When my landlord brought the mail to my door today, I was asleep in the recliner. Well, it was the middle of the afternoon. Isn’t that when people sleep? I’d only just nodded off, but I heard the knocking and looked in every direction but right in front of me, at the sliding glass door, where he was standing. I jumped out of the chair, spun around and headed for the other door, until I heard him knocking again, behind me.

It wasn’t embarrassing in the least, although I’d rather have him catch me working (or cleaning, even) than napping, but we’re getting to be pals now. This was the second day in a row he’s been here, and he even made the small joke that he might have to charge me for delivering the mail. Even though I was unhappy that my mail had been put in his box again, I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to wade through the mud today.

He also brought news. He paid a call on the county road department, and they told him that (a) the mud wasn’t their problem because they hadn’t put it in the driveway in the first place, and (2) they wouldn’t have done it because they always ask permission before working on private property. But his business partner has a tractor that will be available this weekend. They’re going to move the mud, do a little grading, and lay down some gravel. Well, that’s all I’m asking for, really.

Sadly, once I looked at the mail he brought me, I realized that it couldn’t be today’s mail. I missed two days last week, and now I have what I didn’t get. And that’s how, at five o’clock in the rain and darkness, I put on my boots and tromped through the mud, the puddles, and the mud puddles, to the mailbox at the end of my muddy, muddy driveway. And yes, there was today’s mail, and all was right with the world. Except for the part where I was cold and wet. And muddy.