Before I left my job, I often ignored the mailbox for three or four days at a time. George is an eager mail getter. When he's in town, the mail comes upstairs before noon each day. I always hate to see it. More bills that will sit on the piano. More junk. More news I don't want to hear, know, see, or think about.
Those were the days of direct deposit, when the mail offered me nothing but hassles. Let me tell you, when those days end, you learn to love your mailbox again. Not the bills or junk mail, but CHECKS! Waiting for two checks for my first consulting work. Anxiously. Now I eye the mail box from the living room. Make sure it's still standing. Wshew. Mail lady has to have someplace to put my checks. Hurry mail lady, hurry!
When I was a kid I wanted mail so badly, I joined every free horse association around--paints, quarterhorses, thoroughbreds, paliminos, standard breds, tennessee walkers, shetland ponies, you name it. And every day I'd run to the mail box to see what would come. Every day was an absolute score in kid's terms. I got quarterhorse stickers, post cards on paints, catalogues, newsletters. It helped a lonely kid feel connected, you know.
Now blogging is like that childhood mail box, filled with mail and words from far away and around the corner.
And my REAL mailbox sits on a post out by the road, waiting. waiting. waiting for those checks.
