I love the familiar crackle of 650 AM at 8:50 in the morning. Old honkytonkin’ tunes and fuzzy ads for Al Purnell’s country sausage lull me into the day as I drive just under the speed limit on my way to work. I look to my left and examine how the neighbors mow their grass, look to my right and see a few furry cows, as a glance in the rearview reminds me someone is late to work, or late coming home, or late to getting a cup of coffee after dropping off the kids at school. Whatever it is, they must be late for something, otherwise they wouldn’t be driving so close, their SUV looming large so that they are the only thing I can see behind me.
I take a deep breath, turn on my signal and make the turn slowly, with ease. The radio statics, then returns. There are three new driveways on this short piece of road; it’s best to keep an eye out lest another car comes speeding towards me. Probably late for something important.
Me? I’ll reach my destination right on time, undeterred by traffic or car accidents. I’m lucky, I know. But that’s what makes this time sacred. That’s what makes this place so special.
A little further down the road, a piece of land is for sale. The yard is grown up so high it won’t be easy to cut. Somebody’s dream home will be built there, eventually, in place of the old falling-down farmhouse that was demolished last fall. There are fences, small pens for animals. Fingers are crossed for more furry cows.
Down the hill and around the bend, land is being developed. Former cow pastures with survey stakes - enough for 12-15 houses, they say. Built close. A neighborhood. As if this wasn’t a neighborhood of its own just a few years back, when everybody seemed to know everybody at the ice cream social, when there was rarely another car on this road.
Across the street, they’re loading up cattle and taking down gates. Another plot sold. A large plot. I say a prayer for the cows; I’m going to miss them. I also send out a few good vibes, believing that maybe - just maybe - this land has been sold to another farmer. Maybe it will only hold one house - or none at all. Maybe the construction won’t last too long, and won’t result in an endless barrage of “Starting at $900,000” identical houses that strip away the countryside and its solitude, its peace, its good ole country feeling stripped right from the radio.
Either way, I make another slow turn into the driveway as another SUV speeds behind me. I go to work. I ache. I sweat. I wash my arms 7 times a day to prevent the spread of poison ivy and I hope that someone notices: the smaller this country becomes, the larger my part in preserving it, in making it beautiful, in trying to maintain its meaning in a world that just wants to own it.