At seven last Friday morning, as I shoveled my walk -- again -- I watched a city trash truck coming down a nearby street, pause so that the driver could contemplate the right-hand turn that would have led to my rutted, iced-in block -- and then continue on in the other direction. Can't see I blamed him.
A week later, the trash is piled higher than the drifts. And this time, I just didn't have the heart to stick around until seven, to see if the trash truck would finally attempt that right-hand turn. -- Patricia Calhoun
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