As I pulled into my driveway this afternoon, I saw a troubling sight – my mailbox, which had once stood proud and erect with silent postal dignity, lay on the ground, mouth wide open, tongue flapping in the wind, like a dead dog on the side of the street. It’s contents, my mail, had been spewed projectile fashion from within its stomach and now lay listless in the grass. Someone, I don’t know who, must have hit it hard with the most giant of baseball bats, because the four 3 inch screws had been gutted from the solid four by four beam that held the mailbox. The support beam was also loose with screws unhinged and wearing the weary expression of a war-torn soldier – it held onto the post for dear life, and nodded in the direction of its departed comrade.
I patted the poor mailbox with it’s many gross fractures, and said, “There, there, it’s going to be all right.” I collected and organized my mail (which means I threw it away), and headed into the house to get my hammer. Back outside, I worked on resuscitating my mailbox. I tried to reattach the mailbox to its post, and failed (because you can’t hammer screws). I realized, pretty quickly, that I needed a power tool of some sort, which I lacked, so it was time for the heavy duty end all solution to every single repair situation ever encountered by any man, woman, or child in the entire cosmos: duck tape.