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For those who live in areas with telephone poles: Have you ever really considered how many telephone poles you typically pass in an average local trip?
Once a month I have to attend a meeting in my company's Framingham office. This means at least twice as long a commute, in both time and distance, and I've been trying an alternate route recently to see if I can find a better balance between the speed of the highway and the directness of local roads. On my new route, I spend much of the trip on MA Rte 126.
In the way of New England state routes, the numbered trail is not a dedicated road. It follows fragments of various streets only to turn abruptly onto others; attention to signage is vital. I crossed into Holliston headed northbound, and it wasn't until that street ended and Rte. 126 took a right turn onto Washington that I noticed something different. On several telephone poles, there were signs and little flags. The signs were on plain white posterboard, firmly tented and affixed; each bore text in thick, black, plain block print. After seeing several I realized they each listed a military rank and a name, with a US flag above.
Just as I registered that, though — because I was driving, I couldn't inspect them closely — and decided they might be welcome-home signs for local military personnel, I noticed the next one had a Norwegian flag and "Norway" below the name. So did the next. And then US, and then Poland. Britain. US, US, Norway, US, US, US, Poland, Poland, Canada.
Not every pole had a sign, but I gradually realized that they were all supposed to. Yesterday's windstorm had torn several signs loose or free, and remnants showed on the poles that didn't bear signs. Most poles did still bear the signs.
On both sides of the street.
The road curved back north and passed through Holliston Center, then out again, every pole adorned (still or at one time). Every one. The road curved back east again. Each sign had a name, usually but not always male, the US ones with states, most with an age. Most in the 20s or 30s; once I was looking, I saw three or four in their 40s. A 19, Jesus. 126 turned left off that road, heading north once more, and I could see the signs continuing off to the east; they continued north up 126 as well, all the way to the town line.
Just the section I saw was about five miles.
( Unformed ramblings about military observances. )
Once a month I have to attend a meeting in my company's Framingham office. This means at least twice as long a commute, in both time and distance, and I've been trying an alternate route recently to see if I can find a better balance between the speed of the highway and the directness of local roads. On my new route, I spend much of the trip on MA Rte 126.
In the way of New England state routes, the numbered trail is not a dedicated road. It follows fragments of various streets only to turn abruptly onto others; attention to signage is vital. I crossed into Holliston headed northbound, and it wasn't until that street ended and Rte. 126 took a right turn onto Washington that I noticed something different. On several telephone poles, there were signs and little flags. The signs were on plain white posterboard, firmly tented and affixed; each bore text in thick, black, plain block print. After seeing several I realized they each listed a military rank and a name, with a US flag above.
Just as I registered that, though — because I was driving, I couldn't inspect them closely — and decided they might be welcome-home signs for local military personnel, I noticed the next one had a Norwegian flag and "Norway" below the name. So did the next. And then US, and then Poland. Britain. US, US, Norway, US, US, US, Poland, Poland, Canada.
Not every pole had a sign, but I gradually realized that they were all supposed to. Yesterday's windstorm had torn several signs loose or free, and remnants showed on the poles that didn't bear signs. Most poles did still bear the signs.
On both sides of the street.
The road curved back north and passed through Holliston Center, then out again, every pole adorned (still or at one time). Every one. The road curved back east again. Each sign had a name, usually but not always male, the US ones with states, most with an age. Most in the 20s or 30s; once I was looking, I saw three or four in their 40s. A 19, Jesus. 126 turned left off that road, heading north once more, and I could see the signs continuing off to the east; they continued north up 126 as well, all the way to the town line.
Just the section I saw was about five miles.
( Unformed ramblings about military observances. )
