Dirt Roads

When Johnny Miller was little, he lived on a family homestead out of town a ways. Life there was quiet. The forest stopped next to the farmland that he called home. In the springtime air, whippoorwills could be heard in the trees, seemingly only a few feet away.

When weather was nice, he and his Momma, and sometimes another brother or sister, would go for long walks down the quiet, dusty road. Farther down past the old homeplace, the road dipped through a creek. It was always fun running around barefooted - the rocks and gravel were just a part of life. A natural thing. He thought nothing of them pressing into his feet.

Oftentimes they'd walk down to the creek, and go wading, looking here and there for a crawdad. He'd pick up rocks, and quickly the crawdads would dart over to another rock, but if he was really fast, he could reach down and grab one and he'd have his prize. Sometimes, all he could find were little tiny ones - but sometimes, there were those scary giants that were all of four or five inches long! The pinchers would almost draw blood. You could take a twig or a long blade of grass, and they'd snap at it, and you could pick them up with it and they'd dangle them there, above the water.

They really were ugly little critters. He would have never thought that in some places people were crazy enough to eat those things! For him, they were more like toys, provided by God, for his entertainment and amusement. He'd heard of lobsters, but didn't really know what they were. Something rich folks ate once in a while, maybe. If he'd seen a picture of a lobster, he'd have been struck with awe!

On one such trip down to the creek, when he was a toddler, after wading around knee-deep in the water for a while, it was time to head back home. He decided to get stubborn; he was tired, and it was Momma's turn to carry him! But she merely smiled and started walking.

His oldest brother was along and went back to carry him, but Mom told him to leave the boy alone. His two legs carried him there, they'd carry him home. He sat down in the middle of the road and cried. But, eventually, he got lonely, and started walking behind the others.

That long, dusty road. Traffic was light. During the week and Saturday's, there'd always be at least one car go by. The mailman came, rain or shine. During school years, the bus would come, turn around in the driveway, and head back to town. Once in a while, a neighbor would drive by - probably heading into the woods hoping for a potshot at a deer or a turkey.

One time the red hill, almost a mile away from the house, was muddy as could be. The hill got its name because of the red clay which was there many, many years ago when the road was pushed out of the woods. During dry spells, the clay would get so hard and packed Johnny could leave black marks on it with his bicycle. But this day, it had been raining, and raining, and raining some more. The clay had turned slick. It was getting late in the day, and the school bus was bringing the kids home.

Mr. Jones, the driver of old Bus Number 3, eased across the one-lane bridge at the bottom of the hill, and started slowly up. As he did so, the wheels began to spin, just a bit. Although he'd been driving a bus for years, there was nothing he could do. As he started into the turn up the hill, the bus started slipping sideways, and a moment later was buried in the mud in the ditch.

Back in those days, the buses had no radios. The nearest house was over the hill. The road was pretty much impassable, but Johnny's older brothers and sister, and the two neighbor boys that lived on the other side of the hill, started walking them through the pouring rain, over the hill to the neighbor's house. Once they got past the red hill, the neighbors drove them all on home. They were covered in mud and muck hip deep, but they made it. It was an adventure to remember!