ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1995, Roanoke Times
DATE: Monday, December 25, 1995 TAG: 9512260012
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: HOLIDAY
TYPE: SHORT STORY CONTEST
SOURCE: STEVE CONLEY
This story is the winner of The Roanoke Times first "A Christmas Memory" contest. It was chosen from over 800 entries. The author, Steve Conley, received $300 for the story. The five runners-up were awarded $50 each. Their stories were published last week.
Steve Conley swears this is the first story he's written since college.
``Last year I made up a Christmas poem for my 4-year-old son,'' the 37-year-old business consultant said.
Conley, of Forest, doesn't regularly read The Roanoke Times, but says he noticed the contest blurb after being drawn into a recent Extra section feature on duct tape.
He calls his story a composite of Appalachian characters he knew growing up in the Lynchburg area. ``As I was thinking about it, it occured to me that all the mailmen then were male. And now they're called postal carriers.
``I live in a townhouse community and I wouldn't know my mail carrier if I saw him on the street. And I certainly haven't thought of sticking something in my mailbox for them - although now that I have an extra $300, maybe I will.''
Uncle John was the big brother I never had. Only problem was - he wasn't my brother. In fact, he wasn't my uncle. Not related to us in any way at all. We just called him Uncle John.
It was sometime after the Japanese surrendered. I was about 4 or 5 years old. John came walking up the road. Duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Said he was looking for a place to spend the night. Said he was on his way to town to look for a job. Said he'd been in the Pacific on a big ship. I don't remember which one.
Dad told him to come on in and have supper. We'd be pleased to have him stay the night. He never left. He lived on our farm until the day he died. My big brother, Uncle John.
It wasn't long after he arrived until Uncle John got a job. A good job. About as good a job as a man could get back in those mountains. He bought an old black Ford sedan and bounced his way up and down those hollows delivering the mail. Up Clear Creek, over Feds Mountain, down Mackey's Creek and through the Morgan Straight. You could always count on Uncle John.
Christmas was an awfully busy time for a mailman on a rural route. Not just the cards and letters, but all those packages. Packages wrapped in brown paper and tied up with white string. Big ones, little ones - it didn't matter, they all went by mail. There wasn't such a thing as U.P.S. Just the mail.
After a couple of years of struggling with this load, Uncle John asked me if I'd like to help him deliver the mail. It was Christmas Eve. I was 7 years old.
It was a cold, clear day. No white Christmas that year. Uncle John fired up the old Ford, and off we went to the Post Office. We picked up our load of mail. It filled up the back seat and the trunk. Uncle John would pull over at a mail box while I stuffed it inside. Then he'd take a pencil and scratch through the stamps on the next stop's parcels. He said that was called hand-cancelled.
If a family had too much mail for their box, we'd take it on up to the house. If Uncle John knew that the folks were sick or elderly, we'd take it on up to the house. Said he always did that. I wasn't surprised.
But there was a surprise at every stop. In every mail box and at every front door, Uncle John got a little present. Sometimes I'd reach inside a box and find an orange, or a little bag of home-made cookies, or even - yes, a silver dollar! I told you it was a good job.
We came to an old weathered farm house where Uncle John said Aunt Sally Parker lived. She was over a 100 years old. I'd heard tell of her, but never met her. The door opened and there stood the oldest person I'd ever seen.
"How are you today, Miss Parker?" Uncle John asked.
"I'm doing alright John, but Momma's feeling a little poorly and can't come to the door. Said to tell you hello."
I handed her a couple of letters and a package. As we turned to leave, she told us to wait. She had forgotten something.
She came back with an old-fashioned, home-cured country ham.
I knew right then that I wanted to be a mailman.
And so the day went. We exchanged a car full of mail for what seemed like a car full of presents. This wasn't anything new to Uncle John. He'd brought a burlap bag - a tow sack he called it - and he put every gift in that sack.
Finally, we were done. It was dark. But then it hit me. How come I'd never seen or heard of all these presents before? Uncle John just smiled.
A mile or two down the road, Uncle John pulled over at another mail box. These folks weren't on his route. This was the Moffitt place. Everybody knew that. Everybody knew that Mr. Moffitt had been killed cutting timber on Feds Mountain. One of the Moffitt girls was in my class.
Uncle John didn't say a word. He just turned off his headlights, left the car running and tied up that sack. Country ham and all. Then he crept up to the front porch. Set down the sack. Knocked on the door and flew back to the car. Boy, could that old Ford travel!
"Special delivery," he said.
Best Christmas I ever had.
LENGTH: Medium: 96 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: Steve Conley. color. Graphic: 2 illustrations by Robertby CNBLunsford. color.