Super Train Station H

I’ve lived in this town for sixteen years.

My mail is addressed to my home, my street, in this town.

I vote in the local elections for this town.

My mail is delivered from this town’s post office.

Yet somehow I’m not considered a resident.

My town has a harbor with a marina and a beach and a park and a bandshell where they give concerts in the summer that I’m not allowed to go to because I’m “not a resident” even though my address is within the limits of this same town and I vote in this same town and even went to public schools bearing this town’s name.

For no properly explained reason, if your address lies north of the railroad tracks, its basically impossible to get a parking pass or ID card for the previously mentioned facilities. If you’re north of the tracks, basically somehow you’re living in the town without being a “resident” worthy of using the town’s nicest and most desirable spaces.

That’s only very slightly different from saying “you may live here, but you don’t actually belong here.”

Incidentally, while the north side is no ghetto, the south side of the tracks just happens to host the towns wealthier “denizens” and larger homes.

Gosh, I just wanna take pictures of the boats for my photography class. 

I probably won’t be able to afford living anywhere in this town for much longer anyway.

MY PARENT’S EYES SAW THIS:

MY FOUR YEAR OLD EYES SAW THIS:

In honor of the fact that my street is being repaved and is now taken over by large yellow things that look like mechanical animals.

This also made me be anal for my entire life about calling machines “steam shovels” that were actually diesel powered. 

Unfortunately, the animated adaptation of this book wasn’t done by Disney and wasn’t narrated by Sterling Halloway like The Little House was.

It’s past midnight and I’m sitting up in bed thinking up of recipes that involve Doorworm slime as an ingredient.