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The
Driveway With
fertile soil underlain by
glacial gravel well sustained, 'twas
trodden by the cloven hoof of deer abrowsing on the path. The
builders came and took a look; disdained
the bubbling nearby brook and
picked the high place over low, while
clearing land to till and sow. A
house was built with cellar small, in
time the folks removed a
wall to
store the carriage and the tack, a
greater house was needed now and
progress meant no going back. The
drive was longer now indeed necessitated
by the speed of
working horses on the farm, lest
playing children come to harm and
later autos even worse; more
so when driven in reverse. The
generations came and went to
wars and work til life was spent, and
visits made from near and far, from
Persian climes and
tramps
and Clergy knocked
on doors. The
children had no need to roam and
met the world while still at home. Another
house was added still on
northern side at owner's will; a
brood of children blended in with
lingering bygone playful din. A
porcelein doll's leg proved it so, from
early ones so long ago that
we are destined not to know and
seldom think about. And
arrowheads were underfoot from
early campers living slow who
tracked the near expired doe. The
grown ones used
the lane for work, that
younger ones did often shirk; piglets
pulled to yonder shack with
zero hope of coming back and
being fed as they grew fat with
purpose preordained. It
finally seemed a way to win some
neatness with a blacktop skin, but
cellar filled with dirt and stone has
made its presence duly known; contrary
to our well made plan it
settles still to vexate man. The
snow that fell was
met with glee and
packed for play and
sled and sleigh, while
early cars did make
their way with
tires chained around. We
only tread on borrowed ground leaving
little to be found, the
driveway is the hub of home, linking
those arrived and gone with
us who lived here right along and
those who someday will. DLC
Dec 2003
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