COUNTRY LIVING AIN’T FOR THE WEAK
Please Don’t Blow Up My House
It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got.
I don’t know what it is with my intersection, but it’s apparently the nexus of every public utility ever invented for the entire county.
The lawns along the roadway to the east and west (never north and south — I’m sure there’s some scientific reason for that) regularly sprout little flags of various colors that I’m sure mean something to somebody.
Mind you, just because a guy comes out with a flag gun — and yes, that’s a real thing and of course I want one — and starts shooting flags into my front lawn doesn’t mean that anything’s going to happen.
Many, many time, the flags are put there simply to annoy me as I try to mow around them without “accidentally” mangling one with the lawn mower. Sometimes I take them out and put them back roughly where I found them.
I’m sure that’s fine.
And then nothing happens. Time passes. Winter comes. I pull out the (surviving) flags and stash them in the basement with the other flags that I’ve collected over the years, just in case I ever need a flag.
You’d be surprised how useful a bright yellow flag with the words WARNING: GAS LINE stamped across it can be.
