There is a small feud building in my town.
The curvy road I live a few yards from converges at a stop sign with another curvy road, both ending at an odd T-shaped intersection. You can turn right to head to points south, or you can turn left to head into Small Town and places like My Favorite Place for Joe and the disappearing yarn shop. Turning right isn't a problem, but as is true with most intersections like this, turning left can try the patience of the most emotionally balanced driver.
One man in a dirty pick-up truck has solved the problem of waiting by going around the stop sign and driving on the grass, thumbing his nose or whatever at the established practice of waiting your turn in line, turning his back on organization and fairness. This spot of grass that he drives over seems to be easement, like a peninsula jutting out into the pavement, but the person who lives on the corner has taken action as if he owns the place.
When the man on the corner has trees trimmed, he drags the branches over to the easement and builds a barrier to keep the truck from by-passing the stop sign. In the past, these barriers have only been tall enough to prove a challenge to the driver. They have given him something interesting to drive over and grind into what is now just dirt and gravel. Before long, there is nothing left of the branches but a few stray twigs, and the passage is clear.
Well, the man on the corner has wised up, and his new barrier is half the height of my car. He has amassed so many branches he could have a bonfire to blaze all day if someone were to light a match. I have watched this pile grow over the last couple of days as I wait dutifully at the stop sign like a normal citizen, one who respects the rules of orderly conduct. You use your turn signal, you slow on the off ramp and not on the highway, and you wait your turn at stop signs.
I am now waiting for the reaction of the guy with the truck, the one who seems to have waged a full-fledged feud with the guy on the corner. I am waiting for Ernest T. Bass to throw stones. And I am waiting for the day the guy on the corner buries tire-puncturing spikes underneath the brush pile. This is going to be fun.
The curvy road I live a few yards from converges at a stop sign with another curvy road, both ending at an odd T-shaped intersection. You can turn right to head to points south, or you can turn left to head into Small Town and places like My Favorite Place for Joe and the disappearing yarn shop. Turning right isn't a problem, but as is true with most intersections like this, turning left can try the patience of the most emotionally balanced driver.
One man in a dirty pick-up truck has solved the problem of waiting by going around the stop sign and driving on the grass, thumbing his nose or whatever at the established practice of waiting your turn in line, turning his back on organization and fairness. This spot of grass that he drives over seems to be easement, like a peninsula jutting out into the pavement, but the person who lives on the corner has taken action as if he owns the place.
When the man on the corner has trees trimmed, he drags the branches over to the easement and builds a barrier to keep the truck from by-passing the stop sign. In the past, these barriers have only been tall enough to prove a challenge to the driver. They have given him something interesting to drive over and grind into what is now just dirt and gravel. Before long, there is nothing left of the branches but a few stray twigs, and the passage is clear.
Well, the man on the corner has wised up, and his new barrier is half the height of my car. He has amassed so many branches he could have a bonfire to blaze all day if someone were to light a match. I have watched this pile grow over the last couple of days as I wait dutifully at the stop sign like a normal citizen, one who respects the rules of orderly conduct. You use your turn signal, you slow on the off ramp and not on the highway, and you wait your turn at stop signs.
I am now waiting for the reaction of the guy with the truck, the one who seems to have waged a full-fledged feud with the guy on the corner. I am waiting for Ernest T. Bass to throw stones. And I am waiting for the day the guy on the corner buries tire-puncturing spikes underneath the brush pile. This is going to be fun.
Comments
Sheesh!