Good story but i t was iterpretted really wierd, like it was magical or somthing -- good anyway.
Our neighborhood is on one dead end road that is directly off a main, county road. Many years ago when the county road was re-built from the ground up, one of the neighborhood kids picked up a big hunk of asphalt from the old pavement and brought it home. The neighbors have turned it into a kind of trophy that is reverently held in one household for a year, and then passed on. This has gone on for more than ten years. (yes we are a strange bunch of people) There is a framed legend that accompanies the piece of pavement. The text appears below:
The Saga of the Slab of Seven Mile Road
Deep beyond the mists of time in the century long since past, comes the legend of the Slab of Seven Mile. Once upon a time, there was a road called Seven Mile, which led to the western frontiers, beyond the Village of North where the racers of horses dwell, and further even past the place called Salem, and beyond to the Lake of Whitmore where the old ones tell stories of the people of the lake who skim the water with boards on their feet, pulled by powerful, smoking, roaring vessels.
Throughout the ages the road had been repaired many times, but it had finally become so worn and dangerous that the elders had proclaimed the road must be replaced. There was much joy throughout the land. Parents smiled and the children danced, but this would not come without much hardship.
First there would be chaos. The colossal, evil machines of destruction arrived and tore the skin of the road from the very bones of the earth. A great, yawning, smoking pit was left where once the road had been. Parents frowned and the children cried. Was this a terrible mistake? Could the road ever be restored? Perhaps someday, but for the time, the road lay in utter ruin, and it would be so for a long, long, long time.
During this dark and wretched time, an intrepid lad named Patrick, of the house of Droze, in the Garden of Fitzgerald traveled to the very edge of the pit of destruction. Across the heaps of rubble left in the wake of the barbarians, Patrick spied a piece of the old road. It was left intact by some miracle and was from the true heart of the old Seven Mile road. It contained the golden marking which kept separate the travelers to the west from those returning eastward. Despite his tender years, Patrick knew the slab was part of the history of the land, and at great risk he scrambled into the pit and rescued the slab from the hideous piles of debris.
Patrick returned home with his prize and reverently mounted it atop a lovingly crafted base of pine. It remained in the House of Droze until it was discovered by Patrick’s father who did not recognize the value of the relic. His father, Michael banished the slab from the House of Droze whereupon it lay forlornly at the side of the road until passersby discovered it and proclaimed it as cool. Upon seeing their enthusiasm, Michael reconsidered, and rescued the slab from the roadside.
That year at the annual feast known as the Block Party, the slab was placed in a position of prominence for all the people to admire. The parents smiled and the children danced, for it was good. The men of the House of Droze foresaw that the custody of the Slab should be passed from neighbor to neighbor, and so a tradition was begun that each year at the feast, a lottery of dubious integrity should be held to determine the caretaker of the Slab. And so continues the saga of the Slab of Seven Mile to this very day.
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