Ride A Good Horse To Death
Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. Thus reads the inscription on the General Post Office, New York City.
In the mountainous regions of the Ozarks that was oft times easier said than done. One Gentleman here in our county began his career in 1908 on a star route that ran along the Osage River into the county seat at Warsaw, Missouri. The trip was made on horseback between 6 A.M. and 7 P.M. and for this he received the munificent salary of fifteen dollars per month. He used two horses, leaving one at the livery stable in Warsaw each day.
A local hotel served home-cooked meals, family style. It was all you could eat for twenty-five cents but he paid a special rate of three dollar for twenty-one meals.
Several other rural carriers took advantage of the special rate too.
Later he was assigned Route 2 out of Edwards, Missouri. The route was twenty-eight miles long and he had to leave at 7 A.M. and was due back at the post office by 4 P.M. I’m sure that it’s difficult for us today to believe that this was all done on horseback or with a team and buggy.
The job may have been rugged but it was never dull. There were many things he did that were not in his prescribed duties but in all situations he attempted to remain true to the slogan “Service with a Smile.” He once helped a farm wife free a cow that was caught in a manger. And then there was the woman alone that was due to deliver a child in the near future. The house was on fire and when she attempted to climb the ladder she became dizzy. Mr. Mailman to the rescue, he took the ladder inside, climbed into the attic and put out the fire around the chimney.
Out of appreciation his customers rewarded him with food left in the box, gifts and cards at the holidays and on his birthday. He had been born on George Washington’s birthday, February 22 and that being a legal holiday he always had the day off. On one February 23rd a man met him and asked why he hadn’t delivered the mail the previous day. With a “straight face” he replied: “Oh that was my birthday, I never carry mail on my birthday” The patron was quite put out and said: “Well, that’s the limit. I nearly froze waiting for you. I wanted a money order”.
In the rainy season, the flooding streams became a challenge. But he said he could always depend upon his substitute to be waiting at the creek with his horse. Many times they rode across with the water running through the saddle seats. And sometimes when the creek became a raging torrent he would have to spend the night with various patrons along his route.
The motto “The mail must go through” was challenged many times by our Ozark streams and called for ingenuity to deliver. One interesting delivery made by a rural carrier was accomplished with a washtub. A small creek was so flood swollen that it could not be crossed. A farmer needing his mail came to the opposite bank with a washtub and a rope. He tied a small stone to the end of the rope, threw it across to the postman, who then pulled the tub across and placed the mail for the man and three other families in the strange conveyance. He then threw the rock back to the farmer on the other side and the mail was pulled safely across.
Is that what they call Ozark Ingenuity?
Rural people did not always enjoy the abundance of things that we have today, including writing paper. This was obviously the dilemma of a customer that left a request in his mailbox for five postal cards. The request had been scratched on the surface of a small flat stone with a nail or some sharp object.
Back in 1935 one of our local carriers opened a mailbox and found a crudely scrawled note on a piece of a shoebox. It was addressed to him and stated that the person had shot his Father and his Sister and that he had taken a dose of strychnine. He requested that the mail carrier please see to their livestock.
Performing tasks above the call of duty was nothing unusual for mail carriers. One day a lady met her Postman at the box and requested him to please come grease her windmill. All the menfolk were off the place helping with threshing. He climbed the windmill and oiled it before continuing on his way.
Then there was the elderly gentleman in southern Missouri that could not get to town because the snow was in excess of two feet deep. He needed a pound of coffee and asked his mailman to bring him one. When the generous public servant brought him the coffee, the old man complained, “It ain’t the kind I drink…!” “
It’s the kind you are going to get this time” was the firm reply.
Down here on the Creek I watch for the mail. I write many letters and anticipate the replies. And there are times when that is one of the few vehicles I see all day. My Post office on wheels is important to me. People that live in cities have no idea how highly we regard that public servant and that box by the side of the road. I confess a few summers ago it took me awhile to replace my mailbox that was severely damaged by a falling limb in a thunderstorm. But my “mail-person” was tolerant and knew that I would finally get around to putting up a new one that has been purchased, just not installed. After all I don’t try her patience by attempting to buy stamps with eggs as has actually happened to past carriers on a rural routes and I do have paper for notes and I don’t scratch messages on sandstone rocks and request the purchase of postcards. And I have never taken a vacation and left a note in my box requesting them to feed my horse and dogs until my return. After all, my Grandma always said that you can ride a good horse to death.
