I am spending part of my spring break with my mom in Pensacola, Florida. I will be heading home to Michigan’s frigid spring temperatures tomorrow.
Part of my visits to Mom’s are spent helping to do little chores that for her, at 87, are big things. Yesterday we drove to the hardware store and purchased a new mailbox. Her’s has become corroded and holey from being exposed over the the last twelve years to the salt that permeates everything and, if not regularly removed, eventually eats away at materials like metal.
We were lucky to find a wheelchair with a basket at the entrance, making the walk through the large box store much easier for Mom’s unsure footing and wheeled our way through the hardware section.
As we perused the large selection of plastic versus metal, ornate versus plain, and black, white, or gray, Mom asked what I thought of plastic. Although cheaper and probably able to withstand the elements for more than ten years, the plastic seemed chintzy.
“Well Mom, they don’t seem very durable. Let me put it this way. In fifteen years you’ll be 100! If you need a new mailbox by then, you’re entitled to it!”
We both laughed! Mom’s family has a history of longevity so that is a good possibility. But what made us laugh was more the reality that she probably won’t be in that house in fifteen years and it will be someone else’s problem to deal with.
Like the Florida salt, life and age continue to permeate everything we do. It’s just a matter of time. Another fifteen years? I sure hope so.