Blue Hollow Road

Daddy struggled with the gears of the old 65' Ford pickup, wrestling it around the curves of Blue Hollow Road as the dust from the chert rose red in the reflection of the tail lights. As a child I wondered if the reddish-glowing cloud would be what hell looked like. I rode with my brother and sister in the dented bed as it rattled and bumped past the homes of our cousins and friends. Their porches were hazily lit by a yellowed light that spilled through screen doors and over the panes of lace-curtained windows. Families had flocked to the harbor of their front porches to shell peas, snap green beans and shuck corn. Women sat with their laps draped with worn towels full of slender pea pods as the children, clutching grass-filled fruit jars, chased lightening bugs past the honeysuckle vines. As we rumbled by, neighbors’ hands were raised to greet us and occasionally a dog, slouched in a fence row, would bound along side us barking wildly. While the dust we conjured up from Blue Hollow Road culled over the weathered planks of those porches, our lives left footprints in that silt. The front porch conversations would begin anew with each passing traveler, family kin would be retraced and last month’s hearsay would be said again.

Blue Hollow Road dipped into shallow valleys and then rose again along low spiny ridges, and banked Cyprus Creek along much of its wake. The creek crossed the road in a narrow gorge just below my great-grandmother’s house. I watched as a blaze of chert loomed angrily in the glare of the brake lights as Daddy brought the old truck to a creeping standstill at the water’s edge. The chain links that hung from the tailgate clamored against the dismal metal of the Ford as the gears clenched and the brakes shrieked to a stop. As if I had opened the door into their world, the sound of tree frogs and katydids lunged at me. I suddenly turned sticky as the fog sagged around me in the stillness of the August air. Daddy pumped the gas and thrust in the clutch. As the clutch braced the transmission, the truck jerked forward and rolled into the cool water of Cyprus Creek. I watched in amazement as the tires pushed the gleaming water aside, momentarily baring the glossy pebbles. I felt sure that this miniature display was what it looked like when God parted the Red Sea.

The truck stammered up the adjacent grade and carried us deeper into the countryside. Past many pig lots and cattle barns we crept along the bluffs, ducking into cool ravines and rising onto warmer hilltops. The engine drone and the occasional note from a whippoorwill accompanied me as I sang John Denver’s, “Country Roads.”

Daddy again worked the gears down as we neared the John B. Ellis bridge. When we crossed this bridge, it sounded like horses clopping along a trail. Clop! Clop! Clop! We passed over the crossing as the moon shone from upstream, directly along the length of Cyprus Creek. The silvery sheen rushed over the riffs and slipped out of sight under the wooden structure. I wondered if the clopping of the bridge muffled all the rustling and scurrying that we kids were doing. We were preparing for what was at the top of the ridge. Atop the highest peak of Blue Hollow was Smithson Cemetery. The cemetery lay off to the right of the roadway, down a short lane and then spread out across the plateau of the ridge. We laid frozen and breathless in the bed of the pickup until we passed the graveyard. Or at least we gave it a good try. As we neared the top of the hill, fear mixed with curiosity dared us to look toward the dark tombs that stood silent in the night.

As far back as I could remember Smithson Cemetery held a mystical charm for me. The astringent, righteous aroma of vintage cedar trees lingered in the crisp, rustic breeze that encompassed the regal summit. I was always curious as to why there were places that I should not step in the cemetery. I wondered if those forbidden places would suck me under like quick sand, should I dare to tread upon them. An open pavilion stood just outside the entrance of the graveyard. Church services were held in this outdoor sanctuary during the annual Memorial Day service. Now and then, throughout the fair-weathered seasons, we would stop by so Mama could clean the tufts of grass out from along the edges of her father’s headstone. While Mama and Daddy were meandering their way through the monuments, we kids would converge on the church building. I leafed through the hymnal to find “Amazing Grace,” the only hymn I knew by heart. My brother and sister would sit in the pews and we played church. During our innocent service, the lonesome wind, like the graceful hands of Sunday’s songleader, would rise and fall, sweeping last autumn’s leaves across the floor of the secluded building.

The last time I returned to the country roads of my childhood, I again returned to Smithson Cemetery. I slipped into a pew just behind the first row in the church pavilion and leafed through the familiar pages of the aging hymnal. This time I found many songs that my heart knew. I stared at the leaves that lay blown into the corner and reflected on the many seasons that had passed since my childhood. I walked through the church, raising my head to breathe in the glorious scent of cedar. In desperation, a rain crow called out from a nearby ridge. I joined my mother, along with my brother and sister, at my grandmother’s grave. Our private ceremony was simple. The formalities were eight years past. The cremated remains of my father were placed on the open ground beside his mother — my grandmother. As I waited there, meditating on his life, the September wind blew across the top of the ridge, carrying with it what remained of my father. Just as the dust that he had conjured up from Blue Hollow Road had settled over the front porches of his loved ones, what remained of his life now settled over mine. And as I stood there I realized that I too have footprints to leave.