While living there, I made friends with a lady named Evie, whose situation in life didn't allow for visitors, largely due to her husband's dog, who indiscriminately minced all visitors to shreds. I would sometimes catch Evie at the lone gas station in town, where she worked, however, I was not often lucky in this pursuit.
In an effort to maintain a friendship, I started up a mailbox correspondence. Sometimes I would mail things, other times I would swing by and drop something nice in her mailbox, which was more than a mile out of harms way. Books, letters, and notes alike were all part of the friend-making panoply. Maybe it was silly of me, but I just couldn't give up on our friendship, and I'm glad I didn't.
On Evie's birthday, I made her one of the most hideous looking, ice-cream-cone cupcake towers ever to thrill the human taste buds, then drove through some crazy rain getting it to her mailbox, along with a birthday card.
I never heard anything of it, as I knew would be the case, but weeks later, at the gas station, I had just about talked myself down from the sweets isle when Evie turned the corner, arms loaded. Both appendages flew open as four twelve-packs of Dr. pepper hit the floor, and my dear friend hugged the holy shnoggins out of me. I darn near cried. If that isn't friendship, I don't know what is.
