During the pandemic a new road was built behind my neighborhood connecting two busy roads.
This change distressed me. The noise and vibration of clearing the land and laying the road invaded my home environment. Our house literally shook as machinery rolled back and forth on a daily basis. Construction started at 7 am, even on Saturdays. My mind struggled to resist what felt like a daily assault. I became grateful for the rain that interrupted work schedules.
I complained a lot. I voiced my opinion to anyone who would listen. I worried about the deer who ate my acorns and hostas. I mourned the loss of large trees felled with the most evil land clearing machinery I had ever witnessed in action. I took pictures of the destruction. I resisted the acceptance of what was beyond my ability to control. My neighbors put their houses on the market for outlandish sums of money warning prospective developers they would not be bought off easily. The signs still stand, faded a bit from time.
Finally, I decided to put up a privacy fence along the back of our property to obscure the sight and sound of traffic. This would be my own little tangible sign of protest to progress. I felt empowered, and the fence now defines my little yard and has restored a bit of peace. The road is finished, and I use it often. Emergency rescue vehicles also use this road, and when I hear their sirens, I stop and pray that this road, I did not want, will help someone I will never know.