“I pass the town garage, and coming around the last river bend before the road cuts sharply up into fields again, I see her. Standing by her car, lights on, obviously idling, but she’s heading somewhere, on foot. One of my fabled “mystery” driveways, and there she is. Heading to her mailbox? Always a tantalizing invitation, that humble, old school curve of gravel, into a no man’s land of trees I could Google Earth, but never truly, legitimately know, without trespassing. Life is hard for insatiably curious people. Very challenging to tame, the urge for going ... where not allowed to. The rain is wet on the pavement, and I slow to wave, and be safe, and be courteous. And to watch what she does next. In my rear view in one backwards glance, her gray bobbed hair, cat’s eye glasses, genuine relics of her generation, the too short pants, flaring out over practical shoes, and the object of her trajectory. She’s moving with dedication, well past the letter box now and with a studied seriousness that I can feel in my bones. It’s litter she’s after, a cup or a can. I’m already heading up the hill, but realize in that brief moment, she’s tidying up. The guard rails, are her guard rails. A 2nd class highway, within her reach and not beyond her care. My road, also. My route home. My heart, being shown the way, by a stranger in polyester bell bottoms, now bonded to me, by proximity. I would probably never see her house, or recognize her at a meeting, but I would try. God knows, I would not not try. It’s all too short, too rapid, as it goes by, as the length of skirts and pants go up and down, as the shape & texture of refuse runs glossy or matte, crinkly or limp. Was it just yesterday I had completely lost my way? Or failed at map reading, despite my best efforts to connect the dots? In a jumble, but clearly still taking up space in my mind, disparate comments from friends, verbal clues collected casually, whirl like a leaf spiral in the wind, as I take the first turn at Lympus cemetery. How much traffic is out here? Can I park almost in the road? The resounding answer is “Yes”. No one comes by, as I pause by an iron gated enclosure, surrounding what looked like fenced in weeds, but which was once well-tended roses softening a gravestone. An abandoned greenhouse frame barely visible under golden rod, and sagging telephone wires across the street, make me ache to rearrange something. But I have more exploring to do, and return to my truck, pulling out into no traffic, until another truck suddenly appears, gaining on my rear end. When you’re not sure of the turns, you try to act like you are, to not call attention to your foreigner status in shot gun country. I hope to shake him, but don’t. So, when a long stretch of wild scrum flattened out like fish & game areas often do, I bail. Go on, go on, I think to myself, as I park again, just to lose him. Then he’s gone. And I’m alone. I sit back, and view the valley I’m in. I think about the last human I’ve seen, a half mile back. A whole bunch of lives that maybe would tell me something about what I’m doing out here, what I’m looking for. I get out to feel the air. I snap a photo. The next quadrant is bound to be rich. I know something will explain itself to me. But I’m getting confused, because the road signs are ridiculously not in synch with my Gazetteer. Alas dear paper map. I knew you well. I hug you to my steering wheel, as you near obsolescence. What I swore I would not do, end up in someone’s dead-end dooryard, has happened.. I see the security camera strapped to a young maple. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just thought ... there was a way through. A way out. A way into. Now you have captured me in all my unwelcome glory. The tables have turned for me, so I backtrack. I’ll memorize the biggest clearings, the most spectacular views of Sable Mountain, which will help me get my bearings. A few names, on mailboxes, to look up, to see who owns this town, and who doesn’t anymore. Which roads have been thrown up. And which, thrown down. It’s never been easy to farm out this way. Why, I can hardly get out of it, and I don’t even live here.”
