The following was written in response to Hunter Hill’s column in the River Reporter, May 23-29.

I, too, love country roads. I wrote this a few years 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 and originally from Roscoe