MY MAILBOX

MY MAILBOX

I don’t know why my mailbox is a target. I suppose it is a metaphor for communicating with the outside world. Every yard  on my street has a mailbox. My neighbors host a variety of mailboxes. Some of them are the utility ones made by rubber maid. Severe aggressive plastic tubes sticking up to receive the family’s correspondence. Just try to do damage to me, they dare you. They come in green and utility gray, putty, or whatever.

At the left end of my street resides a wonderful old fashioned mail box, like the one I used to have. Every season it is decorated with different covers to celebrate the holidays. Just like clockwork, the mailbox sits there bright and cheerful proclaiming the season. It doesn’t seem to have sustained the damage mine has endured, and I hope it stays that way.

To the right of my house down the street are several no nonsense brick columns that hold mail receptacles. They mean business. They have never received damage and probably never will. There has to be some happy medium from having a damaged old metal box and a brick bunker for your mail. I could pave a walkway with the bricks required to make such a house for mail.

I am looking around for a new mailbox. Maybe something in the shape of a flamingo, or a giant gnome would be good. But I don’t want to encourage the vandals by providing them with a temptation. Perhaps there should be a season on mailboxes. They should only be hunted during a short period of the year, so then we could budget for their replacement as a homeowner expense. We could declare a season such as: Only odd numbered houses on the Wednesdays after the new moon. If we set a different season every month, we might be able to distribute the damage fairly to everyone.