Where I live, there simply is a great deal of weather. If you're the kind of person who isn't willing to risk her life to visit a friend or make an appointment, well... you just wouldn't be the kind of person who went anywhere at all. The parallel result of the weather is the damage to the roads. Heat damages them, as does cold, as does rain, snow or extreme dryness. I'm happy to say that full employment among road construction workers where I live is an established fact.

Headed to a nearby city for a book event and a few radio chats, I noticed that the attempt to enlarge the road to about twelve lanes was underway. Since I don't live in Los Angeles, I wondered why it would be necessary to eliminate whole counties in order to give commuters greater access.

The huge new superhighway presumably also will have lights, which the old and not-so-superhighway does not -- or only at random and sporadic intervals.

The way people express their frustration with road construction is universal: It's to honk and swear at everyone in the vicinity, or settle for shaking an angry fist if it's cold outside. Much of this went on during the day. The police AND the road crews were swigging Mountain Dew as they attempted to keep up with the construction and the myriad fender benders caused by it.

But the ride home at night was the true test of evolution. While I'm a careful driver, switching the drive-able side of the road from left to right at the flip of an orange cone was like something kids would be discouraged from trying at home.

In fact, at one point, on a long stretch of road, I was confronted with a truly sci-fi scenario. The road ahead either was completely black, and I confined to navigating the only open lane, the narrow shoulder, or out of the dark night came the blaze of great insectile machines, the size of small vacation cabins.

I understood what it must be like to be a raccoon -- faced with the prospect of aggressive traffic on the left and a twenty-foot drop off on the right.

I made it home unscathed. I always do. Except mentally. Mentally, I come home from a driving trip a tyrant, ready to tilt at windmills or backhoes, become a tax dodger or sell my house to hire a driver.

The only light at the end of the dark highway is a reader. Seeing a reader soothes the weary road warrior to a state of grace.

Jackie M.