Six days a week, the mailman delivers. Mac Clayton knows at least two things about his postman, and only one is about a favorite treat.
André is our mailman. I don’t like the mail, but I like André, even though he mostly brings me bills, junk and undelivered holiday cards that look like they’ve been on a long, messy journey and are happy to return home.
André is sympathetic. He says the post office is a mess. He seems cheerfully abashed to be working at a place where his personal standards aren’t matched by those of his employer.
I’ve waved and nodded to many mail carriers over the years, from many homes in many states, but André is the first one I’ve known by name. He’s also the first one I know for sure loves brownies.
When our sons went off to college, Meg began sending them brownies now and then. “Brownie Love,” she called it. A small, flat-rate mailing box is just the right size. Sometimes they were still warm when she put them in the mailbox.