Going for Fish
Yesterday
morning I drove into Blue Ridge through a recurring curtain of falling leaves to
pick up some tropical fish I had ordered on line last week. I have done this
before and so far the numbers of fish I have ordered by mail have arrived here
without incident. They have, I assume all been healthy and happy during their
trip in minuscule water filled plastic bags, packed in dark Styrofoam insulated
boxes passing through the mail system till their arrival at the post office.
Certainly they have all been in acceptable health and hungry when they reached
me. This particular morning I had parlayed the trip to the post Office into a
Waffle House breakfast meeting with Peyton before he left for school. Dropping by
the post office before we met I asked the woman working behind the counter if
my package had arrived. She said, “Why no, the men haven’t even went through
the boxes yet. You’ll have to come back later!” It always shocks me when I hear
grammar so cruelly misused. The teacher in me struggled not to correct her
where she stood in her print dress and tennis shoes, hair oddly askew to one
side. I resisted because I figured it would not improve the chances of seeing
my package of fish today. After a nice breakfast with Peyton I went to the post
office and picked up the box of tropical fish. The first time I had an order delivered
to this post office the same woman had said to me, “What? You mean to tell me
there are live fish in this here box?” Taken aback I could only nod at her.
Heading
for home I came out Aska Road from town and after a number of miles turned on
Big Creek Road. Driving on this road always makes me feel comfortable and it
shocks me when I hear people say that they refuse to drive their car on a dirt
roads. Dirt roads are the best. I feel as though I am headed home, which I am.
This I felt even before we lived out Big Creek Road perhaps because my
grandmother lived on a dirt road and I feel an affinity for them. The creek
carelessly follows the road for most of the distance, weaving in and out of
sight much of the way. The majority of the thoroughfare is dirt, abutted on
both sides by wilderness with only two short paved stretches between Aska Road
and our house. The leaves coming out from town had been quite colorful. On Big
Creek Road they were still more beautiful even though the fall color is not as
spectacular as it is in some years. Many dried leaves already jettisoned from
the trees littered the surface of the dusty road as I sped along. The vacuum
behind my car caused the dried leaves to leap into the air and dance, briefly suspended
from gravity and whoosh in behind my vehicle mixing with the dirt and dust
twirling and spinning together in a vortex of wind and debris. It chased me
down the road as I moved away. Watching in the rear view mirror the mélange
seemed to beacon to me, “Wait.” Driving into town earlier that morning I saw on
two full grown deer standing in the middle of the road. The young buck and doe seemed stunned when I rounded
the curve where they were standing, looking shocked and somewhat offended at my
sudden appearance. They leapt into the overgrown weeds on the sides of the
little road and disappeared into the undergrowth, only their erect white tails
flashing good bye. They departed into the rough downhill country side swallowed
by the wintering brush. A mile or two before I saw the deer there were eight
wild turkeys loitering along the side of the road when I happened upon them. As
turkeys and other wild things do, they disappeared instantly. Their camouflaged
coats vanished into the shrubby underbrush blending into a forest of brown and gold,
going from visible to invisible in a fraction of a second. Had they actually
been there of had I just imagined the whole thing? Missing them in their
absence I drove away anyway, toward home.