~Simple Joy 5~ A mailbox.

At the end of the little dirt road, was a mailbox, set at a jaunty angle, although perhaps twenty years ago it had sat upright. The many seasons of rain and snow had clearly taken it's toll. It was a dedicated box, opening and closing whenever the mail carrier came. Never rejecting the envelopes and packages that were placed-or shoved-inside, whether big or small, important or not. No matter the weather, it stands like a faithful little soldier, protecting the contents inside of it or waving it's petty red flag high into the air.

Such a job is taken for granted, sometimes forgotten entirely. But to have the task of guarding words is a significant one indeed, for words are precious things. I guess we downplay the role of the mailbox, because it is more often than not disappointing. The abundance of bills, magazines with empty articles, advertisements for unwanted junk. In remembering this little container, however, remember also the times when it brought you joy. The day you expected nothing but bills, but found a letter from an old friend. The February where you received valentines in red envelopes as well as a little box of chocolates wrapped up in newspaper. The day your grandmother sent you a letter, just to say hello. That time you were in college, feeling low and stressed, and your mother sent you a package from home, filled with homemade cookies and notes of encouragement.

Certainly, mailboxes can become just a habitual item of every day, bearing reminders and statements one would rather not receive. But they are also protectors and givers of words, delivering envelopes of sunshine to brighten one's day.

P.S. I couldn't resist uploading this picture :)

~Simply joy 4~ Boots.

Daddy's boots. They were tall worn out things with holes in the toes and dirt that never quite came off.  Reeking with the scent of hard work, and some sweat too, these boots were well used.

Daddy had bought them back in the day before he and Mamma were married and he was trying to get her attention. Mamma often told us that story. Of how daddy had spent half of his spending money for the Summer on those boots. He had got them at the most elite store in town, where a man sized your foot and wrapped them up in a fancy red box with crackling tissue paper. Her eyes glowing and her cheeks red, Mamma would laugh as she told us how proud and stylish daddy felt with those leather kicks on his scrawny feet. She remembered the Sunday after he purchased them, he walked into church with a silly grin on his sunburned face, strutting his long skinny legs down the aisle to show off his feet. He had stopped at Mammas pew and tipped his hat, just in case she hadn't noticed him and his new boots when he first came in.

I smile as I clean out my parents shop and find those boots. I turn them over in my hand, noting all the scuffs and stains, each with a story attached to them. I try to picture them as they were when Daddy first bought them. Funny how something as silly as these boots could hold so many memories. But it's time to part with them.

Who knows, maybe I'll buy Daddy a new pair of boots for Christmas this year, and maybe someday there will be another funny story attached to them. But something tells me that this first pair will always be his best.