Many people never prune their mailboxes.

Mine needs barbering frequently. During the growing season I vary, in my approach, and, although I generally prefer a small pair of hand clippers, sometimes I give in to the impetuous efficiency of hedge trimmers, and buzz it down like an Elvis Chia-pet.

Today being a clement Spring Saturday, my introspective and evaluative components were uppermost, and it was pruned like an aged bonsai. That’s one of the pleasures of a prunable mailbox. It is not a hedge, or a grafted apple. It's not risky, but rewards exactly the amount of time and energy you invest in it. It is success oriented.

If you improve your home, there’s a mathematics of resale value that always creeps into the process. We’re told that the return on new kitchens is greater in percentage than the return on extra bedrooms. An upgrade in insulation is of more importance in some areas than others. Closets have standards. It is easy to find yourself weighing your personal desire for a feature with the possible impact on a shopping stranger you fervently hope isn’t born yet. Even gardens begin to carry an element of that. That, I believe, underlies the commitment-phobic gardens of most suburban landscapes. A few flats of annual color are tolerated, when the act of faith required to install a strawberry bed is too great. Who can wait a couple of years for fruit? What if it doesn’t bear? What if you don’t like it?

So maybe people could start with their mailbox. Mine has a couple of hardy vines that tolerate abuse, in the form of road salt and exposure. I never take any interest in which predominates. That’s part of life’s mystery, as far as I’m concerned. I keep it tidied back enough that an ambulance can see the numbers, and the door and flag move freely, and I keep a pair of trimmers near the front door, so I can give it a random haircut whenever either of us need it.

My mailbox is not the specimen feature of my garden, and I plant strawberries and other perennials like a modern Johnny Appleseed. But the mailbox provides an element of dryad charm in an otherwise mundane location, fall color, a place for birds to perch and observe passers-by, and a mindless and innocent source of connection for me with my natural world. Much as we may love them, the honest gardener must admit that sometimes Gardens can be judgmental and demanding, but the vines on my mailbox aren’t like that.

Enjoy your weekend.