Song of the Road

Like iron filings to a magnet, 
I am called by the song of the road.

I am not nearly as traveled as I wish.  As long as I can recall, however, I have wanted to be on my way somewhere new and different.  I can recall a North Carolina television news program, long before I cared about the news, that began each show with, "Covering the state from Manteo in the East to Murphy in the West."  I wasn't sure where either town was located nor had I ever visited them, but I was sure that a trip from one to the other would hold nothing but adventure.  In 1986, North Carolina author, Jerry Bledsoe, wrote a book about that trip, From Whalebone to Hot House: A Journey Along North Carolina's Longest Highway, U.S. 64.  Not only did he make my trip, he made a bit of money doing it.

How do I hear the song?  I hear it in the colors of the fall leaves, the blizzard like fall of the summer flowers of the cottonwood tree, and the peaks of Colorado mountains snowcapped all year round.  I hear it in the salty, swampy smell of costal roads and the comforting smell of wood burning fireplaces keeping homes warm in the winter.  I hear it in the crash of waves along the Carolina coast, which is much different from the waves hitting the coast of Maine or the coast of Oregon or the Gulf coast of Florida.  I hear the song of the road on the curves of the well worn Appalachian Mountains, the endlessly straight highways of Kansas and Nebraska, and the even tighter, steeper curves of the Rocky Mountains.  I hear the song as I sit on the steps of a country store and eat my lunch of rat cheese, Vienna Sausages, crackers, and an icy cold bottle of Coke that I just bought.  The road sings to me as I stare down from the highest peaks, look across the vastness of the high desert country, and gaze up at mountains reaching miles into the sky.  There is a song being sung by every crossroads settlement, village, town, and city, but the song of the road, to me, is that one made by the asphalt and concrete that connects them.  Large cities sing a noisy cacophony.  Ghost towns sing a funeral dirge.  The road sings of freedom, hope, and the joy of discovery that awaits just around the next bend.  I hear the song in long abandoned houses, vegetable stands, and store-front churches.  They sing a song of yesterday's dreams, today's memories, and tomorrow's hopes.  As long as they stand, the memory of those who lived, shopped, and worshipped in them will last.  As I listen to the song of the road, I echo with my own song of wonder: who have you carried to a wedding, the birth of a child, or on their last ride on this earth?  Who has died on your curves or made it home for Christmas?  Who left for a war or for college and never returned?  What wonders will you expose to me and what discoveries do you hold for me as I travel your surfaces?

I'm not given to traveling the interstate highways, if I can avoid it.  Like modern air travel, these highways are too crowded, too noisy, and too fast.  To me, the only song the interstate highway sings is the scream and whine of huge truck tires as they fly past.  Interstates do not allow you to see anything of the area of the countryside that you are traveling.  Interstate drivers seem to be less patient and almost never open to casual conversation, even at rest stops or motels.  On the blue highways (William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways), I've taken the time to stop and talk to farmers, who never seemed to mind, about what crops they were growing, why, and how.  I've talked to Hispanic field hands about their home countries; what life is like for them both back home and here in my country.  I've talked to old men on park benches (shades of Forrest Gump) about town histories and the special things that make them home; old memories shared because someone took the time to listen and care.  On my roads, people talk to each other and they listen to the song.  My advice: go slower, take longer, drive the country roads and listen for the songs that they will sing to you.