The Spring continues to unfold here in the country. It is a slow, inexorable process and one that enlivens the senses.

Sound is one of the things that accompanies it. The Hydrangea bush that embraces the back porch seems a magnet of attractive to several honeybees, members of the hives kept on the fields next door. The low steady hum of those magnificent insects is part of the larger symphony of the awakening. Dogs and cows voice approval. The roosters are insistent in their recognition of the dawn. It is therapeutic, and a natural comfort.

The traffic on the county road out front is sparse and non-intrusive. The shrubs and trees muffle things nicely, and the noise is natural. Or it was.

Late Sunday afternoon the city came to the country. The volume of passing cars rose markedly. Not unusual, since the horse property down the road is shaking the winter slumber with weekend events, and a handful of vehicles brings the kids to learn the magic of the horses. Coming and going, the small crowd is noticeable but a sign of human life to join that of the menagerie of sound, domestic and wild.

This was different, though. The passing of the vehicles was strengthened by the roar of big trucks. Like the single school bus that plies its route when there are classes, it is deep throated and assertive. The editorial board was stirred from post-brunch spring somnolence. “What the hell was that?” exclaimed the lower seats as a large Dominion semi-trailer belched its presence passing the mailbox. Such contrivances are uncommon, much less the seven or eight vehicles that followed the behemoth. And they kept coming, both ways on our inadequate through-way.

Alarm rose at the table. Several phones were raised almost in unison to query the Googleverse for news of events that might upend the travel on our little road. There was nothing clear, no public notice. The sound from the lane began to increase to levels more common in the city. There, the rumble and whizz is part of the artificial norm. Living in Arlington, the steady roar of the commuters clawing their way into and out of the city was ubiquitous and common. Here it was sudden and imposing, an alien world imposed on a quiet rural bypass.

One adept intern was completely tuned in and eager to share. Not knowing the proper pronoun for address, the seniors at the table turned for enlightenment without necessary familiarity. “It is a wreck on the big road. The Zach Taylor Highway is closed. They must be diverting all the traffic on our lane to get around it. Three cars, they say, one of them crossed the center line going northbound and hit someone head on.”

The table stilled at the idea. The big road is governed by a basic limit of 55MPH- nearly 87 Kilometers an hour in civilized lands. The idea of someone approaching head-on at more than a hundred miles an hour shook us all. We all use the Zach to get to town for necessities, and the idea of such an encounter filled us with horror.

Whatever it was, all the highway noise was suddenly with us, and all of it too fast, roaring down to the little snake turn with the vista obscured by the newly blooming greenery. The roar continued until almost dinner and then ceased abruptly. Something had happened to remedy the clog out there. Our imaginations had to fill in the details. The ambulances had departed. Flatbed trucks had carted away the carcasses of cars. Plastic shards, bits of twisted steel and lengths of vulcanized material had been swept away. Traffic had resumed. There was nothing to see out there but a Highway Patrolman with a clipboard, collecting the information for his report.

We enjoyed our nightfall more than he did. The country quiet returned as the shadows lengthened toward the red buds that surround the southern pasture. Quiet for now. The country sort of quiet that had been banished by a few hundred cars and trucks. There was a hush on the back deck, and the hope that the brief interruption would not interrupt normal delivery of strategic materials. Single truck delivery, we agreed. In keeping with the sounds of spring.

Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com