Of course we wouldn't have moved into a split-level house if it didn't have many advantages, not least of which is the ability to consign all the toys (and most of the playing) to the basement. Another advantage of our home's currently unfashionable floor plan is that it gives me the ability to look out on the driveway and front door from the kitchen where (contrary to what one might think from the frequency and quality of home-cooked meals that I serve my family) I spend a good deal of my time.
So it was that I saw an older middle-aged man in a plaid shirt, vest, and fishing-type hat with a paper in his hand walk up to my front door and ring the doorbell.
We get a lot of doorbell-ringers in our neighborhood. Mostly kids selling stuff. This fellow did not seem like the doorbell-ringing type. I opened the door.
"Your mail was delivered to our house," he said, handing me an envelope. I took it from him and saw that it was a letter we'd been expecting from the Shackelfords, addressed to "The Martin Boys" at our (correct) address, which had been struck out with a marker by someone at the post office.
"That's my name," said the man apologetically.
"Martin?" He nodded.
"And that's my last name."
The man lives one street over and two houses up from us. And his name is Martin Boys. It was nice of Martin Boys to bring us our mail.