Author: Jacob Swift

When I was around 12 or 13 years old, I would explore the neighborhoods around my home, either on foot or by bike. There was shortcut road I liked to use to visit one of my friends that was heavily forested on one side. I always saw it as just undeveloped land left alone in a small neighborhood.

Except for one house, almost hidden behind a veil of trees. This was a very simple wooden house, although it conformed to Southern desires and had a giant front porch.

This was where the Witch lived.

My friends from the neighborhood never looked at the house or acknowledged its existence. To them, it was part of the scenery. For my teenage brain, it was something to explore.

The property was absolutely covered in vine growth, with small patches of the wooden structure jutting out to remind you that yes, it was a building. The “yard”, such as it was, was a patch of dark soil with tree stumps cut down for sitting.

Being the youth whose manners were beaten into him by nuns in a 1990’s Catholic school, I knocked on the door of what I was assuming to be an abandoned house. An old lady answered the door.

She was old, much older than I could really guess at. But she was active, bustling around her house, which for all the exterior appearance, was remarkably clean. She offered me a cup of tea and asked what I was doing there. I told her the truth, that I was exploring and wanted to know what the place was about.

She explained that she was a witch and a historian. She pointed out the shelves and shelves and shelves of books she kept, all of them to do with the history and legends of the world. She brought one down that detailed the fables of Ireland, introducing me to the Tuath Dé (or Tuatha Dé Danaan, depending on where you read it) and Tír na nÓg. She told me about the ancient wars wrapped in those legends. She also said I should investigate those legends and see what they would tell me about myself.

After what was probably a couple hours, she told me to go on home, thanking me for the visit. I had tried to visit her a couple more times later on, but she never answered her door. A year later, the house was gone. Now, 20 years later, the lot stands vacant.

I always think of that old Witch when I drive down that street. I wonder if she enjoyed the day she could teach a young man the stories of (unbeknownst to him at the time) his ancestry. I hope she did. She had a strong influence on how I approach writing with legendary material.

As of time of writing, I’m coming down from my new ADHD medication. I’m hoping I’ll have enough focus left to me to get one of my short story projects finished, but this was something I really wanted to write about.

Also to display my amateur photography skills, but really I’ve just wanted to get these notes down. This post will go up in the morning (if I set it up right) so if I get any more photos, I can add to it.

It was an interesting day, to say the least.

After a decade of working with my ADHD, including figuring out coping mechanisms and battling the feeling of uselessness, I went to the doctor. I told him my problems and that I wanted to be put back on Adderall. For a grown man of 36, that’s both slightly dubious and a bit humiliating. After all, I stopped taking medication in my early 20’s. Haven’t I figured out how to deal with it by now? Shouldn’t my own methods and techniques be enough to get through the day?

The answer is no, and not really. I haven’t dealt with it; I’ve just done the best I could with an inability to pay attention or focus. Yes, writing notes down helps, but I don’t always remember to jot down my notes, or have the time to do so in the bustle of activity that is adulthood. I have figured out how to force myself into a state of hyper-focus, where my attention narrows down to one thing at a time, but that doesn’t always help. It also makes for some intense headaches after a while.

The doctor checked my blood pressure, noting it was high, and laughing when I said ‘Of course my blood pressure is high, I’m a letter monkey for the government’. But I managed to get my blood pressure down consistently enough that medication would be safe for me.

And so, I’ve been on meds for the first time in 10 years. Felt like having a goddamn superpower, being able to listen to a conversation, keep track of it, and remember it soon after. I felt like an actual adult, not having to battle my own consciousness to stay on a given subject or task.

I was able to get through my day job all right, and I’m feeling the coming-down happening in the evening. I’m curious if this would help me during my writing attempts. It’d be nice to not be scatterbrained for an hour and only getting 400 words down. I’ll find out either on Sunday (after chores) or during my non-scheduled day (postal talk for day off) and will probably talk about it in a Twitter thread.

Not only could I focus on getting my work done, I could even indulge myself in getting pictures of the scenery I go through.

For such a small town, there is a lot of personality put into my home. Everywhere you go, there are little pockets of artwork, or dedication to lawn decoration, or just something that’ll make the postman pause before dropping off the mail and appreciate the visual they get. But that’s not always the case, unfortunately. For every artwork, there’s a neglected building.

I’ve been driving past this particular property occasionally for the last couple months. Last time I saw it, the damages had worsened. I’m hoping the owners or whoever later buys the property has it knocked over. I remember how I was as a kid, and I can promise you that children will want to explore the place, including the upstairs. Good luck stopping them from trying.

Now, it’s been a couple weeks since I was out there, and we’ve had some rough storms lately. It’s possible that the weather already knocked the place down. I’ll find out next time I go there.

Of course, in any small town that is half-rural, you’ll find little pocket neighborhoods hidden away in heavily-wooded areas. Driving past this area on the highway, you’d think it was just undeveloped forest and thickets. But there are houses scattered around, with single-lane roads winding around tree roots, bayous, and man-made ravines. Thankfully, this neighborhood was designed for ‘mounted delivery’ so I could drive up to a mail box. I would not have preferred to walk this route.

You’re never certain what you’ll find out in these pocket neighborhoods. They’re thriving communities with shops, tradesmen, farms, bars, and of course, churches.

I couldn’t find anything to identify this particular church, but I have to admit that I was almost finished delivering in this area. I was keen to move on to my own route and finish the day. I’m not too keen to work this route again; driving an LLV down those steep, narrow roads is terrifying. I have mad respect for the regular carrier who handles the route every day.

That said, when I do go walking around other neighborhoods, I’ll spot things that will either make me marvel at ingenuity, or I’ll want to play Fallout 4 again.

Finally, if there’s one thing I love seeing while out on my mail routes, it’s the animals. I’ve been on my walking route for nearly 10 years and I’ve met nearly every pet or surviving stray. But someone eventually gets a puppy and I just have to say hello if I have the time.

(I usually have the time, or I figure out how to make the time, by thunder)

That concludes my little guided tour of the postal life. As a reward for giving me your attention: a cat picture!