By Bob Groeneveld
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I鈥檝e got some bad news for the commuters and other ne鈥檈r-do-wells that have been roaring past my house, morning, noon, and night, in increasing numbers over the past few years.
Bye-bye!
I鈥檓 going to miss you terribly when the 鈥淟ocal traffic only鈥� signs go up.
When you鈥檙e heading to work, heading home, or just trying to find a short-cut to the freeway, you鈥檒l have to find another neighbourhood in which to spew your carbon monoxide and the other components of the cancerous cocktail that is your exhaust.
I鈥檓 going to miss the roar of your motor as you rush past my house towards the red light at the corner in hopes that it will green just in time for you to cruise through at twice the speed limit.
I鈥檓 going to miss the intimacy of having to get close to my wife鈥� to shout in her ear because that鈥檚 the only way we can make ourselves heard while you鈥檙e revving your engine as you wait for the light in front of our house, because you like the throaty sound of your poorly muffled exhaust system.
I鈥檓 going to miss your obtuse, straight-ahead stare as you purposely close the gap in line waiting for the light, so I can鈥檛 turn into my own driveway because鈥� why?鈥� because you鈥檙e upset that you have to wait for the light to change?
I鈥檓 going to miss your car鈥檚 sound system which has apparently already deafened you. I鈥檒l miss the rapper who compensates for his lack of talent by washing you in a flood of disgusting lyrics, the angry man shouting at you on talk radio, and your taste in country music. That don鈥檛 impress me much.
I鈥檓 going to miss the chirping sound that tells me you looked up from your cell phone and realized the light is red.
I鈥檓 going to miss the thump when you didn鈥檛 look up in time.
I鈥檓 going to miss your screeching tires and the billows of smoke that you unleash when the light finally turns green. Your frustration is understandable, since you 鈥� and certainly only you 鈥� sometimes have to stop for a red light.
I鈥檓 going to miss guessing, as you whiz past me in our 50 km/h zone, such a short distance from the stop line鈥� 80? 90? 100? No, I doubt your IQ tops out at more than 70.
When I moved here, 56th Avenue was little more than a country back-road.
Then council, without bothering to ask anyone who lived here, designated it a truck route.
A few months later, the Township鈥檚 engineering department ordered an emergency shutdown to rebuild the route through the gully over the Salmon River 鈥� before someone was killed in a 鈥渃atastrophic failure鈥� of the roadway.
I will miss you during the three months that this new round of work in the gully is expected to take.
But feel free to stick to whatever new route you find in the meantime.
I鈥檇 happily miss you forever.
