Not being a handiwoman person I had no idea how to deal with a mailbox whose opening had rusted off. Duct tape? That didn’t work. Glue? Not a good idea. A new mailbox? I had never mailbox-shopped before. So for real advice, I did what anyone on the north peninsula does, I went to Jack’s Country Store.

I didn’t recall ever seeing mailboxes for sale at Jack’s, but there they were, up above eye level, a whole row of boxes. Metal boxes. Plastic boxes. White ones. Colored ones. Boxes shaped like barns. Even two shaped like gigantic fish, the size you’d like to have swallowing your lure. These, however, were designed to open their mouths for mail. I asked the hardware clerk what would be the easiest to install. He looked at the boxes. He looked at me. He suggested that probably the least expensive one, a steel rural mailbox priced at $6.95, would do the job.

Back home, I opened the box and surveyed its contents. I was happy to find that my new mailbox had been approved by the Postmaster General. I learned that I could paint my name in neat letters not less than one inch in height on the side of the box. Or I could use a suitable name plate. Or I could paint or inscribe a number assigned by the Postmaster.

I also learned that the support for the box should be of “neat design.” Mine I feared would not qualify, since the wood of the support was in various stages of decay, but as the box could be attached to either a stationery or moveable arm, and mine could fit either category, I decided not to mention this to the Postmaster, or to attempt to make a support representing effigies or caricatures that would ridicule any person, which the postoffice also frowns on.

I then discovered, to my dismay, that the box would require some assembly. A round latch for the front of the box, a square latch for the top and the mailbox flag all needed to be installed with screws and hex nuts by following diagrams and instructions. I ate five Rainier cherries and drank the remnants of the morning pot of freshly ground Starbuck’s dark-roast Ethiopian coffee to give me courage to attempt the construction job. The screws and nuts were in a bag that had been packaged by the blind and the handicapped, according to a note printed on the envelope. One hex nut was missing but it turned up in the plastic bag with the mailbox flag. Screwdriver in hand, I went to work and found that I could actually do what the directions said to do and it was not only do-able but fun.

However, my satisfaction with my newly-discovered screwdriver skills left me when I realized that before the new box could be installed I had to remove the old box, which was fastened to the support with badly rusted and seemingly immoveable screws. Seeing my struggles, a neighbor came to my rescue and not only undid the old screws but attached the new box.

I still need to find a tape measure and put my assigned numbers on the corrugated side.. And I’ve baked a batch of carrot/coconut cookies, something I’m more skilled at than mailbox construction, for my helpful neighbor.

I’d never looked very closely at mailboxes in my neighborhood before mine disintegrated. But now I’ve discovered that, like those at Jack’s, they come in all colors and, like mine, in various stages of disrepair. Fewer homes seem to have boxes, their owners opting for post office boxes to avoid problems with vandalism. I suppose before many years electronics and the Internet will have eliminated home deliveries. But until then, I’ll delight in the fun of walking to my shiny new box and pulling out the U.S. mail.

Marjorie Cochrane is an Ocean Park, Wash.-based freelance writer