Going down the road
I’ve spent a lot of time “on the road”; over the last thirty years, I averaged an easy fifteen hours a week. Not enough to compare to a long-haul trucker, or a hack driver, but in my eyes, a lot of time. However, my closest companion will quickly correct the false impression I’ve given with three simple words: “Not the driver”. As if being a passenger makes the experience less valuable. Hah!
Now, when it comes to actually driving the car, most of my trips were somewhere in the five to ten minute range; going for groceries one street over. Now, as a newly retired gentleman of ease, with an automobile close at hand, and a reasonable distance to travel to get things done, I’m on the road more than at any other time in my life.
Take this morning… with little wind, sunlight, a list of important tasks in my pocket, I headed for town. Somewhat more than an hour of highway time, each way. And the all-important CBC radio as my talkative companion (you’re never alone, with the radio on). I rather enjoyed my time, passing from one small locale to another. And there are a lot of them: a regular rosary of history, should one want to “pray”. I’m fascinated. Every treeline, every old barn. All with stories of people who have already passed this way. I wonder what my father used to think, when he made this trip in his trusty Ford truck, or that red-and-white Meteor. Did he think about those before him, in their horse and cart rigs?
