I wish the Crown Prince of Cardiology, Terrible Tony Tramontano, would bug the DOT about their salt use as much as he does me about mine. Not only would it be better for our ecosystem, but at the same time, it might loosen the stranglehold of the Northern Mailbox Cartel.

If you live by an Adirondack roadside, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If not, let me explain: After drunk drivers and teenage males with baseball bats, road salt is a roadside mailbox’s worst enemy. NaCl will turn the average mailbox into Swiss cheese in only a few short years. It’s just a fact of ADK life and I accepted there was nothing I could do about it, until a couple years ago when I took the postal bull by the horns.

My last mailbox had fought the good fight before it gave up the ghost. At its end, the only word to describe the poor thing is Scrofulous. Full of more holes than metal, the only thing keeping it from atomizing was rust and my prayers. Finally, I gave it the last rites and tossed it on the metal pile destined for the dump, where it bounced off my old microwave. And when it did, a light bulb flashed in my head, just like the cartoon characters of yore.

What hit me was this: My microwave, while electronically as defunct as Buffalo Bill, could still serve as a mailbox. For sure, it’d be an unconventional mailbox, or even a weird one — in other words, it was right up my alley. And because it was up my alley, figuratively, it soon ended up by the road, literally.

First, I spray-painted it silver. Then, adding the perfect note of jeeter elegance, I mounted it on a pile of tires and dubbed it my Mail-o-Wave. Kvelling like a proud parent, I wrote a column about my latest recycling innovation, and that resulted in a windfall: My old pal Karen Plumadore Rauss, having been deeply moved by my efforts, sent me a perfect gift from one dog lover to another: It was a wrought iron mailbox flag with a dog print at its top.

Several months after that, in another artistic flash, I graced the top with a fabulously shiny kitchen faucet. Then, in keeping with its new look, I christened it Farrah. And finally, in a flourish of anthropomorphism, I glued a big pair of google eyes on the front.

As I’d thought, Farrah was perfect for the job. It kept my mail secure and dry, which if ya think about it is the only thing a mailbox is s’posed to do. And if it raised an eyebrow or elicited a chuckle from time to time, Hooray for our team!

–

Death…

–

The M-o-W did yeoman’s service for over two years, keeping secure all my bills, junk mail and solicitations from supposed charities I’ve never heard of (Save the Botswanan Fruit Moth, The Has-Been Poets Home, the Free Reedy McTeel Fund). But then two weeks ago, tragedy struck.

OK, not tragedy in a Greek or Shakespearean sense. And honestly, probably not tragedy in ANY sense. But something untoward and unkind happened to my M-o-W.

I didn’t notice it right away. You know how it is, I’m sure: There’s a physical change in your environment, but it doesn’t register immediately because you don’t pay specific attention to it. Sure, that thing is there, but it’s competing for your attention with everything else around it, and so it just fades into the background.

And so it was with my M-o-W, till one day something caught my eye — suddenly, shockingly, glaringly: The faucet was gone!

At first, gobsmacked to my core, I didn’t believe it. I mean, who the hell would rip off a broken faucet? It made no sense. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized about 85% of the things that take place on God’s Green Earth make no sense, so really it was just par for the course. Once I had accepted that, I had a second shock: The google eyes were gone too!

There was of course only one explanation: Some unknown SOB had ripped ’em off — literally. That was obvious. What wasn’t obvious was the motive. It could’ve been one of a myriad of things. A goof played on me by a friend? A sudden whim from some random passer-by? Maybe even a pathetic passive-aggressive attempt at literary criticism from some disgruntled former reader?

I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I believe character and moral fortitude are NOT developed by our successes, but from how well we rebound from our failures. And so, stoic that I am, I accepted this act of perfidious rascality as a done deal and immediately turned my attention elsewhere, specifically to the next iteration my M-o-W and its re-emergence into the Wonderful World of Roadside Installations.

–

…and Rebirth

–

First on the agenda was a facelift, if you will. I went to Coakley’s, copped a can of deep purple paint, and sprayed on several coats of Phoenicia’s Finest.

After the paint dried, I worked on Step 2 — the dog paw flag. Originally, it’d been red, which though fine on a silver background, did not pop out on a purple one. But in an act both frugal and artistic, silver paint (left over from the M-o-W’s original paint job) looked boffo.

But as regal as it looked, it begged for something more. Something that would elevate the simply dignified to the realm of borderline cosmic — if not beyond. But what could it be?

I won’t bore you with the details of how I arrived at the finishing touch; I’ll just say it was long and tedious. But finally, after days of endless cogitation and nights of tortured sleeplessness, I had it: It would be The Last Outpost.

And when I say The Last Outpost, I mean it in an intergalactic sense: My M-o-W would be an ET’s view of the night sky.

Once I had the concept, I needed to figure out how to execute it. I racked my brain, I talked to my otherworldly artistic friends. I scoured craft stores and the internet, and finally my vision met my M-o-W’s reality: I found the perfect bling — rhinestone-studded stars surrounding a rhinestone-studded Saturn. On an overcast day, it presents a subdued astronomic charm. When the sun hits it, it is a sparkling melding of Major Tom meets Elton John.

Now, most logically, you’d like to see a pic of my chef d’oeuvre, but I’m afraid you can’t.

First, it still has a few final touches that need to take place. To reveal it in its unfinished form would be an insult to my readers, a worldly and sophisticated lot, if ever there was one.

Second, to have a black and white picture on newsprint of The Last Outpost would be as low-rent and tasteless as colorizing Casablanca.

And third, without a picture, I could describe it for you. But since a picture’s worth 1000 words, I’m sure at this point in my column, another 1000 words would be less description than they’d be oppression. And let’s face it: The LAST thing I would ever do to my loyal readers is try their patience and impose on their kind dispositions.

So the spaceball’s in your court, as it were. So if ya wanna smash your earthly shackles and book a brief trip on Starship Dope, it’s up to you.

And even better, it’s just up the road.