Two houses up the street from me is a brown house that belonged to Bill Hurst. He had a large family with kids around my age and I hung out there a lot. The driveway in the foreground beloned to the Colwell’s. There is a narrow storm drain that ran underneath the lenght of the driveway. One time a soccer ball went down the outlet to the drain pipe near the garage in back. Being of stout heart and foolish mind I slithered my way down to get it. This drew a neighborhood crowd, including my father once he heard. A storm was on the horizon and my father, a natural worrier, thought that I would get stuck and a lightning bold would strike the storm drain and kill me. I made it out OK, at the outlet you see right in the foreground of the picture. The rest of the neighborhood got a good show, provided by both me and my father.
Tags: Sense of Place
