Just Another Day at the Abbey

The Mail Box.

My second week at The Abbey. The sun came up in its glory, peaking up over the horizon with bright pink streamers fading to blue. I love the mornings. I find I am getting up around sunrise each morning. I don’t know why! I think it is required in farming country. There is something wonderful, though, about the smell of hot coffee in the morning. I like to watch the sun slowly creep across the field bathing everything in light, and see the horses grazing in the meadow. This is country living.
Then it hits me. I don’t have a mail box, I don’t have mail, and I am out of touch with the literary world! When I moved here, I did the usual things everyone does, notify the utilities, send in change of address and tell friends; which I did, what I did not do is buy a mail box.

Now it 6:45 AM and I’m in a panic. Where is my mail going? Is there any mail? Where is the post office? Why doesn’t it open until 9:30? That’s three hours from now, and I don’t have the faintest idea where to get a mail box.

Arriving at the post office slightly before the clerk opens the door, I smile and wave politely at the person behind the counter hoping he would open the door. He looks at me like I am idiot. Basically I am. Finally, he opens the door.
I give him my address and he retreats into the inner chambers of the post office returning with two letters in hand and politely tells me that I don’t have a mail box ... (what a surprise), and that the post office cannot deliver mail if there isn’t a box (another revelation). Had I given any thought to buying a box? He hands me a sheet of paper explaining where to get a mailbox and how to correctly install it.

There is a beautiful shinny black box installed correctly on the right side of the road. All’s well with the world -- for about a week, then I found it on the ground smashed to pieces! “Mail box baseball”, I am told. Back to the hardware store for another box, this one made it six weeks before it, too, died on the side of the road. Thoughts of cement mail boxes filtered through my mind. Sheriff Dan tells me that if the little “Ty Cobs” break an arm, I am responsible. Off I went to purchase another “victim”, this one was sacrificed to the snow plow. The last survivor remains standing by the side of the road. Although not unscathed, it was used for target practice! It still holds mail. It’s become endearing, our holy mail box, fits the theme. So to find us, look for the white sidewall tire and the bullet riddled mailbox, we’re here and it’s just another day at The Abbey.

Ruth