"Turn right on Frog Level Road," the sarcastic little Australian-accented-computer-generated GPS voice stated. We obeyed and a small scream escaped our throats as we realized Frog Level Road was only wide enough for one car and was made of dirt. My passenger, who is also my sister, matter-of-factly stated, "Well, there's no turning back now." No duh.
This kind of thing never happens in the city.
We were traveling to Rose Hill, Virginia, where my folks have a summer home. I brought my camera and had hopes of taking lots of pictures of cows. (I like to paint cows. Cows are cool.) We used to come here as children. I have memories of bluegrass music being played on the porch, lightning bugs in a jar, walking to the creek. As a child I thought that this place was the most beautiful place on earth. As an adult...I still do.
|foggy morning from the front porch|
Time hasn't radically changed this place. You still chew the bark of the slippery elm tree if you have a stomach ache. Still get together on Friday night to make music. Still go to church on Sunday. The people here are beautifully simple; they appreciate the earth's produce, peaceful living, ancient music and spirituality. I wish I could paint all of that.
Instead, I just paint the cows....