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[Editor’s note: Hunter’s taking a column week off, so here’s one of my favorites, from 2022. It’s been slightly edited for, you know, the two-year time difference.]
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[Editor’s note: Hunter’s taking a column week off, so here’s one of my favorites, from 2022. It’s been slightly edited for, you know, the two-year time difference.]
I’m a big John Denver fan. Have been for quite a while. When I was a kid in school, my mom liked to give my sister and me edifying entertainment in our Easter baskets. John Denver’s Greatest Hits was a CD I received one year sometime prior to junior high.
As a result, one of the first songs I ever learned to memorize (besides old Sunday school standards) was John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” While the song more directly ties to West Virginia, I always felt there was a rootlet of culture reaching its way back up the Appalachians to our little stretch of woods here in Northeast PA. Any time I hear the song, it makes me feel nostalgic for all the neatest places found down a dirt road with nothing else on it. Sometimes around here there isn’t even a sign to let you know what “it” is.
I’ve been thinking about roads quite a bit as of late, what with spring causing its annual havoc on the ones I frequent during my morning commute to the farm. All I could think about as I jarred my poor truck through the unavoidable potholes each morning was how Mr. Denver must’ve had some nicer roads to have come up with such a smooth, dulcet tune. If he had grown up driving roads like these, perhaps he would’ve developed into a heavy metal artist rather than a country singer, beating a loud smashing tune and screaming his lyrics rather than calming the souls of his listeners.
Fortunately for our listening pleasure, his roads were pleasant; and fortunately for my own sanity, the Pennsylvania state flower came into bloom this week as well. For those who might not know what I’m referring to, that would be the vibrantly colored and incredibly resilient long-stemmed road cone.
Yes, the road crews got the magic phone call from the spring heave that it was time to go out and start fighting back against the shifting ground. And while many will be quick to complain about the traffic delays and other corresponding inconveniences, I’m far happier to see our world-renowned gas tax money [Ed.: which finally decreased in 2024] at work.
Speaking of our tax money, another annual flower has begun to spring up as well—political yard signs, which are more diverse in coloration and design. But as my politically motivated family members will attest, it’s not all about the big seats when it comes to these elections. There are state seats to consider candidates for as well, and they too have a say about where our tax dollars go. So if any of you reading this happen to have one of these many candidates in your car at any point before the election, be sure to drive them way out in the sticks. Maybe aim for some of those potholes you would normally want to miss. And if by chance you blow a tire, just imagine the roadside conversation you could have with those representing your interests, while you either change the tire or wait for a tow.
I’m not saying you should play a little of John Denver’s music in the car while you chat, but then again, music is all about setting a tone, isn’t it?
The way out here we love our country roads, we love our cars (unbroken), and we love to be represented accurately for the issues that affect our day-to-day. And just remember to go about these conversations like Mr. Denver sang his songs, nice and easy, preferably with a smile.
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barnhllo
I, too, love country roads,,,,wrote this a fears ago:
COUNTRY ROADS
Time-weathered old barns,
With sagging ridgelines and tilting silos;
Sliding doors askew on bent and rusted tracks.
Battered mailboxes, posted in rusty milk cans;
No names…no numbers…Chicory grows nearby;
“Blue-eyed girls”…Waiting for the mail!
Overalled boys, with no shoes;
Fishing poles in hands…dogs tagging alongside;
Off on an adventure.
Pretty, freckle-faced girls, riding bicycles;
Dressed in calico and cut-off denim,
Out looking for the boys!
Old folks dozing in porch rockers;
Their working days and child-rearing days over,
They rock back to pleasant memories.
A badly rusted 1952 Ford coupe
Sits on blocks behind a tar-papered shed;
Beautiful…for the memories it evokes.
Rural natural beauty in a variety of wildflowers;
Dandelions, Joe Pye weed, Goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace,
Far prettier than any pampered, domesticated stuff.
Farmers and farmhands toiling in fields;
Sweating…but smiling…
Salt of the earth!
Such are the scenes that greet me
As my magical rocking chair transports me
Along familiar back roads of my mind.
Lloyd Barnhart
West sand Lake, NY
(originally from Roscoe)
Sunday, May 26 Report this
barnhllo
I, too, like Country Roads. I wrote this a few years back:
COUNTRY ROADS
Time-weathered old barns,
With sagging ridgelines and tilting silos;
Sliding doors askew on bent and rusted tracks.
Battered mailboxes, posted in rusty milk cans;
No names…no numbers…Chicory grows nearby;
“Blue-eyed girls”…Waiting for the mail!
Overalled boys, with no shoes;
Fishing poles in hands…dogs tagging alongside;
Off on an adventure.
Pretty, freckle-faced girls, riding bicycles;
Dressed in calico and cut-off denim,
Out looking for the boys!
Old folks dozing in porch rockers;
Their working days and child-rearing days over,
They rock back to pleasant memories.
A badly rusted 1952 Ford coupe
Sits on blocks behind a tar-papered shed;
Beautiful…for the memories it evokes.
Rural natural beauty in a variety of wildflowers;
Dandelions, Joe Pye weed, Goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace,
Far prettier than any pampered, domesticated stuff.
Farmers and farmhands toiling in fields;
Sweating…but smiling…
Salt of the earth!
Such are the scenes that greet me
As my magical rocking chair transports me
Along familiar back roads of my mind.
Lloyd Barnhart
West Sand Lake, NY
(Originally from Roscoe)
Sunday, May 26 Report this
barnhllo
I, too, love Country Roads. I wrote this a few years back and share it here:
COUNTRY ROADS
Time-weathered old barns,
With sagging ridgelines and tilting silos;
Sliding doors askew on bent and rusted tracks.
Battered mailboxes, posted in rusty milk cans;
No names…no numbers…Chicory grows nearby;
“Blue-eyed girls”…Waiting for the mail!
Overalled boys, with no shoes;
Fishing poles in hands…dogs tagging alongside;
Off on an adventure.
Pretty, freckle-faced girls, riding bicycles;
Dressed in calico and cut-off denim,
Out looking for the boys!
Old folks dozing in porch rockers;
Their working days and child-rearing days over,
They rock back to pleasant memories.
A badly rusted 1952 Ford coupe
Sits on blocks behind a tar-papered shed;
Beautiful…for the memories it evokes.
Rural natural beauty in a variety of wildflowers;
Dandelions, Joe Pye weed, Goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace,
Far prettier than any pampered, domesticated stuff.
Farmers and farmhands toiling in fields;
Sweating…but smiling…
Salt of the earth!
Such are the scenes that greet me
As my magical rocking chair transports me
Along familiar back roads of my mind.
Lloyd Barnhart, West Sand Lake, NY
Originally from Roscoe
Tuesday, May 28 Report this