Pat. The Norwegian Postman

My postman, he is Norwegian. His name is Pat. He is a tall, slender man with an above average mustache and an adequate head of hair. Pat seems to me to be a happy man, often whistling. I never quite know the tune that he whistles. I like to think it is a popular Norwegian folk song from the late 1800s. One that involves a buxom daughter, a ship, and a prank gone wrong played by some Norwegian teenagers. Whatever the tune, he is quick to stop his lip symphony and start up a conversation with me.

Whether it be the weather, or that smell of thawing garbage that tells us that springtime in the city is near, Pat seems happy to dispel his wisdom with a twinkle in his eye. The conversations never last too long, so they are never awkward. It's really a beautiful thing. He brings me my catalogs, chats with me happily, then pushed his tri-wheeled cart on down the sidewalk. Dropping rubberbands as he goes. Then as quickly as it stopped, the whistling continues. Same song. Didn't miss a beat. Come to think of it maybe he is composing this song as he goes, I still hope it is about a buxom daughter, a ship, and a prank gone wrong played by some Norwegian teenagers, because that is a song I want to hear.