I just logged in here, and Blogger informed me that the last time I published anything was in July of 2009. In case some of you live in the stone age and haven't started using the "calendar" yet, it is now 2011. September, actually. Basically, it's been awhile.
I almost forgot I even had a blog. Does that kind of defeat the purpose of a blog to begin with? Oh well, no one reads this anyway.
Not surprisingly, quite a lot has happened in my life in the last two years. I really don't relish the idea of slogging through a detailed description of my latest ventures, hills and valleys, etc. So I won't. Instead, I'd like to talk to you about a place very near and dear to me: the old country road where I grew up.
Too infrequently travelled to deserve a real name, 550 West is just a hair over a mile long. Up until my senior year in high school, it was also not trafficked enough to be composed of anything but dusty limestone bits and pieces. It's paved now in a low-cost style fondly referred to as "chip 'n seal" by us locals. Not too dusty now, but still full of holes.
Anyhow, the thoroughfare's composition isn't really the point of this discussion. The interesting things are what lie on each side of 550 West. I grew up on the very last bit of land at the far north side of this old rural lane, so when I started running cross country at 15, I began doing my off-season training from one end to the other.
Now, one might think that this middle-of-nowhere pathway would be quite mundane. Obviously there's not much going on out in the country at 7am. But, after thousands upon thousands of strides spent going up and back, up and back, I've decided that this is far from the reality of 550 West.
Starting off from my front gate, I'd turn left and head immediately down a steep hill into a small valley. And, if I was lucky and it was October, I'd have some pretty entertaining sights on the opposite side of the pavement. Mr. and Mrs. Strong LOVE Halloween. When I say love, I don't think that really even begins to describe this couple's obsession with the holiday. No Christmas lights are ever put up at this house, no Thanksgiving wreaths or Easter bunnies bearing baskets full of eggs. But every autumn, as I crest the top of that next hill, I'll see her: the animatronic, deliciously evil-looking, head-nodding, wart-covered witch. Standing near the road, hands perched on her knobbly cane, she's usually surrounded by a few cronies- skeletons, spookily-carved jack-o-lanterns, perhaps some bats perched in a faux cobweb-laden bale of straw. And this is just the beginning. If I looked further inward on the Strongs' property, my senses would suddenly be inundated with everything meant to scare. Their barn, converted into a makeshift haunted house, played host over the years to all manner of folk from miles around (mostly their kinfolk). Around about a week before the 31st, I'd also expect to find a small colony of campers set up in the front yard, awaiting the finale night of horror.
Continuing south, I could see the Christmas tree farm and band of billy goats gruff belonging to the Ratcliff's on my left, coupled with the pen full of obnoxious jackasses the Ramey's have on my right. And yes, they do hee and haw to their hearts' content at all hours of the night/early morning. What a delight. This particular homestead also has a magical display of recycling genius by their front gate- an old jacuzzi liner, propped up against the fence, converted into a lovely green plastic planter. Seriously folks, this should be in Better Homes and Gardens.
After that, I expect to see more Rameys. See, many locals call 550 West "Ramey Road" due to the fact that about 80% of its inhabitants are, well, Rameys. Anyway, the next Ramey household is home to an obsessive lawn mower. I don't mean this guy just really prides himself in lawn care. No. This is serious. Not a spring/summer/autumn day goes by that I don't see him riding around his immaculate green spread that sprawls for at least two acres. The best part is that no matter how hard I try, I can never tell by the length of the grass where he's going to and where he's already been. I think perhaps it's just a therapeutic thing for him. That and it makes a nice stage for their Christmas decorations come December (giant light-up stockings with the names of their five children on each one).
Moving along, I pass through a few less-interesting bits. Despite the lack of detail, I'm always calmed by the expansive field on my right-hand side. Filled with either corn or soybeans (depending on the year for crop rotation), this field brings me some kind of reassuring peace. I can focus on each breath- in the nose, out the mouth- and the steady rhythm of each pounding footstep in the pavement. This is where I talk to myself most.
When the forest begins on that side and the houses start again on the other, I know I'm getting close to the main attraction on 550 West: the Ramey Petting Zoo. Home to all manner of fauna throughout my childhood, the Ramey Petting Zoo has always fascinated me in a twisted way. Strutting peacocks, miniature painted ponies, pygmy pigs, rabbits and ferrets make up the menagerie as I pant past. Giving my usual head nod and the occasional wave, I laugh to myself at this "only in America" feature to the road.
The last stretch is just me, the horses and the cows. One on each side, I imagine them encouraging me to the end of the mile, telling me that it's only a few yards more then stretch. Huffing and puffing, I make it to the end and turn around to see my new friend. See, recently I've been meeting an old farmer who has gotten into the habit of walking his white, fluffy three-legged dog, Suzie Q, around the time I run in the mornings. Nodding to each other from our separate sides of the roadway, we chat about the weather. That's all we've ever talked about, really. That and good ol' Suze. She only makes it one trip to the end of the road and back in the summer time. When it cools off she'll do more, the farmer tells me with a smile from beneath the brim of his old straw cowboy-style hat.
Eventually I have to bid my friend farewell as I speed back off down the way I came for my second mile. Sometimes I see a pregnant dog running around on my way back, but generally it's just me and my thoughts again. And honestly, of all the things I like about 550 West, it's the serenity of this that I love best.
