Nails and Other Instruments of Death, by Daniel Fitzpatrick

Lately, I have been on the watch for nails. The need has been especially keen in recent months, when my little street near New Orleans has been under reconstruction. As crews have finished section after section of fresh, clean concrete and discarded the wooden forms, I have pulled dozens of four-inch nails off of the street and sidewalk. Hammer-bent, rusted, hidden in sand or beneath leaves, almost the same size and shape as many of the knobbled oak twigs strewn about in our late, slow autumn, the nails are everywhere at once.

But it’s not just on my street. As I drive the few miles to work each day, or take my children to City Park or the botanical gardens, or take the pleasant Sunday ride to Mass, I find myself edging from one side of the lane to the other to avoid nails and screws and bolts left in the road. …

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