"When dawn spreads its paintbrush on the plain, spilling purple... ," Sons of the Pioneers song from TV show "Wagon Train." Dawn on the mythic Santa Fe Trail, New Mexico, looking toward Raton from Cimarron. -- Clarkphoto. A curmudgeon's old-fashioned newspaper column, cross-breeding metaphors and journalism and art, for readers in 150 countries.

Saturday, December 3, 2016

22 days til Christmas--mailbox

Across the miles--5 by 7 watercolor
Mailbox.
Not the annoying digital one full of spam and boring business and official stuff you scan through and delete.
The real one, sometimes actually box-shaped.
Sure, it's most often full of sales stuff and other junk mail, and bills. My first stop after walking down to the street to get the daily mail is at the garbage "can" to dump a majority of it instead of bringing it inside.
But there is always the anticipation, especially at this time of year, that there will be an envelope with handwriting on it--a letter or a card from a friend or loved one across the miles and years.
Isn't that the first thing you notice? What you hoped for? The first thing ripped open and eagerly read?
Interesting that in these days of instant mail, and free long distance phone and "texting," that real mail has become more valued, more anticipated.
If you live in rural areas,  it grows even more as you trek down the land to the mailbox beside the road.
Why? Isn't it actually touching another person's personality and being in a part of their presence?
Why else the anticipation and sudden emotional lift when you get "real" mail in a real "mailbox"

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