Along one edge of my subdivision there are six houses built on double lots, the ones intended for the upwardly mobile, well-to-do, wealthy even. The rest of us are unashamedly middle class, ordinary, on single lots with smaller houses.

These expensive homes are beautifully kept. One, especially, catches my eye as I drive by. It has wide, sweeping lawns, circular driveway with the Lexus parked in fron (a Mercedes and Jag are garaged, taken out only when the mobile car wash tends them once a week). The Lexus is the everyday car.

There is not a spot of oil on the pavers of the driveway. The grass is cut, every blade to the requisite length. When an errant leaf falls from a tree, a gardener scurries out to whisk it away, lest it sully the pristine landscape. Roses ask permission to drop their petals.

The housekeeper's husband delivers her to the house every morning, then drives his mud-spattered, rusted out, rattly, ancient pickup truck immediately away from the foot of the driveway, to be be sure he is distanced, out of sight, out of mind. She is dressed in a spotless working outfit and hurries inside by the side door.

You get the picture.

As I walk by this house every morning, I ponder the following conundrum: this beautiful well-kept house has a standalone mailbox (they all do on this street) which is bent, askew, rusting, held onto an ancient pole by a couple of half-pulled bent nails. It's so dissonant with the rest of the picture that I find it hard to believe. It must date from the original construction in 1957.

I'm sure there's a story there and I'd love to find out what it is. Why spend big money on house and cars and servants--and leave an eyesore like that on the curb? Wouldn't you think that they'd replace it with something nicer?