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Illustration by Christine Wei
The everyday absurdity of community mailboxes continues to astound me. It’s something many Canadians deal with but rarely talk about.
For example, in February it was -13 C and I was standing in line, waiting to open a box full of bills. There are few things more irritating in my daily life than my community mailbox – and somehow, it’s now become a routine.
Our mailbox is at the end of the street, a cluster of metal compartments bolted to a cement pad. The locks on these boxes freeze. The keys bend. Sometimes I notice some boxes have the whole front panel torn off in what looks like a budget heist gone wrong. Ironically, my mail was never stolen until Canada Post started locking it up.
I work overnights. Most mornings, on my way home, I stop by the box. I hold out hope – maybe this time there’ll be a card, a surprise, something decent. But it’s always a bill. Or two. Three, if I’m unlucky.
One morning when I stopped there were a few cars already idling around the box. I parked and joined a short line. The wind cut through my jacket. It was early, and I was tired. I could be asleep. Instead, I’m outside, waiting to collect my own mail. It feels less like a public service and more like a chore I didn’t sign up for.
And then Jim showed up.
Every neighbourhood has a relentlessly cheerful neighbour. Mine is named Jim. He always finds the bright side of things, especially things no one asked him to find the bright side of.
On this day, Jim is at the community mailbox, thumbing through his flyers and coupons like he’s found buried treasure.
“I love these new boxes,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s nice that we can all gather and get to know each other.”
I nodded, because nodding is easier than explaining how much I hate everything about this setup. The box. The line. The small talk. The idea that freezing your fingers off in the name of community building is somehow charming.
I finally reached my compartment. My key is bent, as usual. I jiggled it until the lock gave way. Inside, three weeks of mail are crammed in like a Tetris puzzle. I reached in and immediately sliced my knuckles on a sharp metal edge. I flinched, looked at my hand – blood. It’s always something.
“Why would they design a mailbox like this?” I muttered. “People obviously have to stick their hands inside.”
Jim, still nearby, started whistling.
I don’t blame Jim. He’s just doing what cheerful people do. But I can’t help feeling that my neighbourhood – and many across the country – accepted something they shouldn’t have. Mail used to arrive at the door – six steps from the kitchen, safe, simple, weatherproof. Now, we’re expected to go out and collect it ourselves. And call it progress.
I find myself wondering how this happened. How did we go from daily service at our doorsteps to pick up your own stuff at the end of the block? What changed?
I’m willing to bet that in 10 years, someone will reintroduce door-to-door mail delivery as a premium service. Maybe it’ll be marketed as nostalgic, classic or “concierge-style.” We’ll pay extra to get back what we already had.
For now, I stand outside in the cold, bleeding slightly, while Jim hums a tune and chats about coupons. It’s a ridiculous scene. And it plays out everyday, across streets and subdivisions all over the country.
To my letter carrier: If you’re reading this, please tuck a couple of Band-Aids in with the flyers next time. I’ll need them.
Shane Dyble lives in London, Ont.
