Mean People

Two days ago I fell asleep at the wheel of my car and crashed into a mailbox. I lived and my brand new car sustained damages in the thousands. The mailbox died and had to be replaced. To that end, I gave the owner of the mailbox my name, address and phone number which I watched her enter into her cell phone, and promised to replace it.

The next day my husband spent five hours doing so, first going to the crime scene to assess the situation, then going to the Home Depot half an hour's drive away where he spent $100 on a new mailbox and post, and stick-on numbers for the box. He then returned to the crime scene and, using his post-hole digger, erected the new mailbox, making sure it was to local code. The outside temperature was 87 degrees that day.

I could have left -- my car still drove -- without giving the lady my name or phone number, leaving her broken mailbox on the ground. After all, I was incredibly traumatized and confused by the whole incident and was anxious to get home, crawl into bed and weep hysterically. But I didn't. 

Have we gotten a thank you call or text from either her or her wife, the two ladies of the house? No. Draw your own conclusions regarding Americans, Mainers or lesbians. I have.