When my husband Sandy and I first moved to Gnawing Beaver Lane, it was still a quiet, cozy little neighborhood. Just blocks from the elementary school and right around the corner from both taxidermy shops, it was the ideal place to start our little family. But over the years, Gnawing Beaver Lane has turned into a veritable hotrod racetrack, with cars zooming by at speeds upward of 25 miles per hour.
This wasn't always the case. I remember those quieter days, when Sandy and I were trying our best to conceive. At first we assumed it was Sanford's fault, but Dr. Gishing assured us that the male doesn't need to be fully erect in order to ejaculate—and boy did we learn that the hard way, no pun intended! But I digress; Gnawing Beaver Lane was our peaceful little nook in the world. Back then, Old Man Mithers was just about the only traffic we ever got, driving up and down the street in that funny airbrushed van of his, with those tinted windows. He never went above eight miles per hour, the dear man!
Finally Sanford and I conceived, although I don't remember specifically when it happened. (I was drinking a lot of California blush in those days!) And when little Sally was born, our hearts blossomed. But our joy quickly turned to terror when they put up the stoplight at 10th and Phried, causing all those troublemakers to cut through our precious little street in order to shave off a few minutes on the way to the roller rink, or whatever seedy place teenagers are going these days. Heaven forbid! We don't dare even cross the street now! It's like living next to a veritable hotrod racetrack. I might have already said that. Now Sally is just entering womanhood; we're going shopping for training bras tomorrow, and she had her first actual period last month. (And I don't need to tell you how many false alarms we had! Am I right, moms?) We couldn't be more proud of our little Sallywally, but the fact remains that our darling Gnawing Beaver Lane has become a deathtrap. Can't the city do something about this? Slow down, drivers. You just might save a life—and the life you save... could be your own.
[Troutdale Trout is happy to publish your commentaries. They must be signed and 500-12,000 words maximum. THANK YOU! We reserve the right to decline and/or edit any submission for content, political opinion, religious blasphemy, or length. THANK YOU!]
