Ok, we live on a private road.
Not only that, it’s a private dirt road!
That gets really muddy and slippery when it rains and is prone to potholes and other dangers.
Footlights is quite a way along the lane, about a mile, and just before the turn into our property one has to go down a hill and across a creek.
The bridge spanning this trickle of water appears rather hazardous to some.
When we first started coming home I’d breathe in,
We fantasized about putting up guardrails,
Or buying a discarded trestle bridge,
Or widening the concrete slab that forms the base of the structure that appears to be crumbling on either side giving the illusion that it is getting narrower with each crossing.
According to the residents who live higher up the hill,
“That bridge isn’t going anywhere!”
It just looks so deceptive and the drop off is rather steep.
In the end we grew accustomed to its narrow girth especially as we watched cement trucks and other large pieces of machinery amble across with room to spare on both sides of their wheels,
We settled for four reflectors to mark the edges,
they picked up our headlights comfortingly at night and guided us across.
However, this spring we had some heavy downpours and the creek raced menacingly below the bridge making loud, rushing noises. To add to the fear factor visibility isn’t always good when it rains in the dip, leaves and branches hide the verges further fueling the vivid imagination of nervous drivers.
At about this time our mail box began to be consistently empty,
“I know we don’t get any letters these days, but not even a Prosper paper or a Walmart news-sheet?” I said to Hubs, “Something’s going on…”
After a week our mail carrier delivered type written notes to each of us beyond the bridge informing us that she considered it too dangerous to deliver our mail. Until our boxes were re-located to safer ground service would cease.
“I hear your bridge washed away in the rains,” said a member of staff when Hubs called the U.S. Post Office to get a clearer picture.
“Well, UPS, Fedex, trucks and tractors, trailers and heavy construction vehicles are still trundling along the lane,” he said in response,
“Some are even crossing over the bridge and trundling along our side too which suggests to me the road is still passable.”
Apparently if we wanted our bills and junk mail we would now have to drive to Celina (8 miles away) to get it.
Hubs and I considered taking a post office box in the sleepy town about 1/4 mile from our controversial lane thus effectively changing our address to Weston.
But we didn’t relish the headache of informing those who still wrote to us of our new location so we came to the conclusion that junk mail wasn’t so important and the few bills still delivered by snail mail could wait.
We collected our post every once in a while.
Three weeks later seven new mail boxes went up on safer ground.
On a blind corner…
And they moved every time we opened or closed them making a rather higgledy, piggledy display.
After a lot of talking and patience on both sides an engineer finally came out to take photos and determined that the bridge was sound.
Service resumed and the mail boxes disappeared.
Hubs goes out of his way to thank our carrier for going the extra mile even when conditions get a bit slick and she feels as though she’s risking her life to perform her job.
We are very lucky to live where mail is delivered to our door, or as close to it as possible.
I for one no longer take it for granted!
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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