Ethel

I found this in my files. It is dated 05/20/20. I must have been panicking about a certain presidential election.

My great-grandmother was the postmaster for a town that was a ridiculous distance from her little house on her homestead. It was probably not the best career choice, but it did allow her to have good stories about riding her pony and carrying her gun and shooting the occasional rattlesnake. That last bit sounds like nonsense, but I think it’s probably true.

I only knew her when she was old and frail and frankly a little scary, but I wouldn’t have messed with her. She might have had a pistol under her nursing home mattress. She called me Kenny, which is not my name, but it was the name of her son. That’s upsetting. It’s also reality.

The whole riding the pony to the town story has always been very important to my family. I understand that because it’s a good story. But she was sick and moved from Kansas to Montana because the doctors she saw for her respiratory problems said the “dry” environment of Montana would be better for her. I don’t know if that was true, but it’s a good story.

I think she moved to Montana because she was in love with my great-grandfather. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s a better story than the other one. She scared the entire crap out of me, so I choose to believe the romantic story, even though I know it’s probably not 100% true. What I do know is that she moved out there and everyone thinks it was a grand adventure, but they failed miserably and had to move back to Wisconsin, which I think is a place they had spent their entire lives trying to escape. The land where they homesteaded is unthinkably beautiful. I’ve been there. It probably also couldn’t grow crops. That fact makes me feel very close to those long-dead ancestors. They went to a lovely place that could not support them. Relatable.

The United States federal government is contemplating defunding the Postal Service. I take this as a personal insult. That woman who gave birth to my grandfather rode that pony to town every day to deliver correspondence to people who were utterly cut off from their family and friends. We’ve apparently decided that is expendable. Ethel is flipping around in her grave, and I’m angry about it. I think she was angry about a lot of stuff, so I don’t feel bad about it. I come from a long line of people who cared about things, and that’s a relief.