The Mailbox

We bought a mailbox and I am absurdly giddy about it!

Somehow, the thought of our mail arriving at the end of the lane solidifies my rural-ness. This is really happening! Letters will be placed in a metal box, little red flag lifted, quietly exclaiming “You’ve got mail!”
mailbox
And herein lies the problem.

I have no problem with this arrangement, but Rob is less enthusiastic.

“They’ll know where we live,” he said.

“Who?” I asked, slightly alarmed.

“Everyone.”

I argued that, regardless, it is next to impossible to decipher our address. With concession-this and RR-that, I’d like to see “everyone” find their way to our farm anyway! We still can’t get the address to register on a GPS.

Over the past few days, I have been mulling it over. We have the option of having our mail delivered to a post office box in town (for a nominal fee, of course). Our address would be short and sweet: a nice, simple P.O. Box number. And maybe there is an advantage to being off the map.

Perhaps we could avoid an embarrassing drop-in by someone while Rob is hanging the barn lights, up on a ladder, buck naked (true story). Or, since I’m living there alone much of the time, perhaps it is a wise safety consideration (great…something else for me to worry about…).

Still, I want a mailbox. A real country mailbox, on a post, at the end of the lane. It just won’t be the same without one. So I will propose a compromise.

We will open a mailbox in town, but our little mailbox will still go up at the road so when our friendly neighbours want to drop off an invitation – or a noise complaint – they can do so without having to come all the way to our door.

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