A Short Sketch

Our street is a crazy quilt which, within its patches, represents the complete gamut of the American social caste system--side by side co-exist mobile homes, and lovely Norman Rockwellian houses which might have housed Andy Hardy. There are more modern houses, with as many as 20 acres, replete with grazing horses, cows and goats , bespeaking the relative prosperity of its dwellers. While on one litter strewn, woebegone tiny plot of God's god's good earth sits a forlorn, rundown camper which one frequently inebriated man calls his home.
Directly across the dirt road from it sits its diametric opposite, Tara--as I call it-- a stately antebellum mansion where, as one drives by one fancies he catches a glimpse of the fleeting phantom image of Scarlett O'Hara, hurrying down the broad front steps, clutching her long, red velvet skirt, and declaiming "Fiddle-dee-dee! Fiddle-dee-dee!"