The Mailboxes of My Memory
As a kid, I hated firecrackers, and one day Stewy, a guy next door, lit a cherry bomb that exploded inside the mailbox when I was just a few feet from it. The mailbox endured, but my fear of fireworks only grew exponentially. (I love fireworks today, after therapy.)
I'll never forget that noise—but I also will always love another noise, actually a sequence of noises, that I fear is going away soon ... the sound of the mail truck driving up to the box, the squeak open of the hinge of the mailbox lid, the flag being dropped when an outgoing letter is picked up, and the squeak shut of the lid just as the truck drove off. No matter where in house I was standing, and no matter what I was doing, I could hear it. Those noises triggered in me a sliver of daily excitement—"what's inside today's mail?" and I would run out to check the mailbox, sometimes fast enough to wave at the postman as he continued with his appointed rounds.
Do you have a mailbox memory you want to share? How about "posting" one here?