The Mailbox

In yesterday's post I mentioned my leaky mailbox (see "The Postcard Files: Dessau"), a tinny piece of crap that had allowed rain to saturate the nifty homemade postcard I'd received from friends in Germany. The ink on the card had softened and run a bit, creating an acidic watercolour effect. With most parcels, however, the results are a lot less aesthetically pleasing.

The mailbox from hell.

This mailbox ruins mail.  Actually, it's more like a small compost bin.  Mail goes in, garbage comes out. It does virtually nothing to provide shelter for its contents, with the exception of cockroaches and snails, who think it's a cozy pied-à-terre; open the lid at the wrong time, and it's a horn of plenty.

Most of what's deposited in it each day is stuff we don't care about-- weekly sale notices for the grocery store, a promotional flyer for a new Indian restaurant, or the utterly recyclable Moreland Leader community newspaper (which appears whether you want it, or not). The New Yorker, which I do care about, arrives in a plastic bag, which usually sheds water, unless there's a downpour. Half the time, though, the good but unprotected mail gets soaked, and has a zig-zag snail trail or roach poop stuck to it.

Forensic examination would reveal a base layer of paper in there-- a worthless, soggy, moulding stratum of pizza take-away menus-- from as far back as two years ago. No one has scooped it out for fear of what might be living beneath it. When I reach in to pull out a letter, half the time I expect something to pull back.