Before I started writing for the newspapers, I was an RCA in the United States Postal Service. I was a sub in the Greensboro post office for nine years and eleven months.
On my first day, the postmaster at the time, Vicki Thomas, told me to “just do what Dale does.” She said Dale Bates was the best rural carrier in the office and the only rural carrier she never got negative phone calls about.
Honestly, I didn’t have the time or temperament to watch or imitate anyone. I had my hands full just trying to keep up. Being a rural carrier comes naturally to some people; it did not come naturally to me. I was slow and felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of mail, packages, and route directions.
Dale was never overwhelmed, from what I saw. He was always in a good mood, talking and making jokes. Sure, he’d been at it for a long time. I could understand his confidence. But huddled up in my route case, trying to resist the urge to run from the post office and never come back, I couldn’t understand his good mood. This job was hard.
In my defense, plenty of carriers run from the post office and never come back.
After about a year of working on Route 2, Vicki told me it was time I learned Route 1—Dale’s route. I had been dreading this moment from day one. Route 2 was the cupcake route, everyone told me. It had nothing on Route 1, which stretched 110 miles from inside Perry County almost all the way out to Lake Payne, with a whole lot in between.
So I had three days to ride with Dale and learn the route. I sat in the back with the mail and packages and tried to write down turn-by-turn directions in a notebook while the truck bounced and swerved across the dirt roads, county roads, and highways of Route 1.
And Dale had notes for nearly every one of the 500-plus addresses on the route.
These people right here want their packages put in the shed in the backyard so their dog doesn’t tear them up.
Put these people’s packages to the left of their front door, not the right.
If these people get a certified letter, just call them from the post office and they’ll come get it.
These people have a bunch of cats; don’t run any of them over.
Make sure you close this mailbox real good because it pops back open if you don’t.
Don’t drive too fast coming up on this house; this guy works nights and sleeps during the morning.
And a lot of people came out of their houses to talk to Dale when he pulled up at their mailboxes. Every one of them was smiling.
All this conviviality was baffling to me. I did my best on Route 2, but I’d been scolded by a few of the citizens, and rarely had any engage me in friendly conversation.
Dale would talk with everyone on the route who approached him, and he still somehow finished on time every day, before the dispatch truck got to the office for the outgoing mail.
I learned Dale’s route, and eventually I was competent on it. But I never came close to being the kind of mailman Dale was.
Dale cared about the people on his route, and they cared about him. He was a friend and a neighbor to all of them.
When he died a few weeks ago, I saw dozens upon dozens of testimonials to him from the people of Route 1 on Facebook.
I don’t think there will ever be another carrier on Route 1 like Dale.
Rest in peace, Dale Bates.
