Today, I got home to find my mail-lady stuffing my mailbox, using her fist to cram letters and manila envelopes in the government-approved receptacle.
That poor woman. She’s having a hard time because our mailbox was the recent victim of “mailbox baseball,” which is a game played during the summer months.
The rules of the game are loose, but it involves speeding cars filled with teenagers beating the tar out of innocent mailboxes.
The object of this game is: Any teenager who awakes the next morning and still remembers what happened the night before, wins.
Because of this, our beat-up mailbox looks more like a mutant metal pancake with a flag attached.
I need to install a new box, but I kind of like the character our dented mailbox has. It seems to scream to the world, “Hey, look at me! I’m lopsided! When it rains the mail gets wet!”
My mail lady hates our mailbox. She tells me it is one of
the top four things that causes her high blood pressure. The top item on her list is her mother-in-law in Tampa.
I receive a lot of mail. Which is a new thing for me. Used to, nobody wrote me but Ed McMahon and the IRS. But now I get mail from all over, sometimes from exotic countries like Canada.
Today, I got a letter from Jacksonville, from a woman I met a few weeks ago. It was a very touching letter. I cried when I read it.
I also got a letter from a man named Myron, who is from Tacoma, Washington, whose father just died.
This week alone, I received letters from Lake Geneva, Wisconsin; Fayetteville, North Carolina; Chanute, Kansas; Oswego, New York; and Atlanta, Georgia.
Most of my letters, however, come from Alabama. I am fortunate to call Alabama my adopted home away from home.…