The Road is exactly one mile and two tenths long. Like Huck's river—it was the lifeline that connected Sheriff Simpson's house to Conn Valley Road. Sheriff Simpson's house was situated at the end of that windy, dirt road on a 12 acre island--a mile from the closest people. In 1957, Jim Pop paid almost $1,000 an acre for that old farm house, barn and 3 gallon a minute well. Only a city slicker would pay prices like that to live out past the county dump.

Back then, we never knew how The Road would come to dominate our lives. Ostensibly, it was just a dusty, bumpy, long, winding road, like so many that led to country properties. Little did we know that it had its own personality, and that over time it would come to be more temperamental and demanding than a Parisian mistress.

Unpaved and pot holed, The Road had a mind of her own. Though on occasion she would let us pass over with only gentle jolts to remind us of her presence, often she could be cruel and contemptuous.

She didn't wait a single winter to let us know who was boss. Rank armatures at l'affaires d' la routes, we were unaware of the constant attention she required. Those who remember the rains of '57 know what a fatal mistake that was.

She picked the "adobe patch", to teach us our first harsh lesson. First, she teased us--allowing us to slither and swerve through the muck until it was deeply rutted and eely slick. The minute we thought we could navigate her, she violently sucked the rear tires down so deep into her bosom there would be no getting out. It was Easter week. There were no tow trucks.

We called our neighbor, the Merrifield’s, on the party line. Each day they drove into Keller's and returned with food. (Those were the days of small ice boxes--er refrigerators). We three boys walked through the rain and mud to the bottom of The Road and carted the groceries back up to the house. The rain never ceased. The Road never stopped grinning her Mona Lisa smile.

We were learning that like all great beauties she required constant care. Pot holes needed to be filled regularly. Neighbors taught us that once the rains ended, a shovel full of moist spring dirt (with grass still growing in it) was the emolument of choice. The growing grass held the dirt firmly in place—for a while.

Applications of blue shale were needed in summer. Her drainage ditches needed to be kept clear of debris, especially fall leaves that might clog her before winter rains. Metal culverts that crossed under her skin had to be cleared of mud to keep the water circulating. Tree branches had to be clipped... An axe and a chain saw were in the car at all times.

There are 15 major bends in The Road. True to the cliché, we never knew what we would find as we rounded one. There was wild life--deer, coyote, rabbit, quail, skunk and an occasional mountain lion. Those were treats. On the red side of the ledger, one might find a cow that had gotten through the fence; sheep from the neighbor; horses that broke through the corral; a downed tree; a truck that had one tire stuck in the muck; or a downed power pole across the road.

We learned that when we left the house to go to a dinner, a game--whatever--that our arrival time was out of our hands. She controlled our destiny. Depending upon her mood, she could make us five minutes late (dragging a branch off the road that blew down in a wind storm); an hour late (cutting up a tree that was too big to drag); two hours late (herding, on foot, the cattle back to where they belonged); or keep us prisoner for the night (a downed power pole that PG&E would have had to clear away).

It was all up to her. We had no say. Beautiful Women are like that. I know. I married one. Come to think of it, so are children. In fact, everything we love is like The Road. That which we love has the power to tease us, frustrate us, suffocate us, hurt us--and yet that same object of our love has the power to deliver us to ecstatic destinations undreamt of--even to deliver us to the most important destination of all--home.

What humbles us, is that it is on their time--not ours. That’s life in the country.