Post office cows
If you mail me a present – and I hope you do – I’ll pick it up at the local post office, about five miles from my house. It’s in the same building as the hardware store, and beside the grocery store and deli, where you can also get propane* for the house and gas for the car. It’s one of those old school gas pumps where you have to flip down the handle before the gas comes out. I wish it was still accessorized by a team of attendants rushing out to fill ‘er up, clean the windshield, and flirt – those were the days.
Though lacking in gas pump jockeys, it’s not lacking in bucolic charm. Across the road is a field full of cows (see above), and across the highway is the Pacific Ocean. Slightly more attractive than the BART station of death.
Over the post office door is a swallow’s nest, with a thoughtfully provided cardboard shelf underneath. Every spring, there are peeping babies and proud parents greeting everyone who enters the post office.
Post office apples
This time of year, when there’s an abundance of apples, people drop them off at the post office, so those who are apple-deprived can pick them up. Not everyone is as lucky as we are, having a tree to pick apples from and make into pie for Sunday dinner. Last Sunday, we had a barbecue, roasted potatoes sprinkled with herbs (both from Megan’s garden), salad, and apple pie. It was so fun! We have decided that we’ll all have dinner together every Sunday from now on.
*I already got a bill for the tankful of propane. Guess how much it cost? $435! To paraphrase Eric Clapton, she don’t like, she don’t like, she don’t like…propane.