“Are you going to post it?”
I got asked the question several times – meaning, would I post “No Trespassing” signs at the edges of my property? I debated it for about a minute before deciding that I would.
The signs are ugly, jarring in the woods, and feel threatening. I hate seeing them. But they line many of the wooded areas along Hector's roads, which cuts in and out of federal hunting land. Personally, I don't want to wear an orange vest just to walk to the mailbox come fall.
And I have a mailbox now, which is kind of awesome.
At this point it's just a mailbox nailed to the top of a three-foot stump, but somehow it means I actually exist at that place. Or, as my brother puts it, now the town has a place to send the tax bill. Which … true.
Physical mail is a minor obsession of mine. It kills me that no one sends letters anymore. There's something about the physical act of opening a letter, an envelope that started out in one place and was entrusted to be delivered somewhere else. Good letters are rare.
So now I have a mailbox. An address. Even so, I get the mail delivered at a box in town.
