At the witching hour, there was connection to the internet; the most likely links to the free pictures were checked, just the most likely. It was, after all, after midnight at the end of a nerve-wracking day, a time to have hit the sack already. There was a belief there was not the thinking power left to do the letter that needed to be done. If it couldn’t be done right, that was bad, too. Getting up early enough was a gamble. Starting about 6:45 a.m. and going very deliberate and slow, near 7:45 a.m. the letter was in the out-going mail.
Back in Dayton, established in the postal system, a training route, a part of route, was made out of the ends of two postal zones. It cut right through the neighborhood. The mail arrived anytime between 6:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. It was carried by someone who knew not streets or methods. And, as soon as possible, there was a transfer to a full-time route. There’s no space here for the troubles. There has been no trust of the reliability of the service since. From about 10:45 a.m. yours truly sat downstairs until the mail carrier came.
Once the mail carrier was seen, life could be more easy. Everything isn’t all done (more needs to go out, but Tuesday is soon enough). It was possible to rest, to the tune of doing so through six snoozing alarms. The trash is full, the scooter’s empty. The ankle’s swollen, the air bed is on it’s last legs. The computer connects at times. It all may hold out until daylight, and the only visiting to the cemetery will be a virtual one (given enough connection). That pays, too, to see what’s happening there.
Suppers should not be allowed to get cold.