Country roads take me home, to the place where I belong.
When John Denver sang those lyrics in the early 1970s he was singing the praises of West Virginia. Aside from the specific mention of that state and some of its landmarks most of the song could apply to any country road. I was able to travel down my own country road on Friday evening past, and though she was dark the pouring rain had rendered the dust inert for the time being. I've written about the place I call home and the deep respect and love I have for this piece of land. More than once I've hummed Mr. Denver's tune as I covered the last few miles of those beloved country roads to the place where I belong.
Saturday evening my dad suggested we take a drive around the neighborhood to look for deer. I was a bit skeptical; it was kind of early in the evening for deer to be out on the fields and the breeze was still pretty stiff - wind and deer movement don't go together at all. But opportunity was knocking so I opened the door of the truck and away we went. I've been taking this deer ride for as long as I can remember; sometimes with my dad, occasionally by myself. When I was much younger I often took the deer ride with my grampa or uncles or both. Regardless of age or driver, the route has always been the same - the old country roads.
What used to be an all gravel, barely-two-lane path through the woods with more twists and turns than a snake farm is now a paved two-lane highway with cleared backslopes and almost no curves. Most of it no longer resembles a country road, and with each passing summer I have a harder time remembering the original feel of traveling through the neighborhood. But though the road has changed, the prime deer spots remain. A couple of yearlings on Ike's field, nothing on Harry's alfalfa on the way out but a puddle of does and fawns on the way back. Hornbeck's Hill was quiet, as was the Sinkhole area, but we did catch sight of a doe across from the Town Hall.
As we traveled I let the country road take me back once again - but instead of going back home, I went back in time. I thought of those evenings with Grampa at the wheel, the buzz of the Twins on A.M. radio. I beg your pardon - the "blankity-blank Twins", whose hitters all suffered from "feeblitous", whose fielders stopped the ball about as well as croquet wickets, and whose pitchers threw way too many fastballs over the heart of the plate. I never could figure out why we listened to those games that made him so mad. As we drove we saw the yearlings on Ike's, the does at Harry's, occasionally a nice buck at Hornbeck's Hill. We would take a "sashay" onto the Pine Lake road...and Dad did the same thing on this evening.
The Pine Lake road is still a true country road, as is the last mile to my parents' farm. In fact, the last half-mile to the lake isn't even two lanes in most places, with trees growing tight to the shoulders. Pine Lake itself is barely a pond, and would fit nicely inside any superstore parking lot. We got to the lake and stood for a bit on the shore, immersed in the silence and drinking in the first hints of fall fragrance while both thinking back on the different trips we've taken to this secluded little lake that seems to hold more memories than fish. There were wolf tracks in the mud, as always, but the streams that used to fill Grampa's minnow traps have now become beaver bogs. Much of the land along the road has been logged off, but the woods around the lake are still mature, still intact, still beautiful.
As we let the country road take us back home I thought about the changes to the neighborhood over the years, and how amid all the changes there have remained some steadfast reminders of the better old days. I try not to live in the past...in fact, I think I blogged about some mission statement of mine that stated just that...but maybe an occasional journey down a country road through time isn't a bad way to spend an hour or two. For me it's a kind of therapy - looking back with fondness on what was and taking comfort in what still is.
I feel a bit of sympathy for those whose lives have never included a country road. I suppose everyone has that special path that takes them back home...but I'll argue until the end of my days that no one has a path that compares to mine. Time will pass, and the day will come when my dad joins my grampa as a memory along the road. I'll be taking my grandkids for the drive, and there will still be those yearlings on Ike's, the does on Harry's....and maybe, just maybe, the Twins will have found a pitcher that doesn't groove fastballs that get hit a country mile.
Saturday evening my dad suggested we take a drive around the neighborhood to look for deer. I was a bit skeptical; it was kind of early in the evening for deer to be out on the fields and the breeze was still pretty stiff - wind and deer movement don't go together at all. But opportunity was knocking so I opened the door of the truck and away we went. I've been taking this deer ride for as long as I can remember; sometimes with my dad, occasionally by myself. When I was much younger I often took the deer ride with my grampa or uncles or both. Regardless of age or driver, the route has always been the same - the old country roads.
What used to be an all gravel, barely-two-lane path through the woods with more twists and turns than a snake farm is now a paved two-lane highway with cleared backslopes and almost no curves. Most of it no longer resembles a country road, and with each passing summer I have a harder time remembering the original feel of traveling through the neighborhood. But though the road has changed, the prime deer spots remain. A couple of yearlings on Ike's field, nothing on Harry's alfalfa on the way out but a puddle of does and fawns on the way back. Hornbeck's Hill was quiet, as was the Sinkhole area, but we did catch sight of a doe across from the Town Hall.
As we traveled I let the country road take me back once again - but instead of going back home, I went back in time. I thought of those evenings with Grampa at the wheel, the buzz of the Twins on A.M. radio. I beg your pardon - the "blankity-blank Twins", whose hitters all suffered from "feeblitous", whose fielders stopped the ball about as well as croquet wickets, and whose pitchers threw way too many fastballs over the heart of the plate. I never could figure out why we listened to those games that made him so mad. As we drove we saw the yearlings on Ike's, the does at Harry's, occasionally a nice buck at Hornbeck's Hill. We would take a "sashay" onto the Pine Lake road...and Dad did the same thing on this evening.
The Pine Lake road is still a true country road, as is the last mile to my parents' farm. In fact, the last half-mile to the lake isn't even two lanes in most places, with trees growing tight to the shoulders. Pine Lake itself is barely a pond, and would fit nicely inside any superstore parking lot. We got to the lake and stood for a bit on the shore, immersed in the silence and drinking in the first hints of fall fragrance while both thinking back on the different trips we've taken to this secluded little lake that seems to hold more memories than fish. There were wolf tracks in the mud, as always, but the streams that used to fill Grampa's minnow traps have now become beaver bogs. Much of the land along the road has been logged off, but the woods around the lake are still mature, still intact, still beautiful.
As we let the country road take us back home I thought about the changes to the neighborhood over the years, and how amid all the changes there have remained some steadfast reminders of the better old days. I try not to live in the past...in fact, I think I blogged about some mission statement of mine that stated just that...but maybe an occasional journey down a country road through time isn't a bad way to spend an hour or two. For me it's a kind of therapy - looking back with fondness on what was and taking comfort in what still is.
I feel a bit of sympathy for those whose lives have never included a country road. I suppose everyone has that special path that takes them back home...but I'll argue until the end of my days that no one has a path that compares to mine. Time will pass, and the day will come when my dad joins my grampa as a memory along the road. I'll be taking my grandkids for the drive, and there will still be those yearlings on Ike's, the does on Harry's....and maybe, just maybe, the Twins will have found a pitcher that doesn't groove fastballs that get hit a country mile.
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