I pulled over the other day to take a shot of these mailboxes because I thought that they were just lovely. Then I became frightened by a thought. It originated with a fleeting memory of a rotary dial phone that I showed my girls at the thrift store one day a few years back. I remember smiling as I inserted my right index finger into the fifth hole and proceeded to dial 522-4746 (my phone number for the first 12 years of my life) while holding the barbell of a receiver up to my ear. You remember, the one with 3 feet of coil that kept you attached to the unit.
Anyway, I'm looking at these mailboxes and thinking to myself, "will I be fondly smiling while demonstrating the little red flag to my grandchildren someday on our venture to the thrift store? Will they be looking at me like I'm daft as I open the front and pretend to lick an envelope closed, place a kiss on it and deposit it into the vintage receptacle?"
A couple of days ago my dear friend sent me a hand written note with a magazine article in it, just because it made her think of me. I appreciate the speed and ease of the internet, but there is nothing like walking out to the mailbox and finding an envelope embellished with your name, written by the hand of someone you love.
And so I pray that there never comes a day that finds these beautiful public servants 'uprooted' from our country roads. Nor a generation that doesn't know the satisfaction of watching and waiting for snail mail.