Country Roads

Have you ever lived at a remote location? As a kid we used to vacation in the foothills of Mt. Hood about an hour outside of Portland, Oregon.  We would stay at a home belonging to a family my parents knew well and who were generous with their cabin. So, once a year every summer, we'd pack up a week's worth of groceries, swimsuits, and flip-flops (actually, they were called thongs back then) and head off for a week in the hills.

The cabin was rustic enough although equipped with two indoor bathrooms. It sat near the end of a mile or two of gravel two-track country road, cut through the forest, pocked with the occasional log truck rut, and seemed to be laid out right close to the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by a large yard, a split rail fence, and a towering wall of trees, the place was pretty secluded.

I was reminded of all this the other day as I sat at my kitchen table watching the sun come up and the neighbor's sprinklers come on. There is very little traffic around here, especially at that hour, and every time a car went by I had to stop and look. For whatever it's worth-- and I realize that's damn little-- I find it a strange compulsion to stop and watch a car go by. You sure as heck get over the urge quickly living in a high-rise in Chicago or Phoenix. And I'm pretty sure my brother doesn't suffer this compulsion living on the edge of Central Park in New York.

For now I'll let it lie. I don't need to know why and I don't really care. I'm just glad it got me to thinking about those summers a long, long time ago; staying at a salmon pink cabin, at the end of a long gravel road, where the arrival and departure of every vehicle was announced by the crush of gravel below the weight of its wheels-- and you just had to get up and look to see who it was coming or going.