THE FIRST HOUSE that I ever owned was on a one-block long dead-end street. It was, in fact, the last house on the right. With small children and cats, it was the perfect spot for us. The only traffic on the street was the people who lived there and, being at the very end, we didn’t even get that. I suppose, had we been in a more upscale neighborhood, it would have been called a cul-de-sac. Had it been a less classy neighborhood, perhaps the sign would have said No Exit. Me and the guy across the street eventually suffered contemporaneous midlife crises, and we each responded similarly. He got himself a British racing green Austin Healey; I bought a red Italian Fiat Spyder. (It wasn’t until much later that I learned what FIAT stood for: Fix It Again Tony.) In any event, we later had another home on a dead-end street. Then, in Utah, our house had a very long driveway that came off a one-block long dirt road, and so it was effectively a dead-end too. Today, back in Florida, we’re again living on a dead-end street, so I guess we’re creatures of habit in that regard. “There’s only one way out of a motel room,” some sad country singer once bemoaned, and you could say the same thing about dead-end streets, which is fine with me.
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Ostomy Memories of Dead-end Streets
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