The Road Well Travelled

The old dirt road is gone now. Actually, it's been gone for a while, but the last section has finally been cleared and paved, and now there is a new avenue in it's place. An avenue that goes past the new light rail station, past the freeway,  past the subdivisions and office parks, and all the way down to the airport.  Is there anyone left besides me who can remember when there weren't any houses or freeways or light rail stations, when there was only a nameless dirt road meandering between the apricot trees to the north and the walnut trees to the south? No, I suppose not, and I suppose it's up to me to write the eulogy, or at least give some remembrance to the old dirt road and the old San Jose whose orchards and fields now lie buried in their grave beneath the asphalt, wood and concrete.
 
I have two very vivid memories of the dirt road, and to mark it's passing I'd like to write them down tonight.  The first was when I was very young, five or six perhaps.  My mother had gone visiting a friend who lived at the far end of the dirt road, and while she was away I had happened across a box of safety matches that were lying about the house. Being the curious sort, it didn't take too long for me to find that if you scraped one of these safety matches against a rock it would burst into flame, and eager to share news of my new discovery I hurried off to my friend Matthew Van Winkler's house.
 
When I got to Matthew's house we went out to his patio and I got out my pocketful of matches and we quickly started about the business of setting things on fire.  It was great fun burning up little pieces of paper and old rags and then stomping on them to extinguish the flames, but boredom soon set in and we began setting our sights on new sources of fuel. Well, as luck would have it, out behind his house was this great big field of grass drying in the summer sun, and we wasted no time scurrying out the patio door and into the field to see what sort of mischief we could conjure up with a pocketful of matches and a great big field of grass.  Needless to say, we got a lot more mischief than we had bargained for.
 
Now it can be said that there is a good side and a bad side to most new endeavors, and on the good side I must say that dry grass makes excellent fuel for a fire. One only need touch a lit match to it and it bursts into the most immediate and satisfying flame. On the bad side, however, I must also say that it burns much better than the poor abilities of two six year old boys to stomp it into submission, and in a matter of two or three panic stricken minutes we found ourselves facing a wall of fire and heat spreading in all directions and reaching a good foot or two above our heads. Being the rational sort and faced with overwhelming odds, I quickly ran the situation through my mind and quickly came to the decision "I'm outta here!", and without so much as a "So long, Matthew, see ya' later" I took off and left poor Matthew there to face the consequences.
 
I never said I was a hero.
 
And off I ran, and ran, and ran, through the orchards and down the dirt road until I got to my mother's friend's house. Somehow in my panic I had worked it out in my mind that this would be my alibi, you know "Fire? What fire? I was down here with my mother at the time." I rang the doorbell and went inside, and I was just the most well-behaved, courteous, and darling little angel of a boy you ever did see,  and my mother was so delighted that I had come all the way down there just to spend the afternoon with her. To tell the truth I felt a little guilty deceiving her that way, but there was no way I was going to go back that fire to face the music.
 
So the afternoon passed and when evening came  my mother and I got in her car and drove back up the dirt road to our house on the hill, and as we turned the corner what should I see but a fire truck sitting in front of our house and a couple of firemen talking to my father. Now I was pretty sure the the firemen weren't there to give me a junior firemarshall badge, so I quickly added up the situation and came to the unmistakable conclusion that Matthew had RATTED ME OUT.  I got out of the car and I could see the firemen looking at me with this  "So, is that the little punk?" look on their faces, and they told me that Matthew had told them everything, that I provided the matches, that I had gone to his house and induced him to commit an act of arson, and that I had run away when the fire had gone out of control. They also lectured me on the dangers of playing with matches, and the dangers of setting a field on fire, and finally admonished my parents for letting me get a hold of such dangerous things ( Hey, they didn't let me have them, I stole them!).

I don't remember what happened after that. I suppose I got a whipping, but it's all a blur. I do know that it was many years before my parents ever left matches laying around the house, and many, many years before my mother ever forgave me for trying to deceive her and use her for an alibi. I do remember the running, though,  running down that dirt road as if somehow it could take away from all my troubles. Unfortunately, fortune was not on my side that day and the dirt road didn't bring me my salvation.
 
That wasn't the case a few years later, though, when I again found myself running down that road. I think I was about eight at the time and it was another summer afternoon just like before. I was playing army with some friends and we had been interrupted by a loud cackling of chickens coming from the old man's house across the road. I should probably explain that the old man in question was a drunk who drove a broken down pickup truck and kept about a half dozen chickens caged in the fron yard of the  broken down old house he lived in across the road from our subdivision.  He was one mean old man and  had the nastiest disposition of anyone I ever met in my life, and  I don't think a day ever passed when he wasn't in a foul mood. He was also the first grownup I can remember who ever used swear words in my presence (this was a long time ago when people used to watch what they said around children). 
 
So, like I said, there we were playing army and minding our own business when we heard these chickens start cackling and screaming and carrying on like they were going to be the evening meal. Naturally, when we heard all the commotion we had to go down the street and see what was happening. Well, it seems that on this particular day the old man happened to be away and a couple of the neighborhood kids who I'll just call E and H had decided it would be great fun to go down to the old man's house and harass the chickens, and so we got down there and saw them raising all kinds of hell with the chickens and decided  hmmmm, that looks like fun, why don't we join them.
 
Well, one thing led to another and before you know it someone had opened one of the cages and let one of the chickens out. It was lots of fun and we chased the chicken around the yard until we got tired and decided to let another one of the chickens out. And then another, and another, and, pretty soon, the cages were empty and chickens are running around everywhere and we're chasing after them and laughing ourselves silly, because, you see, when you're a kid you live very much in the moment and you never stop to think "Hey, if we can't catch these chickens how are we gonna put 'em back in their cages?", and you certainly don't think "Gee, wonder what's gonna happen if the old man comes home and finds  his chickens running all around the place."  No we were having too much fun to worry about anything like that.
 
And then...
 
First thing I remember is someone yelling out "The old man's coming" and sure enough, I turned around and saw the old man's pickup coming up the road. Unfortunately, by the time we saw the pickup coming it was too late to run back up the hill to safety, and it was certainly too late to catch all the chickens and put them back in their cages.  Luckily, the old man's house sat in front of the old walnut orchard which, through years of neglect, had become overgrown with indian gum, sticker bushes and mustard plants - perfect cover for a little kid to duck into and hide. So, without having to say a single word, we took off for the walnut orchard just as fast as our little legs could take us, and when we had gotten far enough out into the undergrowth we hit the ground and hid.
 
After a little while and when we thought it was safe, we peeked our heads out of the mustard plants and looked around for the old man, but couldn't see him. So back down we went to wait a little longer, when all of a sudden we starting hearing these sounds,  strange sounds of something whipping through the air and making  little snapping sounds as it went. Warily we peeked out above the mustard once again only this time we were shocked to see the old man coming towards us swinging a four foot length of black rubber hose. Back and forth he swung,  cutting through the underbrush like a scythe, and as he came closer we quickly we ducked back down and grabbed on to dear mother earth as if our lives depended on it.
 
And so there I lay, face down in the dirt, wondering why I ever decided to go messing with those chickens, wondering why I didn't stay home and watch TV, wondering why I ever got out of bed that morning, when all of a sudden I heard a breathing sound, a heavy, labored, raspy ominous sound like the grim reaper himself had come calling. Heeh-huuh, heeh-huuh, heeh-huuh it went, and when I turned around there was the old man standing right over me with a look of drunken murder in his eyes.

And I froze.

I mean, I absolutely froze.  It was like my brain short-circuited and every muscle in my body just turned to stone. Every muscle except my heart, that is, which was pumping so hard that I swore it was gonna pop right out of my chest. The old man looked down at me and I think I saw a look of suprise cross his face as if he wasn't expecting to find such a young kid laying there, and then just at that instant, everyone around me stood up from their hiding places,  looked at the old man,  and took off running. When he saw that, he turned around to one side and swung that black hose of his and tagged H right in the butt. Seeing my opportunity I gathered myself and took off in a panic in the direction of the dirt road, and when I finally made I turned down that dirt road and ran for dear life, past the orchards and back once again to the safety of my mothers friends house.  Dear old dirt road, you couldn't save me before but this time you came through.
 
And so I'm gonna miss that old dirt road. It's an avenue now, and it runs all the way to the airport, and I have this feeling that I don't belong here anymore. Perhaps I've stayed too long at the fair and held all those memories too dear. I don't know, but the dirt road is still there, you see. Underneath the pavement, it's still there.