listen to the commentaries. Because yes, Mojo is that lame.) Somewhere during lunch and DVDing, I notice that Fred is showing WAY TOO MUCH INTEREST in the dog door. To the point where he slunk over to it, got shocked by the scat mat that keeps the wee kitlings AWAY from the dog door, and leaped back as though, well, shocked. I think this is VERY ODD, so I go over to see what's so gosh-darned interesting. Sometimes the dog drags weeds or branches through the door; who knows.
It's THEN I see there's a BOX against the wall, right next to the dog door. An AMAZON box. And inside is my TARTINE BREAD book. Which was still in transit, last I checked. Cue the TWILIGHT ZONE music: doo-doo doo-do, doo-doo doo-do.
Which can only mean one thing: the book came earlier than promised, and my postal lady friend thought I might need it for Christmas, and drove it over to deliver it. And, when I was not home, and probably greeted by a happy and muddy dog, she followed the dog to the dog door and left it in the house via the dog door. Which at first I thought was a wee tad creepy, but then I thought about it, and I know her well enough to know that it was meant well, and she was giving me that little extra bit of service that NICE service people give while people like Mojo are saying stuff like "I'm off the clock; go to hell." I figure she probably drives past on her way home, and thought in her service-oriented mind, "I will drop this off for Mojo in case she needs this package to give to someone as a special gift." Which was only to myself, it turns out, but was still thoughtful nonetheless.
So here I am, out in the middle of nowhere on Christmas Eve, all alone in the wilderness (at least until the Favorite Husband decides to drag himself home), and yet there are still connections. So Mojo is all "Awww" and now feels obligated to do something nice for post office lady the next time I see her. Or maybe yell at her for trespassing. Haven't made up my mind yet.
Anyway, have a good holiday, in whatever manner you choose to celebrate it.