manageable. And living so close to downtown, I can walk to the quilt shop, which makes driveway shoveling less of an issue for me.
Today, the first Monday in January, I waded through a fresh fall of ankle-high snow, plowing a path between my house and the post office, where I picked up my mail and stopped in the lobby to say hello to Gibb Rainey.
Every small town has its share of eccentrics. Gibb is ours. I don’t know how old Gibb is, but he’s at least well into his seventies and possibly a lot older. He’s friendly, likes college sports, and wears his UConn Huskies cap wherever he goes. He’s also a loyal member of New Bern’s Veterans of Foreign Wars post.
Years ago—no one has ever been able to tell me how many years ago, but many—near Memorial Day, Gibb was given the job of selling those little paper poppies the VFW uses to raise money for disabled vets. Because there are no mailboxes in New Bern and everybody has to go to the post office to pick up their mail, Gibb figured that would be a good place to sell his flowers.
He loaded a lawn chair into the trunk of his 1968 Chevrolet Corvair, drove downtown to the post office, and set up shop, parking his chair on the sidewalk, right by the post office door. Not only did he set a new VFW post record for money raised during the poppy sale, he had a great time chatting with the people who passed by. So much so that he returned with his lawn chair the next day, and the next, and every day after. You can’t go pick up your mail in New Bern without stopping to talk with Gibb. In warm weather, he puts his chair on the sidewalk. And when it’s cold, like today, he moves into the lobby.
A few years back, a new postmaster came to town. He said that Gibb couldn’t loiter inside a federal office and made him leave. That lasted about a week.
Word of the postmaster’s treatment of Gibb got around town. People started calling the office of the First Selectman, New Bern’s version of a mayor, and even their congressmen. Before long, Gibb was back in his usual spot.
After talking to Gibb about the possibility of more snow the next day, I headed down the street to the Blue Bean Coffee Shop and Bakery, stomping my boots clean before going inside, happy as a kid on a snow day. After our usual early morning coffee date, Charlie and I are headed up to the local ski area to hit the slopes. I’m so excited!
But Charlie? Not so much.
“Remind me again,” he growled as I came in the door and pulled off my gloves, “why it is we’re going to go out in the freezing cold, strap two pieces of wood on our feet, and then plummet down a mountain until we reach the bottom, fall, or run into a tree? If we wanted to kill ourselves, wouldn’t it just be easier to take off all our clothes, roll around in the snow, and wait for frostbite to set in?”
“Good morning, sunshine,” I chirped and leaned over to kiss the top of his head. “Nice to see you too. Did you order my coffee yet?”
He shook his head. I looked over at Cindy, who was standing by a table, filling the sugar dispenser. “Can I have my usual?”
“Large skim latte coming right up, Evelyn. You want an English muffin with that too?”
“Hmm.” I eyed the goodies behind the bakery counter. “Can I have one of those maple scones instead? And some butter? I can afford a few extra calories today. Charlie and I are going skiing.”
Cindy grinned and screwed the top back on the sugar dispenser. “So I heard. He’s been sitting here for ten minutes griping about it. I don’t mind, though. When my husband gripes, it sounds like a band saw cutting through a piece of alder, but when Charlie gripes, it sounds elevated, almost musical. There’s just something about that brogue. Everything he says sounds like poetry. It’s that gift of gab, that’s what. All the Irish have it. Charlie, Robbie Burns, and all the rest.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Robert Burns was Scottish.”
“Really?” Cindy deadpanned.
Today, the first Monday in January, I waded through a fresh fall of ankle-high snow, plowing a path between my house and the post office, where I picked up my mail and stopped in the lobby to say hello to Gibb Rainey.
Every small town has its share of eccentrics. Gibb is ours. I don’t know how old Gibb is, but he’s at least well into his seventies and possibly a lot older. He’s friendly, likes college sports, and wears his UConn Huskies cap wherever he goes. He’s also a loyal member of New Bern’s Veterans of Foreign Wars post.
Years ago—no one has ever been able to tell me how many years ago, but many—near Memorial Day, Gibb was given the job of selling those little paper poppies the VFW uses to raise money for disabled vets. Because there are no mailboxes in New Bern and everybody has to go to the post office to pick up their mail, Gibb figured that would be a good place to sell his flowers.
He loaded a lawn chair into the trunk of his 1968 Chevrolet Corvair, drove downtown to the post office, and set up shop, parking his chair on the sidewalk, right by the post office door. Not only did he set a new VFW post record for money raised during the poppy sale, he had a great time chatting with the people who passed by. So much so that he returned with his lawn chair the next day, and the next, and every day after. You can’t go pick up your mail in New Bern without stopping to talk with Gibb. In warm weather, he puts his chair on the sidewalk. And when it’s cold, like today, he moves into the lobby.
A few years back, a new postmaster came to town. He said that Gibb couldn’t loiter inside a federal office and made him leave. That lasted about a week.
Word of the postmaster’s treatment of Gibb got around town. People started calling the office of the First Selectman, New Bern’s version of a mayor, and even their congressmen. Before long, Gibb was back in his usual spot.
After talking to Gibb about the possibility of more snow the next day, I headed down the street to the Blue Bean Coffee Shop and Bakery, stomping my boots clean before going inside, happy as a kid on a snow day. After our usual early morning coffee date, Charlie and I are headed up to the local ski area to hit the slopes. I’m so excited!
But Charlie? Not so much.
“Remind me again,” he growled as I came in the door and pulled off my gloves, “why it is we’re going to go out in the freezing cold, strap two pieces of wood on our feet, and then plummet down a mountain until we reach the bottom, fall, or run into a tree? If we wanted to kill ourselves, wouldn’t it just be easier to take off all our clothes, roll around in the snow, and wait for frostbite to set in?”
“Good morning, sunshine,” I chirped and leaned over to kiss the top of his head. “Nice to see you too. Did you order my coffee yet?”
He shook his head. I looked over at Cindy, who was standing by a table, filling the sugar dispenser. “Can I have my usual?”
“Large skim latte coming right up, Evelyn. You want an English muffin with that too?”
“Hmm.” I eyed the goodies behind the bakery counter. “Can I have one of those maple scones instead? And some butter? I can afford a few extra calories today. Charlie and I are going skiing.”
Cindy grinned and screwed the top back on the sugar dispenser. “So I heard. He’s been sitting here for ten minutes griping about it. I don’t mind, though. When my husband gripes, it sounds like a band saw cutting through a piece of alder, but when Charlie gripes, it sounds elevated, almost musical. There’s just something about that brogue. Everything he says sounds like poetry. It’s that gift of gab, that’s what. All the Irish have it. Charlie, Robbie Burns, and all the rest.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Robert Burns was Scottish.”
“Really?” Cindy deadpanned.
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