Oak Park, 2009. Wise mailman. People of Caribou. Unwise mailman. Cyclist ahead, watch out. Plus: Pity the poor shopper.

Mailman with smarts... He has a way with the barking dog across the street, bringing snacks. When approaching this dog, he presents himself not as something to be chewed on or barked at, but as one who gives something nice to chew on. Dog says not a word (barks not), liking this nice mailman.

Java jive... Caribou on Lake Street, late fall, 7 a.m. Handsome couple behind counter. Personable young man. Customer says a cup of regular for here, man asks if he wants award-winning Colombian, brandishing announcement of Caribou’s award. Customer says yes, man gives him a cup, says he gets three refills. Customer says he would never drink that much, but it’s nice to know.

“Good morning, how are you today?” says over-the-counter bread-and-coffee salesperson to 2nd customer. “Don’t know, not feeling so good.” O-T-C salesperson in a flash, not disconcerted by unconventional response: “What can I do about it?”

Unconventional? Yes, the drill is “Fine, thank you, how are you?” or a variation of that.

Mail call... James got no mail Feb 2 (‘04), called post office, got 800 number from a very nice recording, called it. Nice man answered from somewhere in this land which belongs to you and me but apparently not Oak Park. He took James’s name and address, asked, “How can I help you, James?” seeking to establish familiarity, little realizing that it breeds contempt.

Hearing James out, he said there would be a callback and very helpfully issued a complaint confirmation number, CO-129-50842, which James cherishes to this day. No callback came, but next day and every day thereafter [covering many weeks] the mail got through, which James appreciates.

Streetwalking. One side or leg off... The whir of the cyclist is heard in our village. Not soon enough for the unwary walker, however, who must keep more things in mind than these cyclists dream of. He better not get dreamy, however, because his reverie may be prelude to an enormous shock that leaves him sputtering and expostulating -- as a cyclist comes whizzing by from behind. His problem is, he thinks the sidewalk, except for the occasional toddler on three-wheeler, is for walking. How wrong can a fellow be?

Noise helps... A word for skate boarders on our nation’s sidewalks. They are very noisy; so the pedestrian can hear them coming from behind and get out of the way.

Not so bicycles, in-line skates, joggers’ silently treading, etc. that sneak up and scare the bejesus out of the musing, otherwise mild-mannered pedestrian.

Nonetheless... In March of ‘09 the Active Transportation Alliance, “Chicagoland’s voice for better biking, walking, and transit,” previously the Chicagoland Bicycle Federation, conveniently lumped walkers and cyclists together when it called Oak Park the sixth most dangerous suburb in the county for walkers and bicyclists trying to cross the street.

OP police Chief Rick Tanksley chimed in, bemoaning “a general lack of respect for cyclists and pedestrians - and for other motorists,” omitting mention of lack of respect by cyclists for pedestrians, even on the damn sidewalk.

Buying local...

Adventure at Dominick’s... You are not your house’s purchasing agent, but this time you are deputed to buy bananas, English muffins, apple sauce, toilet paper, Clorox bleach, oleo, ginger ale, Coke, Bufferin, eggs, popsicles, and medicinal chewing gum — the standard Saturday-afternoon list. You also intend to buy what you want -- a couple of nice dinner salads, fresh garlic to keep you from growing old -- rather, from feeling old while you get old -- and whatever else catches your fancy.

You choose Dominick’s on Lake Street, a store you have come to like for its succulent assortments and genial help. You have an adventure.

The raspberries make a pleasant start. Two for the price of one: a good deal if they are not overpriced in the first place, which they seem not to be, though you are not an expert in these matters. But you go ahead and splurge. Won’t they be nice on All-Bran under milk.

You move along among the produce, snagging bananas as instructed and adding plums and pears of your own choosing. Oh the joy of it. The pears are of a sort that never turn up in your kitchen. You decide it’s time to find out why. Add grapefruit even if it isn’t quite the season, and you have your fresh fruit for the day.

But you can’t find garlic, which you have just read about in Earl Mindell’s Anti-Aging Bible, where it says the Delany sisters, well into their second century, ate some every day with their cod liver oil. Should be among the mushrooms but isn’t. You ask an employee on her way somewhere. She takes a brief look among the mushrooms, then keeps going, promising to send “someone from produce.” She does not.

On to the deli counter for some salad. It’s nice that no one comes at you asking what you want. It gives you time to look around, unhurried. You like the slaw. The slaw is a go. You stop your looking at the food and look at the woman behind the counter, up in years though no Delany sister, who is marching to the beat of her special drummer, fixing things, not looking up.

You make some head movements, catch her eye. She asks what she can do for you. Some slaw, please. Asked to repeat that, you repeat it. The slaw is scooped out. A half pound is just right. It is weighed on one scale, then on another down the counter. Not clear why the second weigh-in.

You make another choice. Some mermaid salad, please. Another half pound is weighed first on one scale, then another. The two containers are placed on the counter. Are they priced? You are shown the tag, pasted on the bottom. They are priced.

You leave and head south, that is, to the rear of the store, which, keep in mind, is your usual football-field-size warehouse with shelves and signs. Up and down the aisles you go, careful with your cart not to crash into other carts or the occasional wheeled shopper in her motorized rickshaw.

You come upon muffins, Clorox, ginger ale, Coke, eggs, oleo -- somehow, in the face of high odds. They are items that pop out at you. But alas, in due time the odds catch up. You find yourself near Valhalla, check-out land, but you are not ready for it. A young employee darts past, you catch his or her eye, you are momentarily unsure. It’s a he, and he wants to help. Can he find the apple sauce? He can. Follow him, he says, throwing over his shoulder the wonderful news that the Sox are ahead “fourteen to zero.” Good, you say, following.

At the apple sauce, you try for two. Toilet paper? “Aisle fifteen.” Thanks. But this advice is as erroneous as the Sox score, manufactured perhaps from shattered dreams: There is no Aisle Fifteen.

You resume your wandering lonely as a cloud, eventually encountering an angel in the shape of a young woman employee way back in the store’s far corner. This time you pull out your slip of paper and ask for aisle numbers. She counts them off, including aisle 13 (not 15) for the t.p., but doubting that there would be any medicinal chewing gum. For Bufferin and the doubtful gum, it’s aisle 10; for popsicles it’s 14.

Cart full, you head for checkout land, where all goes well until the bagger spots another employee illegally mopping up a spill -- it’s a contract issue? — and informs the checkout woman, who begins calling at the mopping woman while continuing to mark up your purchases. You as customer meanwhile work at monitoring the checkout process, keeping an eye on your purchases as the bagger leaves her post to attend personally to the errant mop-wielder. You also work at filtering out the music from above, a contemporary-format Volga-boat song, a sort of rap-style Yo-oh, heave-ho.

The mop-wielder desists, but the bagger, like the Kingston Trio’s traveller on the MTA, never returned. She had maybe gone to check with the shop steward -- unless the checker is the steward, which is why she had to get after the mopping one. If the mopper had moped instead of mopped, would anything have been said? Not by the steward, we trust.

Meanwhile, your purchases checked out and paid for, several items remain anguishing on the counter. You ask, Will anyone bag the rest of this? Yes, a young man appears out of nowhere and stoically completes the task. You thank anyone who’s listening, wheel your cart out, in the opposite direction of the spill, and head for your car.

Mission accomplished!

On another occasion... “You should articulate that,” the Dominick’s shopper admonished the 60-ish man who used body language to indicate he wanted to get past her cart and out of line. He agreed wholeheartedly and was only then allowed through, unwilling to mess with this dame.