Word: mailboxes
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...past and the very near future. Despite your lofty plans to get out and enjoy the sunshine, to really see where your courses fit in your lifetime plans, the perspective narrows to a three-hour period one morning, the rectangular space of a TF’s mailbox the next. Reading period is a time to take stock, but often only in these backward terms. You learn how little you read for your Core class; you learn how much you enjoyed that chemistry lab, in retrospect; you learn how much peanut brittle one human being can consume on a Thursday...
...always got over our little tiffs, though, and found our way back to a mutually respectful relationship: I buy stamps at the machine in the post office lobby, doing my part to cut down on the lines. And my mail carrier delivers my mail - often getting it into my mailbox on the first...
...back to the problem at hand: As I said, I love getting mail, and I learned long ago that in order to get mail, I had to send it. It sounds a bit pathetic, I know, but I look forward all day to opening my mailbox and pulling out the contents - bills, circulars, magazines, whatever. And when Sunday rolls around, it always feels like a non-day, because there's no mail. I know I'd get over the end of Saturday delivery eventually with the help of a skillful therapist, but I can't help but hope the USPS...
...supply of firewood is almost gone. Snow covers the ground, still two feet deep and melting squalidly, the temperature almost 40. The other day, as the town snowplow bullied through, roostering snow, it knocked down the mailbox and left it capsized at a drunken angle in a snowbank. Now snowmelt runs downhill onto the dirt road, which is reduced to quagmire. The car bucks and lurches through rutted mud. The creek rushes and brims...
Like all promotional material distributed by Harvard College, the Junior Parents Weekend brochure that arrived in my mailbox last week bore a string of lofty promises. Pledging to offer the parents of the junior class "A Snapshot of Our Lives" and claiming that the weekend would give our elders the opportunity "to take a walk in our shoes," the brochure all but swore to give parents an out-of-body Freaky Friday-esque encounter in which they would magically experience the College as if they were actually 20-year-old students. Intrigued by the assertion that my parents could learn...