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On the Vocation of a Postal Worker

On the Vocation of a Postal Worker

Last updated on: October 22, 2025 at 8:56 am by Gene Veith

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On the Vocation of a Postal Worker 2025-10-22T08:56:26-04:00 Gene Veith

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Let us now praise vocations that are not necessarily fulfilling but are more in the mode of “present your bodies as a living sacrifice” (Romans 12:1).

Bruce Gee has been a good friend of mine for decades. He has a furniture restoration business just outside of Madison, Wisconsin. I think I met him at a Consortium for Classical Lutheran Education conference when I taught at Concordia Wisconsin in Mequon, the Gees being a home-schooling family. We’d get together at Lutheran events, the Madison Blues Festival, and–especially Milwaukee Brewers games. (Despite a stellar season, including a 14-game winning streak, they fell to the Dodgers in the National League Championship series, though they had the honor of losing in what is being called the greatest baseball performance of all time.) We’d suggest books to each other. (I have him to thank for putting me onto Patrick O’Brian’s seafaring novels.)

And yet, for all that, I didn’t know that Bruce once delivered the mail, his appointed rounds being stayed by “neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night” (which I just learned is a line from Herodotus). Nor did I know that he was a poet!

He sent me this poem, which I publish here with his permission. The title alludes to the syndrome that is the occupational hazard of postal workers, whose task seems so easy and pastoral, but which can be so harrowing that it sends some postal workers off the deep end.

What does this poem, which is not explicitly devout at all, tell us about the doctrine of vocation?

GONE POSTAL

Driving the Brooklyn route

Benson, King, Shoo Street in

the village

Amidon, Mortensen, the county roads.

In the Fall the yellow maples

at the Jug Prairie Cemetery

gleam and overwhelm,

driving through a mad golden tunnel

In Winter a five am snowfall

leaves the roadsides indistinct

and chill, strangely welcoming

I ski the old mail truck carefully

down Smith Road,

the first one through, before the plows,

steep plunges into narrow valleys

sharp climbs up ridges of driftless

berms, through deep woods, a pine forest,

hunting addresses.

I once drove an aging 80’s postal van

45 mph down a highway

then pulled into a driveway.

Backing out, five miles per hour,

the axle broke

A terrifying noisome clang

I thought I’d backed into something!

The front end slumped like a lame oxen,

Every postal worker’s nightmare.

*****

Engine fires. Horns that don’t function

then function but won’t stop

then don’t function

Wipers that don’t wipe

Rendering a sightless smear,

(The window spray mechanism

hasn’t worked since the mid 90’s);

Signals that don’t signal

then signal

then don’t signal.

Back gates frozen shut.

A fizzy little fan the only relief

from a tin box hot summer.

Heater huffing a pitiable breath

in minus five weather.

*******

I name my regular deliveries according

to the dogs and cats I encounter

the sweet friendly old hounds who climb

willingly up into the van

and get lost in the back among the packages

the kitten litters that skitter when I approach

the odd old cat who succumbs to a quick scratch

when I slipped on ice under an inch of snow

on a driveway, landing hard, the scanner

slamming into my leg, leaving a three

week bruise.

The potholes along an endless gravel

driveway, weaving as I go,

A house deep in the woods

beside a pond

that I think my wife might like.

the mulberry tree in full fruit

dripping berries

I stop alongside, fingers turning purple

gorging myself from the bottom step of

the postal van

I name the many places I’ve found to pee,

around a left hand bend

no one can see me coming or going

And the few times

I shat like a bear in the woods.

Miles from comfort.

I name those who leave welcoming

crates of snacks

A lady makes pretzels broasted in butter

and pepper,

A lady leaves cokes and candy.

One bakes cookies in December.

*****

As I walk up to a door

Plastic sealed spur in hand

I try to guess the contents.

“WE DELIVER GODDAMNED SOCKS!”

Shouted a flustered annex director one late afternoon

But it could be a ten thousand dollar check

A bottle of nitroglycerine

lady’s underclothes

a child’s bauble.

Once, a table saw.

Come Spring, boy’s bicycles.

Hot Pots at Christmas

Candies in February.

The vast amazonian array.

*****

The early years were hard

Not knowing the lay of the land

Struggling in search of strange

addresses

Each week a different van

with differing glitches

and different malaises

Different personalities

after 250,000 hard-used miles.

Later, I learned to arrive early

claim my regular van from the rows of

keys hanging on their hooks.

This one had pick-up, brakes

that braked,

Signals that worked

but a twisted seatbelt

It didn’t seat back in its holder.

I learned the little tricks of it.

Arriving early to the busy

postal annex

trying to remember the door code.

Each Sunday presented a new set

of strange circumstances:

The trucks showed late or didn’t show

Two drivers calling in sick, another

just not showing up.

Frenzied annex manager

frantically divvying up routes

You take yours plus a third of this one!

If the packages don’t fit, come back for more.

Here’s one for you:

Assigned to deliver two large cartons

to another city’s (closed and locked)

post office annex

I was handed a key to the building.

Front door or back?

Manager didn’t know.

A driver passing by said, “back door”.

The wisdom of the organization

lodged in the experience of the lowly drivers.

Arriving, up a ramp, huge double doors to one side

padlocked with a heavy drooping chain.

A service door, ah, the key fits.

I carry the cartons into the antechamber

the service door closes.

I turn to return to my postal van.

But

There are no knobs on the service door.

No exit. I’m locked in the building on a Sunday morning.

They don’t tell you this, but having

a working cell phone with mapping capabilities

is an essential tool of the trade.

They teased me back at the ranch.

*****

I called it my Deathmobile,

this tin lizzy four banger

built on a Ford 150 chassis.

You drive sitting on the right side, the more

easily to deliver mail to a mailbox (not allowed

for us Sunday peons; we hand delivered to front doors)

The little wheels sit inches inside of the body,

the turning radius ridiculously small.

This for maneuvering in driveways

but

driving at 50 miles per hour

requires your full attention.

One windy five below zero Winter day

huge snowstorm only a day or two earlier

I’m heading up Hwy 104

into Brooklyn

Running on fumes, headed for the only gas

for miles around.

The bottom of the hill turned to black ice

I hit it maybe a degree skewed

What followed was the ole Countersteering Polka

Little desperate corrections becoming

heart-stopping bigger reactions.

I spin out of control,

watching the world go by

Giving myself up to the hopelessness

of it all.

A sweet 360, then a deep dive off the road into a snowbank

the van flipped on its right side.

Pretty cool, actually. Try to undo the seatbelt.

The opposite door is frozen shut, this I knew.

The interior of my vehicle does not look familiar.

It is a section of a space station

Nothing makes sense. Packages flung everywhere.

The back gate, locked, had tweaked open six inches

as a result of the torquing of the vehicle.

I was able to pry it open and step out.

Instantly six pick up trucks appear out of nowhere.

Guys bored on a Sunday afternoon, its cold and

nothing to do.

Hey, we can pull that baby upright, drag her out!

No, its a government van, and their ardor cools.

A pretty Madison cop on her way into town

gives me a lift to a buddy who lives four miles away.

He gives me a steaming mug of coffee

and listens to my tale.

Pretty much the end of my work day.

*****

Bruce Gee

Photo: Winter Weather Road Conditions with U.S. Mail Truck by gillfoto – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=53873672

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