John Denver once sang a song about country roads taking him home to West Virginia. I wasn’t born anywhere near West Virginia, but I’ve always had an affinity for that song’s lyrics and the sentiment they express.
Some people call them country roads, others backroads. But whatever you call them, those two-lane highways that veer away from the speed and practicality of Interstates toward more pastoral routes are easier on the eye and the nerves.
This weekend we spent a few hours roaming south central Michigan on such roads, visiting family members who live more in the country than we do. The sky was bland and the earth was still asleep, but every now and then we’d catch a glimpse of the potential beauty that will come in a few weeks. Beauty such as is found in rolling hills covered with green or grain, soaring trees, and farmhouses reminding us of what our country used to be.
When I was a child, my Mother didn’t own a car. But she knew a maiden lady who did, and many Sunday afternoons we’d pile into Bernice’s sedan and ride around in the countryside. We didn’t have a television then either, so looking out through the back window was as close as I got to the equivalent of a TV screen. After a couple hours, Mother thanked Bernice by buying us all ice cream at Howard Johnson’s.
I never got the impression my own children were as enamored of riding in the country as I was, even though they certainly enjoyed ice cream. And I have the impression that today’s youngsters are less enthused. They probably don’t know John Denver either, but I still think his words ring true.
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