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  • If I don’t go into town, or if I’m not on the road for work, then in all likelihood I’ll see no one but R for days on end. That’s one of the things I like about working from home, working from a deep-country home. Long spells of birdsong against a backdrop of wind through the grasses.

    Call me a hermit at heart.

    People don’t just happen up our half-mile driveway in the middle of nowhere. If R’s away and I’m deep into a project, I’ll probably know more about what’s going on in the fields than in town.

    But the UPS man keeps me from going altogether feral.

    When it nears planting time--right about now--he comes almost every day with seeds I order from all over the world, heirloom varieties in danger of extinction. He always stops a moment or two to talk about the garden—What you planting today? Can’t get my carrots to grow!-- and the wildlife-- Hey, Barb, did you see that bobcat down the driveway? Wished I had my camera. He was sad when our dog died, keeps encouraging me to get another. He gives me the news of the area—I convinced those hobby farmers to release their poor pheasants before they all keeled over-- tries to convince me to let him haul our heavy garbage can back up the half-mile driveway when he catches me lugging it. I just laugh and wave him on.

    This is what he has done for 25 years for people all over this rural area—deliver packages, sure, but also a smile and news and the sense that someone cares. Then off he zooms, like a bobsledder in winter, a racecar driver in summer, to stay on track with his schedule and still be able to visit with people.

    As the sound of his big brown truck roaring up the driveway pulls me from my work this afternoon, I realize how much I, the loner, welcome the break, the connection, the reminder in the middle of the day that we still have delivery trucks, and people driving them who are far more than folks just doing a job.
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