Back roads and bliss

My parents were firm believers in a Sunday afternoon drive — sort of a rest and reward before the new week began. Like so many other families during that long-ago era, they piled the whole family, plus visitors and friends, into the car, and off we went. This was in south central Pennsylvania, which is a maze of winding two-lane roads and farms of every description. Even small children were entertained by the livestock, while our parents admired vistas and fields, barns and farm houses.

Many of the farms in our area were owned by Amish families. We soon learned to tell the difference between Mennonite-owned farms and all the other Amish farms. Mennonites did not eschew all modern conveniences; the telltale electric posts and cables leading to their farms were as good as a signpost. You drove carefully in those areas, because you knew you would be sharing the road with any number of horse-drawn carriages and wagons. And you know, I don't remember anyone being impatient about it.

Dad was the prankster on those trips. In the spring, local farmers harnessed horse and mules teams for plowing, seeding and fertilizing. Dad would roll down the window, inhale deeply, and exclaim, "Ahhh... manure! Yep, spring is here all right." As you might expect, he was rewarded with a chorus of, "Eeewwww! That stinks! Roll up the window, QUICK!"

Good times :-)

But decades pass and everything changes. No one goes for a random drive anymore, on Sunday or any other day. Gas is expensive and every minute seems to be programmed. For over thirty years, I have lived near a major city, so driving here involves interstate highways and city arteries rather than country roads. It's kind of a shame those peaceful Sunday drives faded away. We learned a lot about other cultures and ways of life, and our parents were relaxed and happy. It beat "quality time" all to bits.

Yesterday, on a whim, I returned to some of those back roads and rediscovered the past. I was meeting friends in southern PA, and decided to leave I-95 and meander along country roads to my destination. It was a lovely spring day and, sure enough, there was an Amish farmer with his six-mule team, plowing his fields. There were children heading home from school, straw hats and bonnets securely in place, and more than a few horse-drawn carriages on the road. For me, it was an hour and a half of pure pleasure and serious nostalgia. I started wondering if one really might be able to go home again — a lovely reverie, but short-lived.

My friends were not amused by the carriages. "It's outrageous that they are allowed on the roads," the husband snarled. "They're a menace to drivers and something has to be done about them. This is the 21st century, after all." He is entitled to his opinion, of course. Personally, I would rather follow an Amish carriage along a back road than be trapped in a truck convoy on the interstate, any day. Happily, I was headed back home the same way, and got to enjoy another hour and a half on the back roads, farmers, carriages and all. It was a good day to be on the road — the back road, that is.