The Gravel Road

There's dusty gravel road just off of the highway between Martin and Sharon. Framing its entrance are the Gateway trailer park to the left and two or three modest wood-frame houses to the right. Though I don't even know its name, this all but abandoned road has been a sanctuary to me.

The road itself is not terribly unique. At first glance, this unmarked Tennessee back road looks rather like any other. But it will never be ordinary in my eyes. This road will always serve as a reminder of the tight bond between me and my best childhood friend, Tamara. When the world was a tyrant pulling us in every direction, Tamara and I would walk on this open road to take shelter from life's ferocious demands.

There is a bridge at our end of the road. I say "our" because if someone came from the opposite direction, this bridge would mark the end. It is an old, sparingly traversed wooden railroad overpass, almost completely obscured by honeysuckles in the warmer half of the year. It holds the train tracks level over a deep dip in the road, which remains inundated for days after a soaking rain. This framework of beams, cross ties, and rails always reminded us of a tunnel or a gateway to another world of our very own.

Walking under the bridge can be very challenging when it is flooded. I recall several times when we would have to hug the bridge for support so we would not fall in the water. I can still feel the cold sliminess of the damp wood. It felt disgusting even if I managed to avoid touching the green mold that was growing in several areas on the old beams.

Once we had made it to the other side, Tamara and I would joke about how tough we were.

Beyond the bridge, there is a whole different universe. Dense wooded areas surround open fields on both sides of the road. In the distance you can see a pond almost entirely concealed by the grass over-grown and all around it. The strong scent of clover, trees, and moist soil mixed with the lingering fragrance of honeysuckles gives this road the lucid smell of the Southern outdoors.

There's a creek further down the road. As we approached it, frightened bullfrogs would hop from their hiding places and, with a loud croak, land in the muddy water. Though probably filthy, we'd use the creek water to rinse our hands of whatever was left over from our bridge crossing. The water was always cool on our skin and felt wonderful after walking in the humid heat for so long. We would sit there and rest for a bit, listening to the bird-song melody echoing through the trees.

I am not sure if it was the serenity of our resting place or the distance from the nerve-wracking homes we left behind, but for whatever reason, this was always the point where Tamara and I finally could open up to each other allowing ourselves to put in to words our true feelings about anything on our minds. I have always thought of this place as the physical embodiment of truth because there was no lying there. The fears that would otherwise cause us to hold back were abandoned; honesty was freed.

The peacefulness made this one of the only safe places we had. Our homes were rather dysfunctional so this escape meant a lot to us. We would talk for hours about home life, our financial situations, the people who tormented us at school, our plans to escape this town as soon as we legally could, and most of all, our losses in the game of love. This could all sound depressing, but it was not. After we spoke our feelings out loud without the fear of our words being judged or spread to other less understanding people, we felt better about all of it. It was nice to know that there was no one listening to your deepest confessions other than your best friend and the frogs.

Often we would sit there and talk for so long that the sun would start to retreat to the horizon. At that point, we would usually start to head back. Occasionally however, we would continue on our journey, exploring the environment and searching for new aspects of our wondrous place.

Sometimes we would go into the thick woods to see what we could find within. The ground would frequently be so completely blanketed by fallen leaves that with each step we took, it seemed as if every part of the ground would crunch.

It was darker and cooler inside the forest. If it was a particularly hot day, it provided a nice shaded area to evade the sun's harsh rays. On a dreary day, the woods reminded me of the beginning of a horror story. We'd try to spook each other with tales about them that neither of us believed.

If we decided to skip the woods, we would likely explore the pond. We would not get too close because snakes lurked in the tall grasses that encircled the water along with ticks, chiggers and snapping turtles. It was better to keep our distance while admiring the picturesque scene there before us. We would linger and appreciate our surroundings for as long as we were allowed, but we couldn't put off returning home forever.

I always thought it was ironic that the bridge we had looked forward to seeing just earlier would become something to which we dreaded returning . One time Tamara commented "If we just stay here and wait, we could jump on the next train and forget this town and the trailer park." I was tempted. We never went through with that plan. I guess we both knew it was foolish to think we could escape our lives forever.

The road was a wonderful place, and walking home was always difficult. The surroundings were sensational, but the best part was simply being in each other's company in a place that we felt was truly our own. No one could interrupt our thoughts or use our secrets against us. Whatever we spoke of was kept between ourselves and the road. I have no doubt that it will remain so forever.