The Long and Grinding Road

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I live in Southern Appalachia, a region where curb proximity is often valued as much as curb appeal. Given this, I wasn’t surprised when a friend’s first question about my new house was, “How long does it take you to go out and get your mail?” I admitted that the task required taking a little hike. Concerned, she inquired, “Can you at least see the mailbox from your house?” I can’t see the mailbox from my house, my front porch or even the end of my driveway. My mailman leaves correspondence nearly half a mile down the crater-and-mound obstacle course that leads to my house (aka the gravel road). His car knows what’s good for it. My poor little four-door sedan never stood a chance traveling this sort of terrain. The car’s undercarriage gets scraped daily and dirty updrafts keep its silver finish a dull grey. I’m certain my car pines for the yellow line-abiding life it used to lead. But, green acres, we’re here to stay.

The walk to my mailbox is long, but it is also lovely. My road, with all of its personality quirks, is flanked by rhododendron-rich mountains and sprawling meadows. The first time I walked its length I actually timed myself. Just how long would it take me to perform a task that, as standard practice, takes a few minutes at most? By timing myself, I was trying to convince myself that the walk to the mailbox wasn’t as bad as it seemed, and it wasn’t—just not in the way I expected.

I stepped out into the sun and passed wild blackberry bushes and a creekfed pond. Finally, I prepared to traverse gravel territory, time-a-ticking. But something made me pause. Just ahead of me stood a doe and her two young charges, dappled with the white polka dots of youth. The creatures were stretching their slender necks to feed off of the grassy knoll on the side of the road. I halted and stood as still as I could on the ever-shifting ground. The deer didn’t budge. Mail mission in mind, I hesitantly took a step forward. Gravel crunched as if the earth was speaking through turning stones. The gravel acted as a natural habitat alarm system, alerting the deer to my presence. Suddenly, the animals leapt from the gravel onto the soft grasses of a nearby field, babies moving with the same liquid grace as their mother. I realized then that they likely preferred gravel dancing to blacktop stepping. And, after a year of living on this long and grinding road, I do too.