While The Pony was away cramming his smart brain with more smarts, I found it necessary to get my own mail. I know. The trials and tribulations Val must endure when her menfolk are unavailable.
You might recall that our roadside mailbox, EmBee, has undergone her own trials and tribulations. She stands strong among her peers, refusing to acknowledge the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that have been inflicted upon her by the local ne'er-do-wells. Yes, EmBee is still her sturdy green thick metallic tube-self. Her cubby is cracked at the bottom of one wall, a good two-to-three-inch gap allowing access into the cubby of the white thin-skinned metal mailbox on the right, all dented and non-door-closing. You name it, the ne'er-do-wells have tried it. That row of more than a dozen mailbox cubbies has been rammed with a truck, beaten with a bat, pounded with a hammer, poked with a pole, probably bombed with an M-80, and would be a candidate for distressing with a heavy link of chain if those ne'er-do-wells would stay off the back roads long enough to watch some home improvement shows.
As I was fetching my own mail every USPS delivery day for three weeks, I had to remind myself to be careful as I pried open EmBee's round metal door. Sometimes stinging insects come out. And most recently, a fine feathered stranger flew out. It was quite startling. One minute I'm pulling down EmBee's door, stepping back to avoid a wasp in the face, and the next minute a little brown bird is beating its wings to make an escape from that white mailbox next to EmBee. That happened at least five times. Every time, I told myself to be ready. I thought I was. Yet still my reflexes sent me reeling away. Flap-flap-flap! Such a commotion for such a little bird.
Yesterday, I cautioned The Pony as he climbed out of T-Hoe to get the mail. "Be careful. There's a bird in that white mailbox. It'll fly out and surprise you."
"Okay."
The Pony was cautious. On the ready. But no bird flew out. He thought I was crying wolf. Today, I warned him again. He gave me that look that implies that he thinks I'm crazy, but he's too polite to put it in words. He stepped up to EmBee. Leaned away from the white mailbox. Opened EmBee. AND JUMPED BACK AS A BIRD FLEW OUT OF THE WHITE MAILBOX.
The Pony looked at me and shook his head. I saw a little smile under where his faint mustache sits above his upper lip. He climbed into T-Hoe, the seat behind me, of course, as he is wont to do, and laughed.
"There is not a bird in that white mailbox. It's in OUR mailbox. It goes under the side, through that crack, to get out when we open the door."
"How do you know? It looked like it's in the white mailbox to me."
"Um. Because there's a NEST right behind our mailbox, with three little blue eggs in it. That bird sits on the nest until we open the door, then it flies out to get away."
Huh. It's a little brown bird. The eggs, according to The Pony, are blue with some speckles. Probably some kind of finch. I can't imagine what it will feel like to hear a bunch of cheeping babies while trying to extract the mail from EmBee.
It's a good thing that duty will fall on The Pony's withers.
This should be an interesting couple of weeks!
ReplyDeleteTalk about getting air mail!
ReplyDeleteDon't count those eggs (or hear the chicks) before they've hatched...
ReplyDeleteA bird in the mailbox is worth...
Bye, Bye Birdie! (I couldn't resist the lazy route today.)
joeh,
ReplyDeleteHick picked up the mail today. I said, "You know there's a bird living in the mailbox, right?" And he said he did. That on Saturday when he told The Pony to get the mail as they returned from the Scholars Academy, the bird flew out at him.
My next question was, "You didn't kill it, did you?" Because Hick is a bit unpredictable when it comes to things he has created, like EmBee. Not to kill for fun, but to clean out what doesn't belong. He said the bird was fine, no doubt because he couldn't catch it. He was surprised to hear there's a nest with eggs.
*****
Stephen,
Maybe that's why we don't get mail some days when all the other open-faced boxes have theirs. The mailman must get miffed at that bird swooping out, and withholds our mail as punishment.
*****
Sioux,
A bird in the mailbox is worth more than one blog post. We'll see if those eggs hatch. I hope no snakes or squirrels or rats crawl in there and eat the eggs.