Mission Impossible.

“Somebody” devoured the last slice of bread — actually the last half of the loaf, but who’s counting. We need bread — now.
The grocery list had a couple other items on it so I thought I’d make a quick trip up to Dale’s for some necessities.
Just a simple errand to the grocery store, I imagined. Seven blocks away — I should be back in 10 minutes tops. Right? Wrong. My simple errand became my Mission Impossible.
As I backed out of the driveway, I checked both ways for traffic. There was one brave pedestrian, a couple kids on bikes, a Mom with a stroller, two large trucks, a stray car, a pair of pickups (one with a trailer) and three pieces of heavy equipment in a variety of sizes — small, medium and large. I paused and waited until the parade had passed.
I headed west — recalling the orange construction pylons stationed in the middle of the three intersections ahead. I’d run this obstacle course before and I had mastered the proper approach and ideal angle to weave through the construction zone markers.
Out of nowhere, another truck — a semi with asphalt, I judged — approached from the right. I paused and yielded the right of way. The truck preceded to pass in front of me, only to stop, back up a few feet and then pull forward again. The driver repeated this evasive maneuver until I was nearly hypnotized.
I snapped out of my trance at the sound of the beep-beep-beep of a piece of heavy equipment — large size. As the truck and payloader finally cleared the intersection, I continued on my way to the next intersection, where a small piece of heavy equipment waltzed around what had been a manhole.
Chunks of concrete had been excavated and strewn about the street. I avoided these new obstacles and continued weaving through the pylon maze.
A street worker jumped out of a pickup parked on the side of the street. I gasped and swerved. He didn’t miss a step and crossed in front of me. Fearless, he was. Panicked, I was.
Only five blocks to go. I passed through the next two intersections without incident — other than the rock-and-roll motion my van made on the uneven pavement. I slowed and go-ed and continued on, accustomed the rhythm.
When I tried to cross old Hwy. 81, I had to wait patiently for the passing convoy of two concrete trucks, three dump trucks and a quartet of beet trucks.
At last, downtown was in sight. I turned south and saw Dale’s sign up ahead. One more intersection to go. Some fellow had been appointed traffic monitor at the four-way stop. He stuck out his hand to halt traffic from the west and then waved people through from the north and south. His neon yellow suit gave him an air of authority, I suppose.
Safely stopped in Dale’s parking lot, I reassessed my mission. It was bread I needed, wasn’t it? I wandered inside and pushed my shopping cart down the aisle, expecting to find orange pylons around every corner.
I exited the checkout and climbed in my van. Since the usual route home was a bit congested, I decided to venture down an alternate route.
Forty-five minutes later . . . after touring every construction zone in town, I found my way home. Mission accomplished.