The Saturday Journal: Roads We Travel (part two)

tathelmillerwriter
3 hours ago
4 min read

The story Roads We Travel is the second part in a two-part series. A heartfelt thank you. I am humbled and grateful for each of you who read The Saturday Journal and encourage my storytelling along the way.

It was in the wee hours of the morning--over 35 years ago and we loaded our sleeping babies in the back seat--tucking them tightly in their car seats--still wearing their pajamas--covered in their favorite blankets.. We were set to hit the road--a ten to eleven hour road trip--at best we could do.

And it was around five--six hours into our journey--give or take and my youngest one--my son--his sleepy eyes a little surprised--confused and he said, 'Are we in Florida yet?'

Our reply, 'Yes, but...'

And before we could get out another word, he said in a rather demanding tone, 'Well pull over and park!'

Now, isn't that the way we all feel at times? On these roads of our lives--lonely roads--hard roads--grief stricken roads, and some roads laced with potholes large enough to swallow a person whole.

Yes, just pull over and park--I'm done. There's an ole familiar saying I've heard plenty of times--there's a light at the end of the tunnel.....

I traveled to Ashe County a few weeks ago--deep in the mountains to a place called Creston. I don't remember ever traveling this far north in Ashe--although I have made it as far north as Lansing and Horse Creek and Warrensville.

God's country--one of them anyway.

On this Thursday I saw a few fisherman enjoying the streams--open once again for the beloved season of trout fishing--as sacred as opening day of turkey season--deer season... Standing in waders fly-fishing waist deep in the cold waters of the New River stood two fishermen. And three others a few miles down the road--what looked to be older gentlemen--one in his overalls standing on the river bank behind an old building. There looked to be about a car length between each fisherman--close enough to still talk--and far enough apart to not cast into another man's fishing hole.

As in much of the mountain countryside in the South, the fields are peppered with old white farmhouses with front porches. There was this one farmhouse--two story--white and weathered with gray--the home was facing south toward the oncoming traffic. And on the second story was a pulley attached to the side of the house--connecting to another pulley secured to an old barn. Faded jeans and white shirts and aprons were blowing in the wind. I said out loud to myself--I talk to myself when I travel alone--how in the world and then I realized it's the pulley and the line coming into the upstairs window. I wanted to take a photo so bad--but that would not have been polite or kind--so I thought. I just smiled and traveled on.

I passed by houses with cars and lawnmowers soaked in rust and sunlight--graveyards it reminded of--only the owners forgot to bury their dead.

A hillside is separated by a steep road and on each side there is--I bet, a thousand or more tiny baby Christmas trees--each one trimmed precisely to the shape and size of the perfect Christmas tree.

Another house I pass has a John Deere mailbox--oh yes--a symbol of the South--and the river keeps flowing on.

And church buildings and their signs keep coming. There was one sign that read, "....Baptist Church. A Regular Baptist Church." Now I've never really heard of a "regular" Baptist church. Guess I need to ask about that one. Or maybe not.

I turn right at Creston Convenience Store--let's just say I've not seen a Dollar General or gas station for miles. A sign warns "One Lane Bridge ahead. And the road grows more narrow--curves are sharper--the ditches deeper. There's a baby cow running to her mama and the biggest modern barn meets an ole-timey barn stands close to the road. The sides are a shiny bright red---the roof echoes the same shine--only in black. It. Is. Amazing.

The road names in the country tell stories all their own--like "Burnt Schoolhouse Road" and my favorite to date, "Soup Bean Branch."

The rolling hills and green fields are magnificent here. The mountain laurels are getting ready to show their beauty.

On these roads we travel in life-- the dark tunnels--long stretches of struggles--they do come--along with the beauty--simple joys we often overlook. The truth is--the ole saying about seeing the light at the end of the tunnel--the tunnel is never absent of the light--like the sky is never absent of the sun on a cloudy day.

And. the story of the butterfly on one of my morning walks--sitting in the middle of the road on a chilly morning--I gently picked up the butterfly by her wings--placed her on the green grass on the side of the road and continued my walk. And when I made my way back to where I had laid her--she was gone. She had flown away.

Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world:

John 8:12