When Detours Equal Cold Donuts

The city of Roswell...charming, peaceful and replete with outdoor community events. Events such as the Youth Parade that, back in October, shut down my entire street and neighborhood entrance for several hours. I have no problems with youth, parades, or community, but I do have a small problem with futile parade-related “detours” that ultimately bar me from my home.

That fine Saturday morning I had a hankering for some fresh, hot, Krispy Kreme donuts, and since the K-squared is right down the street, I figured the warning I'd seen the night before about the Youth Parade wouldn't hinder me too badly. I expected some heavier-than-normal traffic, which is all the warning I saw mentioned; it conveniently forgot to add, “Just plan on being a prisoner in your own home for the majority of the day.” I was able to procure my half-dozen donuts after a bit of a wait, but I started getting nervous as I realized streets were closing down and the glorious, fresh-from-the-oven heat was escaping from my baked goods.

After being sent on two detours, neither of which got me remotely close to my house, I pulled up to a road block and explained to the officer that my neighborhood is a stump street, there is no "back road detour" access, and I needed to use the road I was driving on to get home. At this point true aggravation was setting in as I stared at all of the shining happy faces streaming down the sidewalk toward the parade that was rendering my Krispy Kremes cold and stale.

"Well the runners have started, so I can't let you on this road," he said.

 What?! My donuts! "So, what am I supposed to do?” I asked.

"You're just going to have to park at the school and walk to your house. Or go shopping for a few hours."

Excusez-moi? How can a parade ban me from my own neighborhood? And would he have callously suggested I "go shopping" if I was a burly man? I jerked my car into a school parking lot and wolfed down three donuts in an explosion of glaze and crumbs that showered the interior of my vehicle before their delicious, melt-in-your-mouth warmth was completely depleted. I then plucked up the remainder of my donuts and coffee, abandoned my car and marched right down the center of the parade route in the wrong direction with a glare on my face and donut icing on my sweatshirt until I got to my neighborhood. Where the entrance was blocked off with four orange cones and a department of transportation vehicle.

"Can they *really* shut down the entrance of an entire neighborhood for hours?" I demanded of the city worker seated inside the vehicle. Then, in true suburban fashion: "Who can I SPEAK with about this?"

"Uhh, city hall I guess. But they've been doing this for 60 years."

The lesson I’ve now learned is anytime there is a Roswell parade, I need to treat it like the apocalypse; you know, stock up on food and water the night before, pray that I don’t have some type of emergency I need to get to the next day and just wait it out. Hopefully while eating some steaming hot donuts.

Leslie Dunn is a Roswell resident who also blogs at www.snarkmom.com.