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77 P U T T I N G U P T H E M A I L B O X I pull up the twisted jack pine post with gloved hands, surprised to find I need to jerk the cinderblock it is attached to out of the ground, where it leaned on one side for years. I mallet the new metal base two feet deep with the back-edge of an axe. The echo of my pounding on the target 2 by4 in the center ricochets through the woods on either side of the road. Ravens lift above the trees to begin their wonk-wonk, and with each swing I am jolted into a joy of hammering. After I snap down the metal locks at the base with the strokes of a hammer, I place the four-foot-tall milled pine post into it, then center the white pine platform on top, drive in wood screws to secure the new box on both sides and in back, then bank the base with the stones I unearthed, and fill in the old spot with dirt. I walk around it, to admire its height, 78 its straightness, its square to the road. Now when I check the mail, I open the lid, knowing I erected what is durable, and raised what is reliable in myself. ...

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