A Familiar Stroll

September 25, 2007
I begin my journey up what is a very well know street, at least for me. Right when I start, on my left I see a farmer’s market, where the aroma of fruits and flowers fills the air with smells of spring and summer, even in the winter-time. As I continue, to my right I see the place where I make my living, a small, obscurely shaped animal hospital. The hospital, which is solely made of bricks, has a small parking lot in front, usually filled with about three to maybe five cars. Continuing my journey up the street, I pass a few residential roads, all lined with houses, big and small alike, all with nicely cut lawns and a car or two in the driveway. Up ahead I see a bank, which I really have never had any reason to notice. The bank just looks like your typical square building with a drive in deposit entrance, nothing to boast or brag about. Then I peer down a road and see my old elementary school. The school’s playground and swings could tell the story of my childhood. As I continue, I pass a church on the left. The church is relatively small with a roof that is pointed at each end and curves in the middle like an ark.
Now begins the part of the street that defines suburbia; streets all lined with the same houses with perfectly mowed laws and one-car garages. This goes on for a little while, as I follow the hilly street that is now beginning to slope downward, passing numerous deer crossing signs as I hear the purring of cars passing by. The road turns and now, clear in sight, on the left is an Ambulance Corps. The Corps is just a brick building with a few ambulances parked in the driveway. Then I turn to my right and see the back parking lot of North High School, which is relatively small, comparatively. I follow the road, which is parallel to the school, passing field after field. I see the bleachers, which read Poszar Field. Why it’s named that still remains a mystery to me. Then, I come up to the main parking lot, which is where hundreds of cars reside in on your typical school day. Now I can see the main building of North. The entrance with three double doors helps to file in and out thousands of students, molding young men and women into adults. In front of the building is a grassy island, with lonely benches that I know all to well. To the right of the building, more fields, and way down, just barely in sight, is the Annex Wing of North.
I continue my journey down the road, passing house after house and street after street. I pass a house and hear the familiar barking sounds of man’s best friend. To my left, I see a sign that reads Camelot. Obviously, you can conclude that it is an upscale part of town. Well you were right. Camelot is home to houses that double or even triple the size of your usual house. Colonials and mansions call Camelot home. I continue down the road, making a sharp curve passing more deer crossing and speed limit signs. Up ahead is a house that was completely redone; the stench of paint is still lingering in the air. The house is pink, and looks like it belongs in Palm Springs. I continue up the road, passing a street on my left, and a few small houses on my right. Up ahead is a small bridge that crosses a reservoir, which leads into a town I know all too well. And while the road itself continues, for me it stops at that bridge.

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