My favorite cliché is the one that says, “clichés are clichés because they’re true.” Over the past two months, I’ve gotten a real-life refresher on that old chestnut, “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.”
Since early October, a tiny piece of Logan’s Ferry Road has been closed for repairs. The stretch of closure is only a few hundred feet, but it’s a major artery between New Kensington and Oakmont.
There is no easy detour. Each of the two posted detours added an extra twenty or twenty-five minutes (each way!) to a trip. A five-minute trip to the CVS to pick up a prescription now took nearly an hour. I was cut off from my favorite Giant Eagle, car wash, and gas station.
Everyone complained. Twice the road was scheduled to open, and twice the opening was delayed. We talked endlessly about how wonderful it would be when the road opened.
I know, I know. First world problems.
But the intent of this post isn’t to complain about the two months of inconvenience (well, not much anyway.)
It’s exactly the opposite. This isn’t about the time the road was closed.
It’s about the day it opened up.
We felt like Dorothy in Oz—our black and white traffic world bloomed into full technicolor. HD technicolor.
We rejoiced. We felt like we’d been given a wonderful gift.
Reader, I drove through the road and turned around in the CVS parking lot just for the thrill of it. (And others have admitted to doing the same.)
A friend posted a video of them driving on the open road in the pouring rain, with a choir shouting “Hallelujah!” as a soundtrack.
When I saw my neighbors, instead of a quick wave before rushing inside, we lingered, talking about how great it was that the road was open. We felt, for an instant, like a community.
That burst of joy made the whole closure worthwhile.
Almost.