We had a fairly mild winter but the street where I live seems to be made of soggy graham crackers. It is rapidly dissolving, especially right in front of my driveway.
I swear when the city filled it last fall the crew used gravel and spit. A squirrel ran over it shortly after and took out a large section. I have to straddle it with the truck to prevent a trip into the Grand Canyon’s little brother with the possibility of never being seen again.
Granted, the city has promised to repair the street. I’m hoping it is before we lose anyone to the bowels of the earth.
Naturally, as all good potholes before it, my chasm is where the wheels on the right side of a vehicle are supposed to go if one is to avoid a head-on collision and is constantly expanded by just three of the dozens of cars that traverse this little boulevard. The worst is a pickup truck on steroids with a trailer. It’s a wham, bam, there goes another chunk of pavement every morning. Why the guy can’t manage to just once not slam into a pit that can be seen from outer space, I’ll never understand.
A delightful byproduct of a disintegrating street is fist-sized lumps of pavement in the driveway and yard. Since putting them back in the hole doesn’t work, I’ve been using them for weed suppression between my fence and the disaster next door. I may do a Japanese rock garden next.
Due to the circumstance of 30 days to move or live in my car, my new home is next to an abandoned nightmare. Actually, my house is almost as old as I am, so it’s ancient and in desperate need to repair, also like me. However, I don’t get a lot of inspiration from what looks like Norman Bates’ house in the adjacent lot. The landscaping is reminiscent of a briar patch-meets haunted forest-collides with Chernobyl.
If I ever have to sell my home I’ll need to hire an exterminator to tent the clearly inhabitable structure next door, unless they want to relive the old TV show “Green Acres” or hope for someone as desperate as I was and able to pretend they can’t see the critter sanctuary to the north.
I digress. I’m thinking of making a few bucks from my personal pothole — perhaps if there’s anything worth mining, or maybe as a spelunking adventure, or possibly an agreement with Old Scratch as a portal for the damned.
Whatever happens before the road repair crew gets here, I’m anxious for them to begin. I’ve already started taking bets on how many backhoes they’ll lose before they fill in the mother of all rim-benders.
Carl Sullenberger looks at the world from a skewed perspective and expresses a humorous view of life through the prism of his past and present. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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