Life on the Street

L.L. here, with Random Acts of Poetry, musing about streets. Technically, I didn't grow up near one. That's what town and city kids do. I grew up near a road. The road had its seasons, just as trees and waterways have theirs. In Spring it was pure mud, the kind you picture on an old wagon trail. Rutted. Boot pulling. Dirt pungent. "Smooch!" said the mud, when you tried to get away. Then shale trucks would come, spreading sharp stones that cut our feet. But they put the mud in her place--until hot sun baked Spring into Summer, bringing black-eyed Susans and wild strawberries to the roadside. Dust came too.

Nobody liked to be near the road when an occasional Ford pickup flew by, raising brown clouds that made you cough. So town men came and sprayed. Black oil. It can't have been a healthy fix, but it (mostly) soothed the dust. Autumn brought golden grasses, leaves swirling, the blue heron, and fog. And mud again, though not so much as in Spring, since shale still held it at bay. By November, we'd get our first winter storm and plows would scrape along, sending snow and shale flying. Cleared and cold, the road iced over. I still remember grabbing worn leather skates that hurt my feet, and going out to glide, trip, stumble, glide... down the road. Snow banks were a wall we couldn't see past. But on days like those it seemed I might just laugh them away. - Penn Avenue in Pittsburgh photo, and post by L.L. Barkat.

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