Another Disaster in the Name of Environmentalism

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever..." ~ John Keats

...Or for one week, if you live at our house. 

Jerry had spent two weeks and more than a couple trips to the big box stores assembling his project, a replacement mailbox.  He primed the box and painted it a bright blue.  He put gold numbers on the front, then decided red would look better so he made the switch.  He took a 1976 Michigan bicentennial license plate and affixed it artfully to one side. 

He searched high and low for the perfect post and couldn't find one shaped just right. He explored the option of crafting his own.  Many of his specialty tools are still back at our Ohio home, so eventually he discarded that idea and eventually found a suitable post at the fourth (or fifth) store he tried.  He primed it then coated it three times with cherry red latex.  The color was a perfect match with the red on the license plate.  He put large reflective numbers down the side.  It couldn't have looked better.

Finally, it was time to erect his masterpiece.  He consulted the U.S. Postal website for the exact height they require.  He then dug a deep hole with the post hole digger.  (This was no easy feat in the land of the kiln-ready red clay.)  Jerry mixed and poured concrete and I helped him hold the post "just so".   

The concrete had set nicely by Monday.  Another job completed by my handy husband!  There was even a functional little flag for outgoing mail that our former bashed-up box did not possess. It was the Cadillac of mailboxes, a thing to be admired.  And so it was.

Neighbors noticed and were quite complimentary.  Jerry glowed with the pride that cometh with the knowledge of a job well done.  People immediately started using it as a landmark.  "Go past the Michigan mailbox....."
 
On Wednesday, Jerry decided to add a little hanging sign, indicating where our house is located in case we ever order pizza or, God forbid, need an ambulance.  Now it was perfect!
 
On Friday the recycling truck accidentally grabbed our mailbox instead of the container sitting next to it and snapped it like a toothpick.  I'm told the driver got out of his truck, and "cursed".  

I discovered the mailbox lying on its side on the lawn when I went to get the mail.  At first I was confused.  It briefly crossed my mind that perhaps a rabid Ohio State fan had rammed into it.  Then it dawned on me what had happened.
 
I called the recycling company on the spot to report the murder of our beautiful mailbox.  I feared they would give me a hard time but actually they couldn't have been kinder.  They said they would build and paint an exact copy of our mailbox and nobody would ever know it wasn't the original. 
 
They, of course, are wrong.  I will know and so will Jerry.


 

The Answer

And the answer is….

Thirty-nine.


The question:

How many golf balls did my husband find in our woods after reading yesterday's post?

Sneaking around in the woods

I was sitting at my desk looking out the window when I saw a neighbor from the top of the hill scurrying down into the woods that surround our house. He was dressed in blue jeans, a blue hoodie and he had a white plastic bag in his hand. I couldn't see what he was doing, but he was moving rapidly, bending down every so often and putting something in his bag.

I was about to call out when the thought occurred to me that I don't really know him all that well and perhaps he was harvesting a crop of weed that he had planted in the spring. I have read about people doing that in National Forests. Who would notice here?

Did I really want him to know that I was observing him? I decided to just keep quiet. (I did wonder why he wasn't wearing camos though. They seem like a better choice if you are going to engage in risky business. Women really do think differently than men do, don't they?)

He ran around in the woods for fifteen to twenty minutes and then, like a Cullen, he vanished as mysteriously as he had arrived.

Later that evening I was walking with a mutual friend and entertaining her with this very story. At the exact moment she was belly laughing, whom should appear but Mr. Woods Walker himself? "Hey, Doug," she said, "Chris was wondering if you were harvesting pot in the woods this afternoon?"

"One hundred and seventy-seven." He replied cryptically. Then, before I could ask any questions, he was gone once again.

One hundred and seventy-seven? My mind rushed. "Should I rush home, pack a quick bag and get out of town?" I thought. Overactive imagination? Guilty!

On the other side of the woods, there is a golf course. He had picked up one hundred seventy-seven golf balls.