Alliteration in the end

Poplar trees are on my mind today. They have swayed into and out of my life from the very beginning. I grew up on Poplar Street, named for the row of the stately trees that lined, that still line the street across from my childhood home. We used to play street ball on the quiet road and the poplars factored into the ground rules that only kids can customize. A ball hit into the poplars was in play if and when it came back to earth. Outs were routinely recorded, and balls occasionally lost, getting stuck high up the unclimbable trees. If a ball came out of the tree and was then lost in the thick carpet of ivy that lay below, the play was called dead. A ground rule double. A ball hit into, or over the comparatively busy cross street was an automatic home run. Even then we knew better than to run into the road. We painted bases, a pitching rubber, and a home plate with batter's box on the street. They lasted for something on the order of twenty years, vanishing only when the city installed new sewers and tore up the asphalt. That was some serious paint. When agreement on the outcome of a particular play could not be reached, we usually opted for the classic "do-over" rather than taking our bat, or our ball, and going home. Don't get me wrong Dear Reader. We were kids and our sportsmanship wasn't all that refined. Fights sometimes broke out and games ended abruptly. We'd play until dark, or until called for dinner. During the long days of summer, we could resume a particular game after eating, or the next morning if darkness became too much for our young eyes. I also remember one time we had a babysitter while my parents went out. We were horrible. I mean really, really bad. Long before my parents returned, we knew we were going to get spankings. The babysitter told us so. In an utterly brilliant parenting move, my dad sent me and my brothers to the poplars to select our own switches. Oh the terror! I don't remember getting whipped, and I think I would. The psychological punishment of scanning those trees for my own switch was quite enough trauma. Thank you very much. Now my sister and her family live in that house. The trees are still there, reaching for the sun and the stars, even after being topped more than once over the years. A friend has recently been engaged in mortal battle with a poplar tree. Even though this particular poplar is dead and poses dangers that only dead poplars can pose, I still pity the poor poplar.