Fork in the Road

We are lucky enough to share a decent-sized piece of the woods with my father, who lives in his geodesic dome in the middle, and my sister, who lives on the north end in an adorable cape tucked into a curve of Bump's Brook. My roots are deep here, so I may be biased, but Maine is simply spectacular, and our road is particularly nice. A couple of miles of it, where it skirts the Great Sidney Bog, is undeveloped, with no homes or even telephone poles, giving us a perfect view of each season's foliage and other natural bounty whenever we head toward town.

Technically, our driveway should have a name, according to town rules, since there are two households on it, but they've never made us do it. That means that we give directions by saying, "Go about three miles, turn left at our box number, drive across the stone bridge, and at the top of the driveway, don't go to the dome, bear left, past the barn, we're the other place..."

The Dome on Mellow Hill

Dad has it a little easier, since the dome is unmistakeable. Still, the driveway has a fork in it, and that has been nagging at me for a long time. One of the great gifts from my Dad has been his love of wordplay. More than once he has held a "proverbidioms" party, which meant that guests tried to figure out that a cedar tree wrapped in birch bark was meant to depict "Barking up the wrong tree," A recently dug hole with a playing card at the bottom was "ace in the hole," and so on. 
In that spirit, for his recent birthday, I used five feet of galvanized flashing, tin snips, and a center-punch to make him his very own landmark:

"Turn left when you come to the fork..."

 Needless to say, this was a lot of fun to wrap and present to him on his birthday, and he promptly mounted it on the woodshed. Now he can tell people to turn right at the fork, and we can tell people to turn left. 
Hmmm...I think it could be time for another Proverbidioms party!