Just Making Do

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” The mailman’s motto, though quite unofficial, elevates the dedicated, yet quite ordinary, mail delivery person to an almost heroic status. The very cordial lady who places the bits of written correspondence into my Noel, Mo., roadside mailbox seems quite competent, yet very ordinary.

I find that I am most astonished by her amazing ability to operate her pickup truck from the wrong side of the front seat. She seems all too comfortable there as if maneuvering her small white pickup from that most unnatural of driving positions was somehow an inherited trait. I do however, wonder how she manages to speak into the box while placing an order at a fastfood establishment. I must visit one of those food vendors one day around the noon hour and wait for someone of her occupation to place an order. Maybe my curiosity might then be satisfied.

Now let me get nearer to the point of this story. This tale isn’t about the delivery of mail nor is it about those amiable mail delivery people. This story, as told to me by my friend, Larry, is about the lengths one might go to when retrieving the mail from their mailbox and a time of some 60 years ago. In particular the story is about a gentleman by the name of Charley Parish.

In the early years of the 1960s, Charley lived on the family farm. The land was a place where cattle were raised, as were children. It was quite logical that the house was constructed of stone as Charley’s father, Rice, was a stone mason. Rice bought the farmland from his father with the intent to raise cattle but continued his stone work as he cut stone for the construction of the Kansas City Southern bridge at Elk Springs. Charley’s mother, Lilly, gave birth to five children; Charley, Wheeler, Roy, John and Helen. Sadly, Lilly passed away in 1917 and Rice later took a second wife, Alzina Shockley, known to everyone as simply, Allie.

Now, Noel Postmaster, Anna Lou Howerton knew her job and she took seriously her responsibility to ensure that every postman was diligent in their duty to deliver each and every piece of mail. However, the ease in which folks could retrieve their mail from mailboxes was not under her control and some mailboxes were oddly placed. So was the case with Charley Parish’s mailbox.

The Parish family’s mail was delivered without fail each weekday. The journey to the metal box where stamped envelopes and assorted fliers were awaiting scrutiny just happened to be on the other side of Elk River from the Parish family home and farm. So it was that each day Charley made the arduous trek across the bridge to the other side.

The wooden and metal span that stretched from one side of the river to the other was old. It had been constructed many years ago and the years had not been particularly kind to it. Two metal cables were separated by a three-foot gap and that gap was loosely filled in, and quite incompletely, by old wooden slats.

It’s possible that at one time there may have been cables on either side of the bridge which an unsteady person may have held onto but if that was the case they had long since fallen away. Anyone making use of the bridge had to rely on concentration and a keen sense of balance.

You may be asking yourself; “How in tarnation does Larry figure into this yarn?” Well sir, this is the point where my good friend comes into the story. You see, Larry grew up in the area between Noel and Pineville known as Blankenship Hollow. The family’s land was a special place with many fond memories so when Larry’s father and mother moved to Greenville, Miss., well, Larry stayed behind. Larry married Nancy and for years the couple occupied the home Larry grew up in.

Larry’s father was a skilled carpenter and as such previously served as an instructor at Neosho’s Camp Crowder Military Detention Center. He imparted his knowledge of carpentry to the inmates in an effort to teach the men a skill that might be used when they were released back into society.

Well, it was around 1961 or so when it was decided to close the Camp Crowder center. Those unfortunate enough to remain incarcerated would be transferred to a similar facility in Greenville, Miss. With few options to consider, Larry’s father accepted an instructor’s job there, packed up his belongings and he and Larry’s mother moved south.

You may be questioning how Charley, Larry and the bridge are connected. Well, I will now attempt to connect all the odds and ends of this tale; bring all the pieces together if you will.

Larry routinely passed by the Parish’s mailbox and as he drove down the dirt path called Elk Springs Road he found his eyes drawn to the stone house just across the river. He couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship and sometimes thought how skillful the stone mason who placed the pieces of rock together must have been.

Then one day as he passed his eyes caught a bit of movement on that old bridge. It was Charley. Charley must have then been somewhere around 60 years old but apparently his age was not a deterrent as he slowly crawled across that structure which spanned the river.

Larry slowed his truck to a crawl and watched as Charley tested each slat of wood before moving on. He stretched out his legs and arms as he moved past empty spaces where there were no pieces of wood. It seemed as though Charley must have made that trip many times before.

Larry watched as Charley finally made it to the other side of the river. He wondered what the purpose of the trip may have been; surely it must have been something of great importance to justify such a perilous journey crawling on hands and knees.

Then, and quite nonchalantly, Charley’s hand rose as he extended to Larry a wave. Almost instinctively Larry returned the gesture but still wondered what the purpose of the crawl across that bridge could be. It was then that Larry saw Charley open a mailbox and remove several pieces of correspondence. Charley’s purpose in crossing that river had been to collect his mail.

Larry witnessed the event involving Charley and the old bridge many more times and oh my how that bridge would sway when the wind gusted. As extraordinary as the first experience was the later observations became almost commonplace. The trips across the bridge continued until the inattentive operator of a road grader dislodged the moorings for the bridge’s cables on the mailbox side of the road. Larry wondered but never inquired about the location of a new repository for Charley’s incoming and outgoing mail.

I once asked Larry if he found the idea of crossing a rickety old bridge to pick up one’s mail odd. “No,” he rather matter-of-factly replied. “That’s just one of those things that folks did back then. There were plenty of things that people did then that, well I guess might be considered strange now but life was different back in those days. People just made do.”

Folks didn’t squander precious moments lamenting over inconveniences and hardships. They did what was needed and they made do with what they had.

Charley died at his Elk Springs farm in 1981. Larry’s wife Nancy passed away at her home on the 25th day of September in the year 2018. The couple was husband and wife for a tad longer than 59 years. Larry is, well he is making do and he likes to tell me stories; and I love to hear them.

Having shared these words, this tale of moderate intrigue with you, I now bid you ado as I have no desire to further inflict myself on you.

STAN FINE IS A RETIRED POLICE OFFICER AND VERIZON SECURITY DEPARTMENT INVESTIGATOR WHO, AFTER RETIRING IN 2006, MOVED FROM TAMPA, FLA., TO NOEL, MO. STAN’S CONNECTION TO NOEL CAN BE TRACED BACK TO HIS GRANDPARENTS WHO LIVED MOST OF THEIR LIVES THERE. STAN BEGAN WRITING AFTER THE PASSING OF HIS WIFE ROBIN IN 2013. OPINIONS EXPRESSED ARE THOSE OF THE AUTHOR.

“Folks didn’t squander precious moments

lamenting over inconveniences and hardships. They did what was needed and they made do with what

they had.”