When you publish a book in a small town.

Rose City Post Office, MI June 29, 2021

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I wrestled an oversized box filled with signed and packaged copies of Facing Sunset out of Andy’s lipstick-red truck. (He probably wouldn’t want it described that way.) How am I going to manage the door? It was a “pull” door, not a “push.” Before I could juggle the box to free a hand, a gray-haired man raced from inside the Post Office to open it.

“Thank you, sir,” I said and reached for the inner door. He hustled back in to get that one too.

Kim, the clerk who helped me figure out postage initially, came out of the back room with a huge smile. “You did it! And printed the labels at home, too. Good for you.”

I set the box on the counter. The man set to bubble wrapping something at the other counter.

“So what’s the best way for me to get a book?” Kim asked.

“Well, you can order it on Amazon, but I happen to have one in my truck.”

“Go get it while I check these in.”

The man stepped over. “Are you a famous author or something?”

I laughed, ducking out to grab Kim a book. “Not yet.”

“Well, better bring two in just in case.”

I signed Kim’s book. She went to duck out too, to get money from her car. A second clerk came to cover for her, but before Kim got to the door, her husband, Bud, walked in.

“Bud, give Patti $20 for her book,” Kim said.

“What?” The couple owned the Ace Hardware in town. I swear I had been in every day this week picking up longer screws for Andy’s latest trailer project or in search of a repair part for our chain saw.

“Patti wrote a book and I’m buying a copy,” she said.

Bud reached in his wallet. “Would you take an Ace rewards card instead?”

I handed my book to the guy-who-opened-the-door while I signed Kim’s copy. “I rode my bike to Montana and back and wrote a book about it.”

He looked it over and handed it back with a crisp $20 bill. “Just sign it to the guy-who-opened-the-door,” he said.

I laughed. “What’s your name, really?”

“Jimmy Stewart. Like the actor,” he said. “But you’re too young to know him."

Ha!

The other clerk wanted to know what was going on. When Kim told her about my trip and book, she asked, “Did you ride by yourself?” Yep. “Weren’t you afraid?” Nope.

“Hey, I met the greatest people,” I said. “They wanted to feed or help me. That’s part of why I wanted to write this, to show how many good people are out there. There’s hope for humanity.”

Kim nodded. The other clerk said, “I want one too. But just sign your name. I’m going to share it with my church.”

Oh boy, should I tell her to read it first? Nah, maybe it will do some good for them to see a different perspective.

On the way out, I paused to chat with the guy-who-opened-the-door. “Are you from around here?” I asked.

“Mack Lake, up in Mio,” he said. “But I grew up in northwest Detroit.”

“Me too!”

“Where?”

“On Harlow.”

Porchin' at 19759 Harlow, June 1969. My brother Jim (left), his friend Bruce, 13-year-old me, and sister Anne Marie.

“I grew up on Archdale,” he said. Archdale was the street just west of us.

“Wow! I went to IHM.”

“Ah,” he said. “You were Catholic. I went to Bow and Coffee.” Turns out he graduated from Henry Ford High School about four years before my sisters. He asked if I remembered some little diner on 7 Mile. I didn’t. I asked if he remembered Truan’s soda fountain, also on 7 Mile. Yep, he did.

“What about the Peanut House?” I asked. “My folks used to go there with the neighbors. They had roasted peanuts at all the tables and the shells were all over the floor.”

“No, but my dad probably knew it. He was an alcoholic and hung out at all the bars.”

Selling three books during a Post Office visit? No way. Meeting someone there who grew up in my Detroit neighborhood? No surprise. My life is full of synchronicity.