I published this article a couple of years ago and quickly suspected that it's probably a piece that will bear repeating because (1) there are (hopefully) new readers and new neighbors who will not have seen it and (2) I keep noticing things to add to it.
I was right. This is year three in a row. The need to repeat was prompted by what I see as a disturbingly increasing problem on narrow country roads: getting out of your own driveway. This should not be a hazardous duty mission. Unfortunately, it often is. It boils down to a lack of consideration or understanding. I'll address the issue one more time in the column below.
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By Bob Gaydos
For most of my life, I've lived in small cities (Bayonne, Binghamton, Annapolis, Middletown) and one large town (Wallkill), which is really a mall-dotted highway surrounded by housing complexes. Throw in a few years living on college campuses. Basically, it's been city or community living.
When you live with a lot of other people close by and you want to be relatively content, you learn the rules of the road, the do's and don'ts of getting along. Mostly, it's mind your own business and don't make a lot of noise.
A few years ago, I moved to the country, a bit of upstate New York between the Hudson River and the Catskills that is often protected from major weather issues by the imposing Shawangunk Ridge.
Country living means owls, woodpeckers, chickens, coyotes and starry skies, oh my.
It's nice. Well, usually. It's quiet. Usually. In any case, it most definitely has its own rules of the road. Things a transplanted city boy ought to know. Something I call country etiquette.
The notion (see how I used the word "notion" instead of "idea"?) that there was such a thing as country etiquette grew out of a recent conversation about a not uncommon country experience.
A few years ago, our quiet summer evening at home was disrupted by a loud squealing of tires and a loud thud. Right in front of our house.
We rushed out to find a car sitting in a culvert in front of our house, a distraught young woman sitting behind the wheel and our mailbox on the ground, post and all. I don't recall who called 911, but state police arrived quickly, talked with the driver (who was shaken but not hurt), someone called a tow truck, we went back in the house and eventually everything was back to normal, except for the mailbox. Its career was over.
In short order, we replaced the mailbox and occasionally wondered what happened to the young driver. I suspected alcohol may have been involved.
A couple of weeks later, the whole scene repeated itself. Nighttime. Squeal. Thud. Car. Culvert. Young woman driver. Unhurt. Mailbox kaput.
Deja vu all over again, as Yogi Berra once said. Same follow up. Police. Tow truck. Mailbox flattened.
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