I81

Strasburg, Harrisonburg, Staunton... We tumble onto the road from 66 and embark on a bright September journey that begins with gentle rolling hills. In spots, Earth's birth pangs are seen as rocky scars on hillsides. Soon, the terrain grows more rugged; ridges and valleys slide past our windows, indifferent to our passage. Lexington, Roanoke... Little towns like postcards (each with its white church steeple and garland of sleepy clapboard houses) are strung along the highway like beads upon Virginia's necklace. Meanwhile, gas, food, and lodging are offered at every exit Blacksburg, Christiansburg, Radford... The New River unfurls its sleepy majesty; serenely, she accepts our awe. as we bear southwest, the steep green shoulders of ancient mountains guard our passage like gods of summer Near Pulaski, a sudden cleansing shower slows our progress; we wait inside our steel cocoon as nature bathes the rich black earth Wytheville, Marion, Glade Spring, Abington... The towns blend into fading southern memories of tall tea glasses, rocking chairs on porches, children running home in twilight to mothers' strident calls Bristol, Blountville, Kingsport... Tennessee extends its welcome with the absurdity of a giant guitar. 81 pours us onto another road where soaring mountains invite us to rise among them; they send us a silent signal that within them, we can find a home. Written November 20th, 2001 © on Nov 20 2001 04:43 AM PST   0 • 10