Porch Yellin'

All ya'll know the humble ranch hand has of late engaged in something of a "war" over zip codes with our beloved U.S. Postal bureaucrats.

"War" ain't exactly correct because the United States Postal Service alleges clearing more than $1 BILLION dollars profit for each of the last several years (as we wonder why the rates continue to increase?). In order for a "war" to be fought, the opposing side (me) would need to have at least 1/1000th of the resources available to the competition (NOT!).

Therefore, resistance to date has been a mere token of protest. BUT.......the excrement has done hit the oscillator as the Rural Delivery War begins now in earnest!!!!!!

Historical information (and perhaps genetic influence?) began with Grandaddy. Seems his East Texas delivery person had a penchant for "brushing" the mailbox with his vehicle when delivering mail. This resulted in the mailbox being at a constant "tilt". If you knew my Grandaddy, you would know that anything on his property that was not tight, painted, and perfectly aligned was not acceptable.

After straightening up the mailbox post multiple times, Granvil obtained a 10 inch, 7 foot length of steel pipe. He then proceeded to cement about 4 feet of it into the ground and grin like a possum waiting for his "victim" to rub against the post again.

Nope, the full force of Uncle Sam's might rose up and instead of mail in the box, G-pa found only an indignant note. The carefully worded ultimatum stated either he replace the steel hazard with something less stalwart or the mail would not be delivered. Again, if you knew Grandaddy, you already guessed he had a LOUD, redfaced cuss fight with the hapless postal person, but to no avail. The Gov-mint won, Granvil lost, and the wooden post went back in the ground.

Now comes the next generation. My Pa (Gene) despised junk mail. Dad could not read/write anyway, and the extra "junk" just complicated his life more. To that end, Gene began a "war" with the rural postal delivery minion to stop the crap from being placed in his box.

Dad started out OK with just a friendly roadside chat....no luck? He then escalated to just leaving it in the box until the box was STUFFED....he got told that ALL delivery would cease until he started "acting right"? His final act of protest lasted from that time until he "passed on down amongst them".

For years, each time Dad would see the mail delivery occurring, he would "go postal" and step to the door of his house to yell, "You better not leave any of that damn junk mail"! It didn't change anything, but I think he felt better as a result of the process?

The ranch hand ain't never laid claim to an abnormal amount of intelligence (or resistance to genetic propensities) so he naturally just fell into the same damn gov-mint traps.

After a white flag surrender over the zip code difugalties, we changed our address to an RFD route (which required yours truly to plant a mail box post at the front gate). No step for a "stepper", unless you know that the Tin Star sits on solid limestone with just a thin veneer of soil. Accordingly, the ole fat boy chose an early Saturday morning and attacked an area adjacent to our gate with a 40 pound rock bar.

A rock bar (instrument of excruciating torture) requires the operator to grasp the shaft of the 6 foot steel chisel, hoist it over the head, and hurl it back to earth (while yelling some oriental karate word for Holy Crap?). The next 500 steps are simple.....repeat the first step until the operator: A. faints B. dirties his drawers C. "passes on down amongst them"????

Finally got it done and to "cement" the deal, added a 50 pound sack of concrete around the post for a life time guarantee.

Found out that one person's "lifetime" may vary from another's interpretation of that time frame??? After placing the mail box, we added a culvert in the ditch next to the road. Big Brother Fed promptly allowed as how the box was too close to the end of the culvert and was therefore not accessible.

OK, I need to move the box (remember the 50 pounds of "glue" on the end of that steel pipe)? I beat/banged on the post to get it out of its limestone grave and then beat/banged on the ground down range with the rock bar in order to create the latest planting site. All this, secure in the knowledge that I would NEVER again in my life have to deal with postal crap (WRONG)!

I have in my possession an O-fish-al document duly delivered to yours truly which states that I have until July 7th to move the box closer to the road or mail delivery will stop for all of eternity for me and anyone even remotely genetically related?????????

I figger I got several options:

1. Deliver an O-fish-al document in return stating I wish to secede from the postal part of the Union and forgo delivery (especially bills) for the remainder of my days.

2. Move the damn thing closer to the road, but use a 36 inch steel pipe that is set 40 feet in the ground.

3. Scream vile vitritude at the delivery person until I feel I have made Grandaddy proud.

4. Comply, but stand on the porch and YELL at the bastard ever time he delivers.

Naw, all that's been tried already by the ancestors so I guess I'll just vent with this blog.

Thanks for listening.