The long-suffering mailbox

We get our mail delivered to the house. We don’t get too many bills – we’ve gone paperless for most of that. We do get circulars, come-ons for credit cards we can’t afford and appeals for donations. It’s not the mail that’s the problem.

It’s the mailbox. I keep hitting it. With the car.

Let me explain: It’s not my fault. The Long Suffering Husband installed it in a most unfortuitous place. When we bought the house. Ten years ago.

The LSH gets the driveway, and I get the graveled area in front of the house. He put the mailbox up where I park.

The garage is too full of our stuff to get a car in there and has been since roughly eight or nine years ago. It’s strange how much more stuff you accumulate when you have the space for it. Of course, once you’ve found somewhere to put it, you never see it again. At least not until after it’s either no longer useful or you’ve bought something to replace it.

Anyway, the LSH put the mailbox right on the edge of the graveled area where I park.

Mostly, I back into it. Lately, the LSH has noticed some damage to my car’s bumper.

“It looks like it’s cracked a little here,” he said.

Apparently, the car’s bumper and quite a bit of the car is made of some rubbery fiberglass stuff. What happened to the old days, when a car was a car and you could run over a mailbox without so much as a blink of an eye?

“Have you backed into something?” he asked, probing the (very, very small) crack.

“Don’t be silly,” I scoffed. “Don’t you think that, if I had backed into something, I would have remembered it?” I will submit that is technically not a lie, since I never said I hadn’t backed into something, just that I would have remembered if I did. Which, of course, I do. I just didn’t tell him about it. At absolute worst, it’s a lie by omission, which is hardly a lie at all.

Sunday, pulling in, I heard a small, soft thump. More of a tap, really.

I knew I’d hit that (redacted) mailbox again.

“Little Professor, did you hear that?” He was sitting in the back seat.

“What?” He looked up from his copy of “The Black Cauldron” and blinked owlishly.

“Never mind.” I hopped out and circled around to the back of the car.

There was a small scratch and a dent. Well, I wouldn’t call it a dent, per se. A mini-dent. A quasi-dent? I tried telling the LSH it really wasn’t much of a dent, but he wasn’t buying it.

“That mailbox has been there for 10 years,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’d think that you would have moved it by now.”

(Wallace-Minger, a resident of Weirton, is community editor of The Weirton Daily Times.)