Daddy retired from the Henderson Post Office this past February, ending his 30-year tenure as a rural mail carrier. And since his retirement, things aren’t quite the same in the Eaves’ household.
“Gina, I’m all out of flour,” Mama said a few weeks ago, flustered as she fried up some chicken for dinner. “Can you fetch some from your sister’s house?”
“I’m working on a deadline,” I sighed from my laptop, revising ads for the next day’s paper. “Can’t Daddy get it instead?”
“Well ...” Mama mumbled, checking the cabinets one last time for the missing provision.
“Daddy’s been home all day,” I argued, pointing towards the living room where he lay snoring on the couch. “And we’ve been slaving away at work.”
Daddy fetched the flour that night.
While napping is among Daddy’s favorite pastimes these days, he’s also pulling a first, second and third shift at “the store” on N.C. 39 in Epsom.
“Where’s Daddy?” I asked Mama the next morning, my eyes still puffy from the previous night’s sleep.
“At the store,” she replied, as she does most times this question is asked.
Sure enough, I spied Daddy sitting on an outside wooden bench as I passed by the store on my way to work, smoking a cigarette and shooting the breeze with a posse of retired riffraff.
“And they accuse women of gossiping!” I said, shaking my head as I drove towards the Dispatch.
Nine hours later, Daddy was perched on the same storefront bench, dragging on another cigarette as I drove home from work. And I’d be willing to wager my paycheck that he hadn’t budged from that bench all day, except to buy another pack of cigarettes or a Diet Pepsi.
I’m sure I shouldn’t give Daddy such a hard time on his post-career pastimes, which sometimes consist of protesting all forms of productivity. Heck, I envy the man.
And I miss him.
Before Daddy retired, he and I were the only members of our Franklin County family who worked in Henderson. And because our jobs required in-town travel, we’d drive past one another throughout the day. Our routine meeting spot was Snackers on Dabney Drive, where Daddy would stop for a morning snack around 10 a.m. Although he didn’t know it, I’d time my sales calls to catch him there. We’d talk for a minute or two, and then we’d depart on our respective routes.
And occasionally, I’d drop by the post office to visit Daddy and his crew of co-workers who’d watched me grow from a hyperactive child to an attention-deficit disordered adult. These post office visits gave me a glimpse of my reserved daddy’s “other side.”
“I see where I get my work ethic from!” I laughed one morning, catching Daddy in storytelling mode among his post office friends, slapping his knee in riotous laughter.
I considered these moments our special time, exclusive to Daddy and me. And selfishly, I miss those work-day moments, whether waving at one another on Dabney Drive or sharing his smoke break on the post office steps.
I’ve teased Daddy about being an old retired man. And truth be told, he is. But reflecting on his working years, I’m convinced he’s earned his retired lifestyle.
A family man of few words, Daddy pledged his love to us with 30 years at the Henderson Post Office, financially providing for my sisters and me while at times forfeiting his own needs. I’m forever thankful for this sacrifice — and for the moments he and I shared while working the same streets of Henderson.
Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves column Protesting productivity becomes post career pastime
“Gina, I’m all out of flour,” Mama said a few weeks ago, flustered as she fried up some chicken for dinner. “Can you fetch some from your sister’s house?”
“I’m working on a deadline,” I sighed from my laptop, revising ads for the next day’s paper. “Can’t Daddy get it instead?”
“Well ...” Mama mumbled, checking the cabinets one last time for the missing provision.
“Daddy’s been home all day,” I argued, pointing towards the living room where he lay snoring on the couch. “And we’ve been slaving away at work.”
Daddy fetched the flour that night.
While napping is among Daddy’s favorite pastimes these days, he’s also pulling a first, second and third shift at “the store” on N.C. 39 in Epsom.
“Where’s Daddy?” I asked Mama the next morning, my eyes still puffy from the previous night’s sleep.
“At the store,” she replied, as she does most times this question is asked.
Sure enough, I spied Daddy sitting on an outside wooden bench as I passed by the store on my way to work, smoking a cigarette and shooting the breeze with a posse of retired riffraff.
“And they accuse women of gossiping!” I said, shaking my head as I drove towards the Dispatch.
Nine hours later, Daddy was perched on the same storefront bench, dragging on another cigarette as I drove home from work. And I’d be willing to wager my paycheck that he hadn’t budged from that bench all day, except to buy another pack of cigarettes or a Diet Pepsi.
I’m sure I shouldn’t give Daddy such a hard time on his post-career pastimes, which sometimes consist of protesting all forms of productivity. Heck, I envy the man.
And I miss him.
Before Daddy retired, he and I were the only members of our Franklin County family who worked in Henderson. And because our jobs required in-town travel, we’d drive past one another throughout the day. Our routine meeting spot was Snackers on Dabney Drive, where Daddy would stop for a morning snack around 10 a.m. Although he didn’t know it, I’d time my sales calls to catch him there. We’d talk for a minute or two, and then we’d depart on our respective routes.
And occasionally, I’d drop by the post office to visit Daddy and his crew of co-workers who’d watched me grow from a hyperactive child to an attention-deficit disordered adult. These post office visits gave me a glimpse of my reserved daddy’s “other side.”
“I see where I get my work ethic from!” I laughed one morning, catching Daddy in storytelling mode among his post office friends, slapping his knee in riotous laughter.
I considered these moments our special time, exclusive to Daddy and me. And selfishly, I miss those work-day moments, whether waving at one another on Dabney Drive or sharing his smoke break on the post office steps.
I’ve teased Daddy about being an old retired man. And truth be told, he is. But reflecting on his working years, I’m convinced he’s earned his retired lifestyle.
A family man of few words, Daddy pledged his love to us with 30 years at the Henderson Post Office, financially providing for my sisters and me while at times forfeiting his own needs. I’m forever thankful for this sacrifice — and for the moments he and I shared while working the same streets of Henderson.
Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves column Protesting productivity becomes post career pastime
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