Perhaps you’ve been watching the news. Iowa’s had a lot of rain lately. Flooding. Twisters. Etc.
I live out in the country. Out here, sometimes you look forward to the rain, as it keeps the dust down. Sometimes you don’t look forward to rain. It makes for precarious driving. Sometimes you look forward to snow, because it’s beautiful, but the melting makes for precarious driving, as well.
All the rain caused a sinkhole just south of our driveway. For a few days, we drove around it. Then the road was closed entirely. We took a look at the sinkhole to find that it was more like a cave as tall as Andre the Giant and reaching back as far as the road is wide.
So now we have to take a detour. When it’s wet, the detour is long. When it’s dry, the detour isn’t so long. I like it when it’s dry. I like the shortness of it, but I also like the fact that it takes me over a dirt road. I’m not joyriding. I live in a place that requires dirt road travel. That’s kinda cool.
And it makes me think of the good old, beer-soaked days of yesteryear. We’d hang out on dirt roads and drink beer, with AC/DC, Tom Petty, Bob Seger and a million other bands making it all a smalltown paradise. I once wrote a poem about those days. Those places. Actually, it was a giant, epic poem, brimming with rhyming couplets, called Landmarks of a Mediocre Town. The only nice thing I ever wrote about my hometown. Today, I think about Piss Street (we pissed our names), the stone tunnel (we wrote our names), Cookie Street (burned rubber), the Axe Murder House (I dated the girl that lived there just so I could see the inside), the Stanton road (oops, I killed the lights), Hacklebarney (who needs a tent to camp?), Baker’s Cut (ever surf on a car?), and the Church Parking Lot (clearly God is forgiving).
Ahh, memories! Dirt roads, cheap beer and old friends.