A Road And A Neighborhood

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Walking the road is a good way to meet the neighbors. The road is something we have in common, it brings us together.

What I’m calling the road out here is really a dirt track across the desert, more or less passable depending on the soil type in any particular spot and moisture content. I have a love hate relationship with it. One look at this washed out rutted mess and there has to be a real need to take it. So it keeps the neighborhood relatively quiet and safe. But anything over five miles an hour and you’re hammering your car, and when wet it deteriorates into a slicker than… well let’s just say it’s very slick, trough of gumbo at times making passage with four wheel drive an iffy proposition.

My first winter here we had a lot of snow and a lot of mud. Coming back from town one afternoon I could see a vehicle stuck in the worst of it, so parked my truck well out of the gooiness, grabbed my bags of groceries and started walking. Approaching the bright blue sub-compact, I met Tzolt and Carle. Tzolt was the driver of the car and Carle had been out for a walk-slither and found him stranded. Tzolt was a wiry guy from Czechoslovakia, with a huge blonde afro. Fortunately he spoke English better than I do Czech. Carle is of small build and traction available to push wasn’t any better than what was there for the car. This however didn’t prevent her from giving it her all. She was covered with mud. When I walked up she stuck out a slathered hand. “Hi! I’m Carle!” I looked at her. She looked at herself, and we both just laughed.

I set my groceries off to the side and started pushing. We got Tzolt on his way. Carle and I have now been friends for eighteen years and though we don’t see each other all that often, we’ve been there for each other.

A summer or two later, I met Karen and Brooks. When it gets hot out here it gets quiet. Such was the afternoon I heard chainsaws break into a whining duet. I decided to see what the commotion was about and so had Karen and Brooks. To make a long story bearable, some new folks had taken it upon themselves to clear a swath wide enough to move in their manufactured home. They hadn’t thought to maybe first say hello to their neighbors. Nor had they taken into consideration they were on private property. Oh, but they were determined to make way. Quite a few of us neighbors got to know each other in an effort to protect the wild nature of the road. We did curb the enthusiasms of the chainsaw folks but our greatest success was in the friendships we formed and have today. The folks moved in their house. No one’s heard much from them, but we do hear from their half dozen dogs. Dogs that bark for hours on end are usually the ones that are chained, cooped up and otherwise neurotic as hell. I feel for them, and wonder why people have dogs and treat them this way.

In the years that have gone by what have we done? We’ve gone to the dump together, drunk wine and shared great meals, Thanksgivings and Christmas’. We’ve laughed and cried and argued, we’ve aged together. We’ve shared ideas, stacked firewood, poured cement, cat sat and opened our doors in the middle of the night. We’ve shared some life and are glad for each other being here.

It’s now July and it’s hot. Before sunrise the temperature is a lovely seventy degrees. By nine AM it’s eighty-five and by eleven it’s in the nineties. A couple of mornings back at about eight-thirty I was headed into town. I had the A/C going as soon as I started the car.

Off in the distance was a familiar little pickup truck pulled to the side and a figure walking back and forth across the road. It was Deb. I pulled up, stopped and called, “Hi Deb!” She walked up. Sweat was streaming down her face, she had a shovel in her hands. She had been out there filling a few of the God-awful-deep potholes with soil from the bank.

“Um, Deb. Don’t you think it’s a little hot out here to be shoveling dirt?” I asked.

She grinned. Deb is very soft spoken. “Well, yes it is. But I hit these potholes every time…”

“You’ve just had enough.” I said.

“Yes. And this is a neighborhood.” She said.

“Yes, it is. Thank you Deb,” I said. We wished each a good day and I continued on into town.

Gordon Bunker