Mailbox
On occasion this distant memory surfaces at curious moments. I’m unsure why. However random and peculiar, I suppose the event, over fifty years ago, had some significance for my young mind. One night when I was six or seven, in my pajamas after my bath but before bedtime, close to Hop on Pop and Green Eggs and Ham, we are all in the kitchen, Mom, Dad, me. I’m eating either cereal with six teaspoons of sugar or Nestle’s Quik chocolate milk and Oreos with even more sugar. There may or may not be a brushing of teeth soon. There’s a knock at our door and there’s the neighbor kid, the Klines’ oldest teenager sheepishly apologetic, informing Dad that he just hit our mailbox with his father’s car at the end of our long, washed-out lane. I worry about getting a letter tomorrow from Patty, my girlfriend. He is opening his wallet offering to pay Dad for the damage – the few dollars he has now and the rest on payday.
Dad said later that he could have kept on going and no one would be the wiser, except maybe the father if he looked closely at the fender or grill. But he stopped and did the right thing. This made an impression upon Dad and apparently it made an impression upon me as at that age anything that would impress Dad was certain to impress me. Here was the outset of an honorable young man. Dad told him not to worry about it – to put his wallet away. The next day Dad and I went to the hardware store, bought a new box, and affixed our numbers to it. Dad showed me how to dig a post hole, setting a flat stone in the bottom so the wood would not rot, righting the post with the level, then tamping the dirt down around the base to firm it up. I used this knowledge a few times for my own mailboxes at the end of my own driveways. When I began driving, I was lucky not to destroy any mailboxes, although I do recall scraping against a city limits sign on the way to school – but there was no one handy to confess to. And fortunately, so far, none of my mailboxes have been demolished by a neighbor.