We live on a cul-de-sac. That’s just a fancy way of saying “dead end.” The advantage, of course–no through traffic.
When Stef was first learning to drive her instinct was to exit our driveway without stopping! Why bother? I set her straight.
Most days you could lay down in the middle of my street for hours and live to talk about it! Which brings us to today.
There is a large bucket truck at the lollipop end of the cul-de-sac. Trees are being trimmed, probably on behalf of the power company.
When I woke up, Helaine asked me to take a look at something she thought funny. The tree trimmers had unfurled a large orange sign.
WORK AREA AHEAD
Ahead? It’s twenty five feet from the end of the road!
The sign, I suppose, is there to comply with state law.
If common sense was the law there would be no sign… nor would there be a police officer, equipped with safety vest and police car, to direct traffic for the three driveways at the end of the cul-de-sac.
It’s probably not good for my blood pressure to think about the officer’s hourly rate is for this exercise in futility. Maybe not directly, but I’m sure we’re all on the hook for the cost.
It’s not the officer’s fault, nor the fault of the utility workers. Sometimes the law is an ass!