The cold weather of the past few days reminded me of this poem I write a couple years ago, remembering past winters when the road was rougher and times were slower. I dug around in my files and found some photos from back then, and they seem to go with the poem.
No snow here yet this year, but two sons who live farther north reported flurries yesterday, so it's on the way. Larry is replacing firebrick in the fireplace today, and I hope he gets done soon. There's nothing quite like snuggling down in front of the fire while the weather blows outside.
Looking down the driveway at the house, on a fine January day.
The Way It Was
When we moved up on this ridge
It was so quiet you could hear a truck coming
A mile or more away--
It was always trucks, no car would dare take on that rutted track--
And all of us would run
to the windows or out on the porch
To wait for it to come in view
And wonder who it was
And where they were going
And why
Might be the truck would turn into our road
we’d run to put on the coffee pot
add another log to the fire
We’d go out to meet them at the end of the walk
And go inside to talk and drink hot coffee
Until it was time for them to go
It might have started snowing
they would laugh and gun their engine
the truck would slide off the road into the ditch
we’d run to make more coffee
add more potatoes to the stew
get the sleeping bags and extra pillows ready
They would come back in the house
stamping wet snow from wetter boots
blaming each other for staying too long
and getting stuck in the drifting snow
but no one really cared
we’d make some popcorn and hot chocolate
sit by the fire and tell stories
In the morning the snow would have stopped
everything would be icy white
the tractor would be hard to start, but it always did and
we’d hitch up the blade
plow the road, pull out the truck
they’d wave and drive up the snowy track
the sound of their truck muffled by cotton snow
we’d stand and listen as they wound their way
across the ridge and down the hill
until we couldn’t hear even a whisper
that they had ever been here at all
When we moved up on this ridge
It was so quiet you could hear a truck coming
A mile or more away--
It was always trucks, no car would dare take on that rutted track--
And all of us would run
to the windows or out on the porch
To wait for it to come in view
And wonder who it was
And where they were going
And why
Might be the truck would turn into our road
we’d run to put on the coffee pot
add another log to the fire
We’d go out to meet them at the end of the walk
And go inside to talk and drink hot coffee
Until it was time for them to go
It might have started snowing
they would laugh and gun their engine
the truck would slide off the road into the ditch
we’d run to make more coffee
add more potatoes to the stew
get the sleeping bags and extra pillows ready
They would come back in the house
stamping wet snow from wetter boots
blaming each other for staying too long
and getting stuck in the drifting snow
but no one really cared
we’d make some popcorn and hot chocolate
sit by the fire and tell stories
In the morning the snow would have stopped
everything would be icy white
the tractor would be hard to start, but it always did and
we’d hitch up the blade
plow the road, pull out the truck
they’d wave and drive up the snowy track
the sound of their truck muffled by cotton snow
we’d stand and listen as they wound their way
across the ridge and down the hill
until we couldn’t hear even a whisper
that they had ever been here at all
Hi,
ReplyDeleteFound you via Nablopo randomizer. I loved the poem and pictures.
We live on a main road, but my husband stops and looks at every car that goes by; never know who it might be.
Rebecca
Very beautiful
ReplyDeleteThank you both for your comments. I love where I live--can you tell? Sometimes I wish I could go back to how it was 30 years ago, though. Today it seems quite civilized!
ReplyDelete