I live in a subdivision purposely designed to defeat traffic, discouraging short-cutters and burglars with twisty streets and cul-de-sacs. Since moving in a few years ago, I’ve called the police twice on minor matters, and both times the responding officer said it was his first time on our street.
After a snowfall, we are one of the last streets in the city to get plowed (or so it seems), and it’s as idyllic as a hobbit Christmas until it’s time to go somewhere. Even with a 4×4 truck, it can be a slog.
I vaguely remember being young. Dad kept snow tires in the garage and he changed them out fall and spring, just as my mother did the storm windows for screens on our house. How Jack loved the invention of the all-weather tire! It was like getting two extra Saturday afternoons a year. That’s value.
Maybe I’m just imagining this. I like the remembrance, though, so let’s just accept it without worrying too much about veracity. It’s a happy thought. Like hobbits celebrating Christmas.
I try to publish posts in the early afternoon, but yesterday’s post didn’t go live until the evening. If you missed it, check it out: Extreme Vexing — Living With Trump Fatigue.
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