Winter mailbox damage and Yankee ingenuity
Let’s face it, everyone in New England is sick of winter. This year the weather seems to alternate between cold and colder, with snow storm after snow storm. Then wham, there will be a couple days when it’s upwards of 60° and then wham again, it’s back down to single frigid digits.
Minx the cat, who lives for the outdoors, and really only uses the house as a bed and breakfast, has stayed indoors most of the winter, longing to go out, but was shushed back in by the chilling wind each time the door was opened.
When the snow falls in New England, the cursing begins. First it’s *@(#$* this snow; then it’s %)*@#* the weathermen who are ALWAYS wrong with their forecasts; then it’s !#%!&# this blasted snowblower it always breaks when I need it most; and then it’s %@!##*! the people crowding the supermarket to buy milk, eggs, and bread, why do they do that; then it’s $!#&*!# the school people who cancel school when we’re only expected to get four inches of snow; and then it’s !##!* the crazy drivers who go too slow (or too fast) on the roads, don’t they know how to drive? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all.
Every inconvenience is a big hairy deal in the winter. Something must happen when it’s cold in New England. It dulls our brains, so all we want to do is complain, drink hot chocolate, and eat beef stew.
But one complaint which I can appreciate, is mailbox damage. When the plow trucks roar by to clear the roads they heap huge piles of snow on top of the mailboxes, burying them so they have to be dug out, knocking the boxes off the posts, and frequently cracking the wooden posts themselves. And of course, the mailman will NOT deliver mail when the mailbox is down. #*&% it.
Anyone living on a busy road can easily go through two or three mailboxes a year. So I have to admire the ingenuity of a cheap Yankee in my neighborhood who refuses to replace his mailbox which was ravaged and torn asunder by the last storm.
Using a little sweat equity, he fixed the box and brought it back to life. The cracked post is held together with boards he screwed to the base. The top of the post is secured with yellow nylon rope, and the mailbox itself is secured with bungee cords. It’s the Six Million Dollar Mailbox. Or maybe, it’s the FrankenBox?
In any event, it’s working. The box is back up, and maybe this spring the Yankee tightwad coot will replace it with a new box. Or maybe not. I’ll have to ask him when he gets home tonight.