The dirt roads, the gravel stones and in the drifts of winter: scratch of salt and sand - those lines were relentless with their rural drag and distance. As a backseat passenger, helpless but to watch the fields, sparse farmhouses, barns in various decline would slide by. Sometimes I'd look round the front seat and through the cracked windshield to see no end of road, no fixed point of interest, no matter where we went.
These drives were predictable but necessary.
To get from here to there, one had to endure all that nothing, all that isolation, houses set back from the road with extensive lane ways, even further removed. In a vehicle moving fast, 100 km per hour, no traffic but the occasional slow down to pass a tractor, an attached combine, one could create entire histories of the families of those houses - from the fancy new ones to the falling down farms.
Did anyone watch cars pass from a window and make up stories of their own?
Were they thinking, like me, of being anywhere but there?
Stuck is stuck, whether moving fast or standing still.
/// - adp, 01 November 2011