We have a pothole the size of Manhattan in the road directly in front of our house.
As a writer, I reserve the right to a certain amount of hyperbole…but truly, I’m not invoking it overly much in this case.
Our one-way street was bricked in a former life, so the thin crust of pavement lies uncomfortably over the top. After a winter of ice and snow plows, followed by torrential rain, it succumbs to cracks and buckles with little more than a whimper. What started as a fist-size fissure days ago is now a full-blown archaeological dig.
Since our yard is only, well, about two yards long, placing us too near traffic for comfort, we can lie in bed and listen to the unfortunate vehicles who neglect to swerve.
The bus. A good twenty points. And another shovelful of asphalt spewed across the road, too.
David just came up to inform me that he actually saw a few cars slow down to avoid the crater. As our street is notorious in the neighborhood for flying vehicles — due to no stop signs or speed bumps — this is a positive development. Maybe we won’t report our fault line to the city just yet.
At any rate, wherever we move next–we shan’t miss Ohio roads.