Letters from Josh
8/22/22 Vol. 96
Howdy, folks! It’s a beautiful day on Long Mountain. The wind blew in fresh from the Northwest this morning. The clouds of the night sulked off in a dark blue. The waning crescent moon waved from the dawn sky as I jogged along Poor House Road. What a name, eh? Neighbors tell stories of The Great Depression, and the real poor house that was at the end of the street. Mornings like this have a faint note in the breeze - the call of the Distance, and other roads to travel.
The topic of roads started percolating over the weekend. “Blue Ridge Parkway” license plates abound here in Lynchburg, paying homage (and tax dollars) to the scenic road snaking along the crest of the Appalachian mountains a few dozen miles to the west. Friday found me rolling south on this drive, en route to a lecture from a sales call. The commute was a shock. Where were the cars? The rage? The signs for Gallows Road? (If you’re from the DC area, you’ll recognize the reference. Some say it was an oak tree that gave rise to the name. Maybe the planners of the roads simply guessed that things would back up ‘round there, and irate commuters would find the sign fitting of the 4 pm misery on I-495.) Instead, ravens croaked along the Parkway, hazy vistas opening up across blue miles, and bumblebees worked the late summer wildflowers. “Get your kicks on _____.... on______” I leaned in, nodding my head, hoping someone would pick up the cue. Finally, the gentleman in the camo hat was hospitable in an Alabama accent. “Route 66” he rumbled. “Yes sir!” I shouted. (Perhaps the fifth cup of coffee was a bad idea.)
What’s your favorite road? Is it a quaint Parisian avenue, complete with “chestnut trees in blossom” (like the song April in Paris)? A superhighway at night, racing the 18-wheelers, I-95 southbound through Jersey? The street where an old girlfriend used to live? A glittering canyon downtown on a Friday night, at the intersection of Glamour and Money? One of those two-lane deals they like to put on the cover of maps, across the plains, towards the rocks, stretching west? Drop me a note - I’d love to hear a travel story. P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588. (Oh, and what about that particular road? Well, the post office sits along the side of Rt. 24. If the road was a person, he’d a country dad of a highway. He usually keeps to himself, but occasionally comes to town, saying hello to a few scattered friends. There’s the house and trailer buddies. “How’s Concord been?” “Oh, fine, same as always.” A quick stop at the grocery store, and then he goes rolling on his way, south, like the logging trucks.)
Have a great week, and send in your favorite road story, song, or poem! And if you see a chicken about to cross....Seek to understand the broader motivations.
- Josh
A Friday overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway, somewhere north of Montvale, VA.