There's an old farm north and west of here that I have been meaning to visit for quite some time. It's close enough that I've had the luxury of waiting until the "right" time. Tonight it was time! The gravel secondary road that runs in the general direction of the farm has a huge sign at it's entrance, "ROAD CLOSED." The access on both sides is such that car and truck traffic is not possible without taking the sign down. Motorcycles, on the other hand, were designed to easily maneuver around such obstacles. The gravel took me a mile or so west and then I found the dirt two-track road that led back north. Having explored the area a few months ago I knew I had to get there when it was dry, as in no recent rains. It was perfect. I putted through the undergrowth and the overgrown road offered no difficulties. Sometimes there are fallen fence posts and tree limbs in the tall grass that can cause one to suddenly tump over. That along with the occasional rubbish from an abandoned farm(its amazing how far a bedspring can get from the main house once it is no longer lived in)can make it necessary to dismount and "walk" the path of approach before riding it. This evening the only impediment to my progress was swirling about my head in the air. Tucked deep behind the trees the paintless gray hulk of a home lurked in repose. Glassless eyes watched my approach and a door leaning on one hinge greeted me at the porch, beckoning me enter. I learned a long time ago to be cautious when on one of these forays into the deserted unknown. I'm not the "take a buddy along" type of person. I guess I just don't really want to take the responsibility for someone else getting injured, like falling into an abandoned well or steping 'through' a floor and winding up one level down. Even though the site is completely grown over and hasn't had a vehicle around in years one can make out the "lay" of the land according to where the remaining portions of buildings are standing. Everything was logical, the house, barn, garages, utility sheds and the outhouse. Then I saw the sun very low in the sky, streaming through the thickness of winrow secluding the north and west sides of the farmstead. It was beautiful! I lost the light for the house as I clicked off a roll of shots through the unkempt trees looking out toward the remains of the barn. It's a lonely place, except for the skeeters, they're always more than happy to keep anything with blood company. My time was lost, or so I thought. There will be another day to shoot the place. Next time I'll leave earlier and stay not quite so long. There's something about the area where the children once played, old posts still support one swing, and another remains but only in part. Almost eerie, and I could imagine the sound long ago of some mother calling from the house this time of day, "you come on in now it's gettin' too dark to play." It would have, too! Back when this place was new, alive, and painted a billiant white, there was no electricity or running water. I heard the feint whisper from a distance, "it's getting too dark to play anymore, today." The 1340 rumbled to life at the briefest of touches on the starter switch and the radio blared out music from 2005 that only my ears could hear. Headlight blazing a way back through the treelined path down the overgrown, ancient dirt tracks, I breathed easier when the wheels were back on gravel. That was a first, gravel has never made me feel better on the ultra brute of a classic HD. Soon I was once again roaring down the two lane blacktop, chiding myself for foolishly running out where no person would ever find me if anything went wrong, and giving thanks to God that nothing had!
In Christ's Love, Preacher.