by Carolyn Paradis

Created on: April 17, 2008

There is only one road into our little lakeside community, and for the past year or so it has been dug up repeatedly for installation of water mains and drainage for a new subdivision on the mountainside. There is a river running alongside the road, and a very old, narrow bridge at the crossing. I was waiting there to get home, held up by a flagman. I was first in line, so had a pretty good view of the funniest thing I have EVER seen in traffic.

A row of big red plastic cones divided the road; excavators and dump trucks were in the opposite lane, closest to the mountain. My lane was serving traffic in both directions. Far down at the traffic lights I could see the first car waved through. It was a small red sedan, a Toyota perhaps. The driver crept forward, and the flagman, obviously impatient at the snail's pace, began waving his arm over his head to hurry the driver.

BUT, the driver must have been confused or alarmed at this and turned to the right, through a gap in the cones and into the lane where the excavator was working. As I watched in disbelief, every single vehicle in the lineup behind the red car turned right and followed like sheep, straight towards the excavator. At this development the flagman became downright hysterical, began running toward the errant cars, trucks, campers and motorcycles, waving his Stop sign, waving his arms, jumping up and down and screaming.

This performance had the desired effect on the driver of the red sedan, for it turned back through another gap in the cones, and proceeded properly. All the other vehicles followed.

But did the flagman leave well enough alone? No. He was so irate and flustered that he waved his arm again, trying to take control and speed the procession towards the bridge. And yes, you guessed right...the driver of the red car veered left again, and sure enough, every vehicle in the line followed. This time they were safely past the machinery, and the driver of the red car serenely carried on, knocking over the pylon that blocked the lane beside me, and all the rest followed.

I was laughing so hard by then I could barely see the driver, a tiny little old soul with blue hair and thick glasses, probably sitting on a cushion so she could see over the dash.

The flagman stood in front of my car, hands on hips, staring after the departing parade with an expression of complete and utter frustration. Finally he waved me on, and I raised a trembling hand and pointed to the lane ahead, raising my shoulders in question. He saw my grin and started to laugh, laughed until he had to wipe his eyes, then with a courtly bow and a sweep of his arm, he bade me proceed.

I was proud of myself, as I led my own followers correctly down the alloted lane, for not once turning left through the pylons, just to see if they would all follow.

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