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COMING BACK THE OLD WAY

From the earliest times of remembrance, when I was a tad hanging on to every word uttered by family and kin and villagers, I was awed by the things I knew I would never experience first hand.

I remain awed at the lives I will never lead, at the lives I can only imagine in passing.

Coming back the old way from Tuscaloosa to Birmingham I imagine more than I actually see. I skip the all-too-efficient and soulless interstate highway, veer off to cruise the two-lane blacktops, the blue roads that used to crisscross old folding gas station maps.

I toss aside the idea of GPS and dive into the antiquated concept of driving around till something out of the ordinary presents itself.

Oh, the things I see.

Leaning barns, truncated railroad tracks, bullet hole-enhanced Stop signs, ragged children playing ragtag games in merrily cluttered front yards, leftover Christmas decorations dangling from rusted mail boxes, pickup trucks with FOR SELL signs, loose gravel driveways, shiny and tarnished tin roofs, a three-legged dog romping along, buggy bugs splattering against my windshield.

There’s more.

Single-lane red mud roads disappear into camouflage woods, abandoned tractor tires make great playmates, rope swings dangle from trees, elderly women wave from front porches, kudzu continues its plan to conquer the world, aluminum siding braces for the next tornado, sunburned orange-suited prisoners pick up trash, an abandoned meat-and-three diner gives up and ages rapidly, impatient truckers whiz past, a lone and scraggly horse stares into space, an armadillo narrowly escapes being squashed, one pedestrian plods along toward the next convenience store.

All these signs of life are mysterious and enthralling, all these signs of life are stories unfolding.

There is always more…

Grazing cattle await their fate, potholes plot against alignment, a straw-hatted fisherman meditates next to a muddy stream, billboards tout local political dreams of power, an already grizzled teenager grabs a smoke, yard sales offer old baby clothes and plastic pedal cars, boarded-up cinder block buildings hide their contents, pine trees proliferate or tumble, a biker bar forbids further examination, remains of villages nurture their ghosts, KEEP OUT signs obscure silent sadnesses, microwave towers mock the past, friendly servers offer menus and sweet tea relief.

Coming back the old way reminds me that this is my land, the land I come from. It also reminds me that I am no longer a resident, that I am a now stranger in my own land.

The blue roads re-animate wonderful memories. They exist to excite my past and force me to re-examine both past and present.

The blue roads caution me not to snub all the secret stories waiting to be told, but they also tell me to record what I see so that future travelers down the old way will take a second look, a fresh appreciation…a deep respect for all villages and villagers past and present and future, in a land as varied as varied can possibly be

© 2019 A.D. by Jim the Reed