How many people do you know who live on a dead end street? I sometimes wonder if the person who coined that phrase, Dead End Street, actually lived on a dead end street. Our house, if you could see it through all the trees, rested at the very end of such an artery.
Visiting a dead end street would be like visiting the dead at the cemetery. For those unaware, such houses cast their own entity – like a foul stench. Some days I feel my house alive as if the walls were collapsing upon themselves or moving inward on me like a vice. Sometimes I would feel that I was born to die in that dreadful place. It was drab, gloomy and stunk of mildew in the mornings.
It was a dump. The street we lived on was a dump. Normal folks never lived in a dump. Normal folks have gardens in their back yards, friendly neighbors, and fine plate settings. Normal folks would have brightly colored walls, a pool in the back and, yes, an embroidered framed cloth with the words, Home Sweet Home, near a sunlit window.
But oh no, nothing like that in my dump. Did I tell you that in my dump not a single picture frame hung on our walls? Not one lousy frame! Dump Bitter Dump would be the words defining our house.
Now If a solicitor would come calling, our listless Fred would hardly bring alarm to such a daring cretin. Fred would simply amble up to our back fence, give you a long, lazy look-over, and then retreat back into the shadows.
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