175 Marcus Avenue was like a high-speed roadway. You risked your life when you pulled out of the insanely long driveway. And when they installed a stop sign for our safety, we got bludgeoned by the screeching braking—keeping us alert during the day and awake all night. That same driveway became a prison during Long Island winters. The plow trucks swept the tar clean and we had an snow wall blocking our exit. I would bang the snow shovel against the white solid fence, making sure we had a get out of jail card if we needed an emergency escape. If I didn’t attack the impediment, the snow turned to impenetrable vanilla ice cream. With my muffler covering red ears and snow boots, I was the master artist to free our family.