Crossing the street
- When I was an itty-bitty kid during the era of Howdy Doody, I walked to grammar school about a mile away. At the one major crossing I would stop and look both ways. Crossing-guards were not ubiquitous in those days. Perhaps a kindly driver might stop, quickly exit the car and, holding my hand, walk me across the street.
- When I was around the age of 10 or so, drivers might still stop, politely toot and wave me across in front of their vehicle.
- By the time I was a smart-ass teenager en route to the soda fountain for a coffee cabinet and Elvis on the jukebox, drivers this time might choose to screech at me as I snottily sashayed in front of them, "Watch where you're fucking going, you stupid jerk! Asshole! I ought to run you over."
- Later, in my adulthood, they would come to a halt without the deprecations, just revving and grimacing in impatience.
- As I grew even older and negotiated the same intersection looking like a local citizen of significance, drivers might stop, pleasantly toot-toot, and smile me across.
- Nowadays I hobble in saliva-drooling senescence in search of Depends or Fleet enemas at Walgreen's. Drivers again come to a complete halt. Occasionally one might exit his vehicle and, taking my hand, walk me across with an air of benevolent pity.
Crossing the street has come full circle.