On Being a Crossing Guard

I took the crossing guard job after I retired from the post office because I missed being outside. I didn't expect to love it this much.

Every morning from 7:40 to 8:20 I stand at the corner of Elm and Harrison in my orange vest. I know about sixty kids by name and about thirty dogs. One boy tells me a joke every single day; most of them are about cheese. A kindergartener hugs my knees whenever her mom lets go of her hand.

Parents wave from cars. The barber across the street brings me coffee on cold mornings. On the last day of school last June, the kids made me a poster covered in handprints that says "THANK YOU FOR KEEPING US SAFE, MR. WALT."

It hangs in my garage, where I can see it while I make my lunch. Best job I ever had, and I've had a few.