A back road to the front of my mind
The old man parked his vehicle in a maze of blacktop and white lines, all never meant to be found where they were. Just like the brick buildings which covered a favorite rabbit hide of years past. Instead of bucolic scenes of milk cows chewing their cuds, the county school system spread before him. The early morning sun on the horizon betold of the time of day and the parking lot was still driver's choice. But in a couple of hours he knew that choice spots would require a favored parking sticker obtained only by years of tenure doled out by a teacher's union for which he had little respect. This Pennsylvania school district is of today and not the hundred and twenty five pastoral acres of his youth some 65 years ago.
With a heavy sigh and knees that scream at him as he swing his legs out the door, he none too gracefully lands on solid ground, holding on for dear life to the steering wheel and open door frame of the SUV. Maybe it was time to give up his pride and get one of those smaller, foreign, "Green" cars which would not be so difficult to enter and exit. One which would cut his travel expenses in half. But then after all the years with the SUV's, he would feel as though he were driving a skate board. And if in a crash in one of those things, the only result could like a crushed egg in crumpled tin foil. A smaller lower car would also only mean that he had to climb UP, instead of fall DOWN, when he got out the the vehicle. And which was easier anyway. And maybe this year gas would actually go lower, though he knew that was just wishful thinking on his part.
He had driven up the long drive past the homestead house and was now walking slowly down the hill towards "The Farm". The Farm was and still is bordered by three country roads and a non-named single rail road track. The walking stick had become a part of his outdoor activity in the past few years. Mainly to fight off neighborhood dogs at first but now more for support when stepping on errant unevenness in the ground. The ever present camera slung over one shoulder and sunglasses to give the impression of being hip, but more to cover the glare from the cataracts.
Somehow with all the "Growth", or was it urban sprawl, around him had completely changed the photos in his memory bank. The border of a three acre field was still maintained with the hedgerow of Lilac bushes, sixteen feet high 60 years ago. A great place to push rabbits and pheasant alike to the end only to have them disappear rapidly into an adjoining wheat field. But to a child's mind, the hedgerow held more anticipation than actual satisfaction of having shot something. Shooting and killing was never really the point of it all anyway.
Further down the hill on the left was the primary pasture for the milk cows and then the barn. On the right was one of the first mushroom houses in eastern Pennsylvania. Past the barn, the complex roles of farm management and animal husbandry were played out in different buildings. A circle surrounded by farm house, milk house, barn, mushroom house, all purpose office building and garage. Now the farmhouse is an historical sight and museum with only the garage standing the rigors of "Development". And so called renewal.
He had driven up the long drive past the homestead house and was now walking slowly down the hill towards "The Farm". The Farm was and still is bordered by three country roads and a non-named single rail road track. The walking stick had become a part of his outdoor activity in the past few years. Mainly to fight off neighborhood dogs at first but now more for support when stepping on errant unevenness in the ground. The ever present camera slung over one shoulder and sunglasses to give the impression of being hip, but more to cover the glare from the cataracts.
Somehow with all the "Growth", or was it urban sprawl, around him had completely changed the photos in his memory bank. The border of a three acre field was still maintained with the hedgerow of Lilac bushes, sixteen feet high 60 years ago. A great place to push rabbits and pheasant alike to the end only to have them disappear rapidly into an adjoining wheat field. But to a child's mind, the hedgerow held more anticipation than actual satisfaction of having shot something. Shooting and killing was never really the point of it all anyway.
Further down the hill on the left was the primary pasture for the milk cows and then the barn. On the right was one of the first mushroom houses in eastern Pennsylvania. Past the barn, the complex roles of farm management and animal husbandry were played out in different buildings. A circle surrounded by farm house, milk house, barn, mushroom house, all purpose office building and garage. Now the farmhouse is an historical sight and museum with only the garage standing the rigors of "Development". And so called renewal.
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