We’ve already established, it snowed this weekend. It snowed a lot. When you have a snowfall and use the word “feet,” you know there’s trouble.

Let the games begin!

I went to sleep around 4:30 AM this morning. As I snuggled close to Helaine, the sound began – “beep, beep, beeep, beep.” It was rhythmic, probably a beep every three quarters of a second. It was a plow.

At 4:30 AM plow drivers make the NBA minimum, give or take a few cents. His truck was pushing and then backing up the full length of my street. Helaine counted. He did it four times.

“Beep, beep, beeep, beep.”

You know, I shouldn’t care. In fact, I should be happy. My street was nicely plowed. But that doesn’t end the saga.

I walked out this morning and saw the carnage. My mailbox had become a casualty in the annual “Snowplow Olympics.”

And really, I’ll have to take the blame. After all, it was I who put it on my lawn, close enough for the postman to reach from his truck. How could I have been so careless?

Steven Wright used to tell a joke about owning the ax George Washington had used to cut down the cherry tree… except he had replaced the blade… and the handle… but it occupied the same space. In that same way, this is my one and only original mailbox.

It looked so sad, sitting there in the freshly compacted and plowed snow pile.

This morning our mailman obediently put the mail in the decapitated box. It’s nearly the same height as the poll. Will he do this as the snow melts and the box heads toward the curb below?

I’ll stop at Home Depot later today. There are kits made for losers like me. The mailbox will be back in on its stand in the next day or two.

I’ll still worry. Once a plow blade gets a taste of mailbox, it’s tough to get it out of its system. They’ve been known to attack again.