| Sunny Side Up July 2, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Just lovin' Canada's country roads I love Canada's country roads in the summer. They've laid ribbons of serenity in my mind that stretch from Vancouver Island to Ontario's highlands; from P.E.I.'s red soil to the rugged banks of Nova Scotia's coastline. I've picked their wildflowers and willows, licked their dust off my lips, picnicked on their pullouts. I've chased runaway dogs and cows on them, and once a hat that blew off my head in a burst of sunny-day glee. I've pedaled for my life on those roads, pursued by farm dogs and groundhogs surprised at my going by; deafened by the wind in their ears till I was nearly on top of them. I've found things on our country roads. A canary, once. A whole hawk's wing, every feather impeccably in place. Wild strawberries, red as clown's noses. An ancient barn window coated with chicken dung. Serenity atop a large rock overlooking laughing waters. An old farmer who became a friend. Willows for chair and basket-making. An excellent butcher knife. And once I dragged home a dead porcupine. I wanted the quills for crafts. I see things on Canada's country roads that feed my senses for years. Miles of fenceposts topped with an old boot apiece. A plywood sign scrawled in a child's desperate hand: KITTENS FOR SALE. 5 CENTS. Another: BEWARE OF CHILDREN. A grain elevator inching along on a flatbed. Sloping roofs, sheathed in grass and goats. Denim overalls line-dancing jigs with flowered housedresses. Rows of prairie dogs standing at attention. Livestock pacing the center line. Generosity comes out of hiding on country roads. We hit the ditch once in deep country-ploughed up a good portion of gravel and blew a tire in the process. A young farmer stopped, changed the shredded tire, and coaxed the car out of the ditch. He would take no pay. "My mother wouldn't like it," he quipped. Dusty farmers in rusty pickups lined the road's shoulder, ready to help if he couldn't. A gulp of fresh country air is as bracing a tonic as a tall glass of anything with lemon. A country shoulder, where the grasshoppers are tuning their fiddles, is a great place for forty winks. And to those bold enough to leave hurry behind, a country road teaches with an open hand: God is here; observe his artistry. Slow down. Read landmarks, not only signposts. Rainbows sometimes end in ponds or fields or on the upturned face of a sunflower. The most exotic blossoms are the weeds in the ditches. Spring peepers are shy. Hummingbirds do stop to rest. Sometimes owls fly in the daytime. Tomorrow will wait after all. Where you are is as important as where you're going. I've done some of my clearest thinking, my most important listening and best praying on Canada's country roads in the summer. And during winter the old barn window, now a mirror, the hawk's wing, and a few wildflowers in a frame remind me that just around the next bend, summer comes again. You can respond to these words at kg[email protected] Return Home |
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