I spend a lot of time in my car. There are two things that aren’t that pleasant about driving in Connecticut, the crappy radio stations and the ridiculous amounts of roadkill. As for the former, I feel like every deejay must be exactly my age because all the songs date from a small four year window of my last two years in high school and first two years of college. Yes, that would be during the eighties. Michael Jackson and Madonna are played the same amount as Adele, if that gives you any idea. I don’t mind hearing the occasional Prince or George Michael song, in fact I enjoy my trips down memory lane, but I don’t think I’ve heard one new artist played since I moved here. There is no equivalent to 103.7 the Mountain. I guess the stereotype is true about music in Seattle. Even artists that my kid listened to eventually wound up on Seattle radio stations, like Macklemore and K’naan. I’ve heard nothing so exotic here. And even when the Mountain played too much Dave Mathews or U2, I could always change to the country music station. Obviously I drove a lot in Seattle too. They didn’t even have a country station in Connecticut until a month ago. I was going to title my blog post “No Country for Old Woman” but suddenly a country station appeared out of nowhere, as if the Northeast finally decided that since Blake Shelton made the cover of People, maybe country music wasn’t just for southerners.
The roadkill is another story. It’s carnage here. The forests are so thick with squirrels and the roads so winding and narrow that the sheer number of carcasses have numbed my reaction from a major cringe to a slight wince. Literally there is a dead squirrel every fifty yards on the roads around our house. Even my dogs have stopped smelling each one they pass. My real estate agent told me she once saw a squirrel run across the street, bounce off a car, and keep running. I asked if it was hurt and she said, “Well it stayed on its feet, but I doubt it could still do calculus.” Even my daughter, animal lover that she is, can’t muster up any emotion anymore. “It’s not just that there are dead squirrels,” she explained. “Their organs are spread out all over the road. Instead of feeling sad now I just notice specific body parts.”
The size of the roadkill increases on the Merritt Parkway. Instead of squirrels there are deer, raccoons, I even saw a large bird carcass once. I think the speed limit is 50 mph, but most people go 80. And get passed. It’s a two lane highway and because it’s old and designed for slower cars, and a slower pace of life, the entrances and exits are about five yards long. Some entrances have stop signs so you have to get from 0 to 60 in about three seconds and time your merge like you’re in a video game. If you forget what your exit looks like or don’t know how long the ramp is you have to stomp the brakes, and if there is a curve, practically careen on two wheels and screech to a halt for the stop sign. Nobody slows down for their exit even if they know how short the ramp is because of the cars behind them. My stretch of the Merritt goes through Connecticut, but New York is not far behind, nor far ahead, and people honk and tailgate and flip you off if you happen to be going less than 70 in the slow lane. And remember, the speed limit is 50, though I’ve only ever seen one sign in the ten odd miles between Greenwich and New Canaan. It doesn’t make for relaxing driving. And yet the Merritt is so pretty, with grassy shoulders and big trees leaning in like a canopy, old historic bridges spanning its width every few miles. A beautiful pastoral scene unfolding at hyper speed. It’s easy to lose focus. Until you see a dead animal.
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