The Doors were a popular musical group back in the day—but this past week we were challenged to take a photo of a door or of many doors.
Thinking about this–I took some photos of the door to our house–weather-beaten and peeling—and thought about our mail box.
Living in rural Wisconsin, our outlet–our door to the rest of the world was the mailbox. It brought letters from my grandmother–and once a birthday present or medications. In the early spring, the mail man would call to be sure Mom was home as he was delivering two boxes of chicks that he had to bring into the house. He always stayed for a bit to warm up, have a cup of coffee and a piece of cake before continuing on his route. In the winter, Dad would get out the mailbox he had nailed to a long plank that he could pull out of the snowbank before the snow plow came through and then replace it so we could get our mail. Once a house wren built her nest in the mailbox–and it was our job to get the mail until the wren had hatched out her eggs and they had all fledged and flew off.
Then there was the day the Sears Christmas catalog arrived. It was always a race to see who got the mail that day–so they could pore over all the new toys and dream of presents.