A once-modern mailbox with its red plastic flag sits on a lonely country road in rural eastern Nebraska. Barely standing, the neglected box appears to be bowing out, facing the tough reality that its usefulness has long passed.
If this mailbox could talk: I faithfully stood my watch for almost half a century, through all kinds of weather, never complained and never missed a mail call. I had lots of friends during this time; all of them wore blue and gray uniforms and carried big bulky leather bags. My friends were always cheerful, of course, I was always there for them, and seeing me as a regular part of their daily routine gave them comfort. My friends supported me with a well-balanced diet; I liked letters best, but my friend made me take the newspaper too, and once in a while he’d give me “junk” that was just plain awful. But holidays, like Christmas, Valentines and Mother’s Day always brought yummy treats.
My owners, on the other had, just took me for granted, always thanking my uniformed friend for the joy he brought them, but never giving me a second thought for keeping their mail safe and dry. At least once a month my owners would get mad at me, jam bills down my throat and rudely slam the door on me. My owners never bother to check on my welfare, even when they bump into me with their car; as long as my mouth works, they could care less about the rest of me.
Now that my friends don’t come around any more, my owners don’t use me either.
Thought for the Day: Today is the oldest you’ve ever been, and the youngest you’ll ever be again. Eleanor Roosevelt