Page 15 - WTP Vol. IX #6

ringer-type washing machine, and hubcaps sticking up through clumps of Indian grass.
Dad never drove us down there in winter because of the fog, ice, and snow.
The macadam road that begins at the Handi-Foods store ends in bottomland at Carson’s Creek, which flows south to the Rivanna, a tributary of the James. At Carson’s Creek you must turn left or right. Either way, it’s smoother blacktop. A left takes you toward the Blue Ridge and Roanoke, a right toward Bris-
tol, Tennessee. We’d go left—but only for a short distance—then make another left, homeward, on County Line Road. The county line follows a steep hill on which, until a passing lane was added, we’d often get stuck behind a bunch of trailer trucks. But
I didn’t mind, because halfway up I’d get a good look at The Mountain of Broken Cars. That was the name
I gave—before that fiery explosion on No Business Mountain—to one of the largest junkyards in the Virginia Piedmont. Rusted, dented, and demolished vehicles were stacked high across several acres, from the edge of the road far back into the woods. For- tunately, the foliage hid the eyesore for most of the year. But from December to February it was country ugly.
Which reminds me. The Virginia Piedmont has the best climate of anywhere I’ve ever lived, including places abroad. The year consists of four picture-per- fect seasons, each three months long. Spring is luxu- rious, summer is hot, fall is glorious, and winter— well, one winter an Arctic clipper dropped the wind chill to sixty-five below, and when I insisted that Dad drive me to Beau McMurray’s birthday party at McDonald’s, our old Chevy cracked its engine block before we got off the cul-de-sac.
A mile or so beyond The Mountain of Broken Cars— right where the long hill crested—we’d turn left at Old Man Kelsey’s dilapidated trailer, bringing us full circle back to Bluff Road. The entire down-the-moun- tain-and-home-again trip took little more than an hour, and as a kid I never tired of it. But the adven- ture didn’t end there.
In a small pasture across from the NO EXIT sign, behind a fence of rotting posts and brittle barbed wire, grazed a horse I called Jack. I never knew his real name, so I just called him Jack. He was nothing more than an old nag with a knotted, gnarled mane, but he looked just like Tonto’s horse Scout. The first time I saw him I was walking with Mom, and Jack
(continued on next page)
"The first time I was brave
enough to hack a path through the woods with Dad’s sickle—from the bottom of our yard all the way to the top of the bluff—I learned why they call this place Morning Glory Gulch."
8