Country Roads
Pennsylvania State Route 160 (the Sidman-Salix Road) will
never be as renowned as John Denver’s “Country Roads”; nor will it ever hold the
charm of Brooks and Dunn’s ”Red Dirt Road.”
It is, however, the rural route next
to which I grew up, and I beam brightly today each time I reflect on my old
country road.
Years before we outran our English teacher and his VW Beetle
there, a few other memorable events took place on that road that will remain on
my mind for the millennium.
One such occasion occurred during the summer at age eleven
or so. I recall hopping on my bike and taking a ride up the road when I
spotted, gleaming in the sunlight, an unopened can of Skoal chewing tobacco,
also known as snuff. Thanks to Mom, I was much too germ-conscious
to consider taking my first pinch from a previously-opened tin, but the drawstring
was intact, indicating this was indeed a clean can.
I popped that snuff under my lower lip and placed the circular
can in my rear jean pocket, just like the older guys. My downfall (pardon my pun) was that instead
of keeping my eyes on the road, I tried looking behind at my back pocket to see
if that round form in my jeans was visible to passing motorists. After all,
what good would this find be if no one saw it on display?
When my front wheel hit that rock, I not only fell off my
seat, but I immediately swallowed the pinch, too. By the time I affixed the
chain to the sprocket and turned that bike around, with its crooked handlebars
and flat tire, and headed back home, I was not only dizzy but sicker than a dog.
The upchucks that followed (well before I got to my driveway) were more than
enough for me so I tossed that can over the bank and never took another dip
again.
Later that summer I remember manning a push broom on our
asphalt driveway that connected to the road.
Because this is not a normal pastime for an 11- or 12-year-old, I must
have been serving punishment for something.
It's possible I was forced into labor at the time for some
infraction that was blamed on me – yes, innocent me.
The fact that we had family visiting for the week from Ohio
didn’t lessen my penalty, but it sure made matters worse concerning my next
roadside violation.
I don’t recall if four of the Hoyer girl cousins or all five
were speeding down the intersecting dirt road (known to our family as the cemetery
road) on my homemade go-kart, sans brakes, but I do know there was a bevy of
them. Without hesitation, possessing a
propensity to utilize scientific methods at a very early age, I abandoned the
driveway assignment and promptly poked the broom handle into the spokes on the go-kart’s
wheels in an attempt to save their lives before they entered the main
road. It worked. The kart came to an abrupt
and absolute stop.
Unfortunately, the cousins did not. Objects in motion tend to stay in motion. They
began to scream in pain from their cuts and bruises, drawing the attention of
the adults inside the house. My demise
this time came as a result of a dad who only heard the shrieks of the girls and
wasn’t about to listen to a perfectly good explanation from a convicted felon assigned
to hard labor (even if the convict was his son).
As Halloween approached later that fall, I was, once again,
up to no good on that country road. This
scheme involved fabricating a mannequin by stuffing a pair of shoes, jeans, and
a flannel shirt with straw and using fishing line to carefully stitch a ball
cap on the replica’s volleyball head. Like
Dr. Frankenstein, I couldn’t help but admire my creation as I doubled the
dummy’s dead body over the guard wire next to the embankment.
I barely made it to my hiding spot when the first driver
passing by screeched to a sudden stop.
Turning his flashers on, he jumped from the car and quickly ran to the
body to investigate. Upon discovering
that he was merely the victim of a prank, he threw my creation over the steep
cliff, returned to his car, and peeled out in a fit of anger, bringing my night
of mischief to a speedy end.
Did I mention that I had used perfectly good clothes and
shoes on my master creation? I spent the
next day recovering body parts over that precipice, which was 150 feet deep if
it was a foot. My hard labor also
consisted of hand washing each part and hanging them on the clothes line to
dry.
Today SR 160 is known as Forest Hills Drive, and the
cemetery road is called Evergreen Lane. Since my parents’ passing, I don’t get
back to that area as often as I once did.
However, when I do, I find that, like Willie Nelson, I just can’t wait
to get “On the Road Again.”
