The front of the mailbox is painted to resemble a White Willow, of which no less than four are growing in the grassy acre that surrounds the house. (Willow is the plant species Salix, meaning near (“sal”) water (“lix”) in Celtic -- according to the Montana Native Plants and Early Peoples book that I borrowed from the Library.)
The side that is visible as someone cruises along the dead-end gravel road toward the house mimics the scenery that surrounds the area.
I was inspired to add some flare to the mail/junkbox by a previous tenant that used puff-paint and glitter to decorate the now obsolete mailbox. I removed the old receptacle from it's long-held post in front of the house because it was missing its door, making it less than optimally functional. The last tenant was thoughtful enough to leave the new mailbox as a replacement. Rumors circulating suggest the door's demise is related to an agro local Mail Delivery Person that has expressed frustration with our narrow gravel road and the bulky Bitterroot Disposal trash bins that obstruct the turnaround paths.
The doorless steel container, fearing purposelessness in life, is now happy indoors as a convenient rubbishbox next to the toilet in the bathroom.
Another recent addition to the bathroom is a Fat Tire beer bottle displaying an assortment of white and gold Willow twigs gathered from the yard. I was lying in the shade of one of the four Willows the other day, learning about the Astrology of Jupiter in Dava Sobel's “The Planets,” when I noticed the tree had been shedding its wispy dead branches.
Their thin knotty design, varying woody values, and soft curves add a tasteful amount of nature to the stale porcelain throne.
But why the Fat Tire?
I'm quite irked at the recycling options in the Bitterroot Valley. Namely, there aren't any. At least not significantly. Perhaps my growing up in Oregon, with it's blooming household mixed-recycling options and its pioneering Bottle Bill, has gotten me spoiled. Aluminum cans and scrap metal are considered valuable by the local private vendor; newspapers, phone books, and legal paper are accepted; a donation is requested for taking small loads of corrugated cardboard. My doorless mailbox might even earn me a few pennies. Plastic soda bottles (PETE #1) and milk jugs (HDPE #2) are accepted at a facility an hour North in Missoula, (if I drank Pepsi or dairy,) but I certainly won't get a chunk of change for my efforts. But that's where it ends. I contacted a few facilities in the area: the local curbside garbage hauler, the nearby transfer station, the county's recycling vendor, and the private waste conglomerate in Missoula. The result? No where takes glass for recycling. All glass is trash.
And don't even think about curbside recycling options in Hamilton. If you're an average consumer and lacking motivation to go significantly out of your way for your waste, it all just goes into the bulky trash bins that obstruct turnaround paths.
I'm still not quite adjusted to the idea of throwing perfectly good glass bottles away. In the kitchen, this grass and glass display uses a 22-ounce Bitterroot Brewery Nut Brown Ale bottle and long strands of seeded grass gathered from a neighboring field.
If I were here longer than a couple months, I would hoard my micro-brewed beer and root beer bottles, and other condiment jars, until I had enough to build myself a glass greenhouse in the backyard.
If I were here longer than a couple years, I'd become a rural recycling and waste conservation advocate for the state.
I've got time to consider that as a plausible future endeavor.
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