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A little firsthand knowledge can be a dangerous thing
Some things are just plain difficult to explain until you have actually experienced them.
Maybe not as tough as trying to explain what water tastes like. Or how sausage is made. Or, as the old adage goes, attempting to explain colors to a blind man.
Nonetheless certain things just seem to blossom when you see them unfold before your very eyes.
So it was the other day as I was cruising up Franklin Street, a route I use more frequently these days with my new in-town Greencastle address.
As I rolled merrily along westbound, pondering whether I should stop at Starbucks or take my weary bones straight to the Banner Graphic, I spotted a friend of mine crossing the street ahead of me while walking her dog.
She didn't see me. No eye contact was made. But regardless I felt like I should have acknowledged her presence.
With nowhere to immediately turn around, I continued west until the Styx song on the radio (oddly enough, "Too Much Time on My Hands") ended and my conscience got the better of me.
Probably should have at least honked and waved or hollered out the window, right? Yea, if I were 16 perhaps.
So I decided to go back and at least exchange pleasantries. After all, what guy wouldn't want to be seen in public with a beautiful blonde and a cute little dog?
Since the dog had sought out a favorite fireplug at the corner of Franklin Street and Paradise Lane, it allowed me the chance to pull over and say hello. I whipped the now-eastbound Jeep to the curb, albeit facing the wrong way on Franklin.
Of course, having written a couple news stories about how parking along Franklin has impacted traffic flow and spawned a number of near head-on crashes, I knew drivers have been forced to play chicken when maneuvering around parked vehicles in the section between College Avenue and Indianapolis Road.
But I never realized the severity of the issue until it stared me in the face.
There I sat, nervously in the line of fire, carrying on a conversation while keeping one eye on traffic.
Meanwhile, westbound vehicles either came to a stop right in front of me -- close enough to see the whites of their drivers' eyes -- or defiantly dodged around me on the left.
In less than five minutes, that had to have happened a dozen times.
My haphazard notion of parking there -- although clearly no yellow curb exists in the immediate area -- earned several nasty looks, a few sideways glances and at least one socially unacceptable fickle finger of fate.
With a newfound appreciation for the problem, I turned around in Paradise Lane and headed back toward downtown.
As I went to cross Indiana Street and venture onto the north side of the square -- stopping at one of the two sides of the intersection actually marked with a red octagon -- a southbound pickup blew the stopsign just as I edged forward.
Before I could hit my horn, the youthful driver flipped me off and quickly turned east onto Franklin.
But I just sat there and smiled, now flush in the knowledge of what was about to happen ... he was about to take his turn running the Franklin Street gauntlet.
Too much time on my hands no more ...