When the Federal Government Comes To Call -- Answer the Door!

The Federal Government paid me a visit recently to voice their displeasure with me. Seems they consider my mailbox to be “sub-standard.” After all I’ve gone through because of that damned mail box – including expense – it oughta be in the Smithsonian as a rare and endangered species! The reason they’re unhappy is a long story – though rather amusing – and happened something like this:

The economy being what it is – and my budget being even more in the tank than the economy -- I decided to cancel my mailbox at the post office and instead install a rural-type mailbox at my curb. Dear hearts that doesn’t even approach being a giant track in the do-it-yourself world and I went full steam ahead, bought a mail box (cost equalled one year’s mailbox rental) and took it home.

It was at that point I realized I needed a post for it to sit on. Fortunately, I found one in my backyard wood pile that would do – except it was six-feet tall. Not having a saw (of any kind) was a definite wrench (no pun intended) thrown into my plan so I gave up for the day; determined to complete my project the next morning. I thereupon went inside the house and poured myself a generous toddy.

Come morning, I sally forth to the post office to get my mail and assure them I’ll have my new mailbox up by afternoon at the latest. There was my first big mistake – telling a lie to the Federal Government (which I had no way of knowing was a lie at the time). I flipped off the wood post idea as I wasn’t going to buy or borrow a saw.

Instead I return to the hardware store and inquire as to a metal post I can just put in the ground and mount the mailbox on it. Fate surely smiled on me as they had one for that very purpose. The picture on the box showed it had curliques and everything so I was reasonably impressed and bought it – cost was equal to one year’s mailbox rental.

I trundle back home, metal post in hand and unpack the stupid thing. That’s when I found out I needed a master’s degree to understand the directions. All the metal pieces that would support the mailbox itself had to be attached to the metal pole. Not only did it look like the plans for a major railroad bridge project it came complete with enough teeny-tiny screws to melt down and make a good sized cannon.

Using logic as a guide; I took all the parts outside, laid them neatly out on the lightweight, folding table on my patio, got all my tools, and silently congratulated myself on getting organized. I then sat down in my chair and proceeded with my put-the-post-together game. My rear end had no more than hit the chair when Bubba (the big black dog), thrilled to death I’d come outside, ran full blast to greet me, hit the table with all my organized parts on it and over it went. Assuming dogs think about such things; I’m sure Bubba’s firmly convinced I was considering re-naming him as I ran through quite a few rude possibilities at the top of my lungs – none being repeatable.

I set my table back up and got most of the large parts re-organized pretty quickly. Finding the gazillion, scattered, little screws in the grass was a whole different deal. First of all; I’m legally blind in my left eye so that cuts my screw-finding capabilities down by half. Secondly, it’s winter and all the grass is brown and laid over and the tiny screws just cuddled up under the dead grass and refused to sparkle enough for me to find them.

I decided my flashlight would put enough light on the subject for me to see the tiny boogers so I went in the house and got it, got down on my hands and knees while shining the flashlight under each blade of grass and was completely engrossed (with my nose about six inches off the ground) in the search when I heard a cheery “good morning!”

Bubba the Dog was delighted to see my socially prominent, snooty, neighbor – I, however, was not. She’d already expressed her doubts as to my sanity to another neighbor – who told me – and finding me on my hands and knees, in broad daylight with a flashlight, looking under each blade of grass in my backyard was going to give her enough ammunition to declare me “certifiable!” Apparently in the throes of great good judgment, she didn’t ask what I was doing but hit me up for a donation for something her church was doing. I contributed, she left and I returned to ferreting out screws. Bubba lay down and watched with great interest.

In spite of all, I got the stupid thing together and traipsed out to my front yard to plant it by the curb. That’s when I discovered I needed cement – which I obviously didn’t have. I decided to skip that step, dig a hole and get on with the great mailbox saga. After digging nearly to China (at least it seemed that way) I dropped the thing in the hole, packed dirt firmly around it, stomped it down good and declared it done. Being of the mind that it was indeed five o’clock (somewhere in the world) I went inside, poured myself a congratulatory glass of wine and checked the mailbox off of my to-do list. I then promptly put it out of my feeble mind.

Around 10 o’clock the next morning’s when the Federal Government came to call. There was a knock at my front door. I answered and it was the postman – gingerly holding the whole mailbox apparatus -- post and all -- in one hand and his broken eye glasses in the other. Now, he drives one of those little mail trucks that’s open on both sides and he just pulls up at the mailbox, opens it, slides the mail in and off he goes. Seems my particular mailbox had been uncooperative with that routine. He drove up, tried to open the mailbox, the mailbox door stuck, he jerked and the whole thing fell in the truck with him, knocked his glasses off, broke them and left an ugly, red scratch on his cheekbone. He wasn’t, however, bleeding.

Trust me, dear hearts, I was not going to admit to being the genius mailbox builder so I just commiserated with him, offered to pay for the eye glasses ($65.00 – two years mailbox rent) and offered him a cup of coffee. He was really very nice about the whole thing but did, politely, suggest I get the mailbox set in cement and departed. I stood on the front steps, holding the mailbox, post and all, and considered my options. Looked to me like the cement suggestion was the only option left so that’s what I did. Now the mailbox, being new and all, looks pretty darned good but does sit at a rather odd angle – kinda like a drunk Tin Man – but he is firmly anchored in cement and crooked or not that’s the way it stays! Near as I can figure I could have rented a mailbox at the post office for four years, hands down, for what it cost me to put up one curbside receptacle of junk mail.

In retrospect, not borrowing the power saw from a neighbor (or anybody else) was the only intelligent thing I did in the whole mailbox fiasco! I’m more than aware of all the folks that have lost fingers to power tools (I equate them with man-eating sharks) and certainly didn’t want to join the Less-Than-10-Fingers Club. Of course, with my way of doing things my fingers would probably have been safe. More than likely I’d have done something more unique -- like cut off my damned heel!