I
like the American interstate system of highways and super highways at
times. I sometimes enjoy heading off to some distant place knowing
that I can close the gap in a hurry. When the ribbon of blacktop rolls
under my truck at 100 feet per second, it's not long before I've
reached my destination. From the east coast to the west coast, a man can
travel uninterrupted for hours at a time. Other than a fuel stop and
restroom break at some convenience store along the way, there is little
to slow you down. On the interstate, the only vehicles you see are other folks like you who are in a NASCAR-like sprint for somewhere. Each car jockeying for position in front of a behemoth truck, or pulling around a slower moving vehicle. All are trying to avoid having to do that awful, frustrating, interrupting driving pain of releasing your cruise control. A person has to wait for what could be as much as 30 seconds for the other driver to get by, before you can get around the slower moving driver ahead of you, and the cruise control can be set again. And what about those big rigs that barely have the power to pass another big truck, but try it anyway, and block the road for as much as one or even two minutes? "We're in a hurry here 'good buddy', what are you thinking?! Could you please move that thing over?"
No, on the super highway system there are no small town squares to navigate, with their flags flying along the side walk and folks sitting on benches in front of local stores and businesses. No four corner rural highway crossings, with fruit and vegetable stands, or high school FFA and cheerleader car washes on a corner. No farm tractors or hay wagons. There is an absence of farmers or ranchers moseying along at 35 miles per hour, checking on their fields of crops, or livestock behind post and wire fenced pastures. No sir, nothing slow about travel on I-Anything. Driving there is often fast and furious. And, that is precisely why I only like the interstate system ... sometimes.
I use the interstate when time is important and that route is faster, and I will always use it to skirt a major city. But, for the most part, if I can travel a state or county road to my destination, that's what I'll do. If it is a few miles further or takes a while longer, so be it. Rather than speed along at a Grand Prix frantic pace, I prefer to travel at the speed of sound... sight and sound that is. I want to see and hear things along the way, maybe even smell things as I go, like a freshly mowed hay field. And off the state and county highways, there are the narrow blacktops and gravel roads.
Recently, Patty and I visited some old friends who live on a farm about an hour from the Chicken Ranch. Patty and her friend since elementary school, went to their 40th class reunion this day, and left us two husbands to fend for ourselves. So we two cowboys sat in their comfortable living room with a window that looks out over a green pasture along a stony-bottomed creek. We talked about cattle and hay and the usual stuff, and the old days. We talked about experiences on and along the miles of old gravel, dirt and blacktop roads near their farm.
Both of us remembered people we knew as younger men.Some were still around those parts, while others had moved, or passed from this life. After a minute of reflective silence, my friend looked over at me, smacked the chair arms with his hands and said, " Want to take a drive down some of those old roads?" Yeah, I did. It would be a nice trip... literally down memory lane. So, after he pulled on his boots, we headed up to the shed, hopped in his four wheel drive pickup, and headed off.
We rolled down the windows and took in the country air. The sound of the gravel under the tires was mixed with the call of song birds as we drove the narrow roads. One road, a strip of white in a sea of summer color, led us to a creek where both our families had swam, fished, and played for many years. The many thunderstorms this year had forced the sandy creek to change its course, and the "road" through it was washed away and impassable this day. But the memories were there. Like the two times I got stuck and had to have my friend pull me out with his tractor. There was the time that one of my brothers in law drove his four wheel drive into the creek and zigged when I told him to zag. Had to be pulled out by tractor again.
This day my friend grinned and joked "If I get stuck you can walk home and bring the tractor this time, you know the way pretty good."
One gravel road turned to dirt, then led through a gate, through the woods, and into a pasture with a small lake. As we looked out over the quiet scene he said, " This is where we scattered my father-in laws ashes. He built this little lake for family recreation . He loved it here." We watched the fish pop the water, and took in the sounds and smells of summer along the lake, as it wafted through the windows of the truck cab. After leaving that serene place, we traveled down several more roads. Eventually, we worked our way back to the farm.
These were old gravel roads that we had lived on; they were a part of us. Old roads we traveled when we had dated our wives. Places where we hunted, fished, laughed, and cried were along these rock and dirt accesses. The old roads we traveled threaded through knobs and hollows, through the ups and downs of our past experience, and, like threads, they had helped weave the fabric of our lives.
Memory lanes these were; cruised slowly, so that every sight, smell, sound, and reminiscence of that country was absorbed. You can't do that with the widows rolled up, hands tight to the wheel, and traveling at 70 miles per hour.
I think of ribbons of blacktop and dirt roads near my Kentucky home, in Jefferson and Bullitt counties, and in Paducha,where Patty and I spent part of our early married years. Roads that led to our future, and that hold our past in a spider web of asphalt, rock and sweet memories.
Yes, I am grateful for high speed highways when I need them. But, when I want, maybe need, the feel of the open road, I'll choose the lesser roads. I'll choose the route peppered with tractors, and wrapped around town squares. I'll take the four corner stops, and I'll wave as I pass the rancher poking along, checking his herd. I'll ride with the windows down and my spirits up. I'll choose life in the slow lane. And once in a while, I'll drive the roads where there are no lanes at all, off the highway and on to the byways.
