The joys of a road less-traveled

I began a recent trip to the South Carolina coast by way of a big highway. The multiple lanes of I-26 were full to bursting; the traffic, manic.

So, I veered off on an exit just south of Columbia, found a gas station and retrieved my refolded-one-too-many-times highway map from the glove compartment.

What’s in a name? I wondered. Once upon a time did people put gloves in those dashboard bins? (Yes, they did; I looked it up.)

So the old map beckoned. I unfolded it. I looked at all the little lines from here to there. Some blue, some red. Some thick, some thin.

Highway 21 called my name. It promised a curious adventure through places like Rowesville, Branchville, Smoaks, Ruffin. I put my truck in gear and got going.

Nevermind that the drive might take a little longer. I wanted something a little slower, a bit more peaceful than the bad holiday mood festering on the interstates – the ones we might find in the week ahead, as people prepare to hit the road for Christmas trips.

Good decision.

Real good decision.

My eyes feasted on old cabins covered in vines. Long since abandoned, but ever so lovely, evoking the wonderment of who may have lived there, what they may have done to put food on their tables, joys and sadnesses experienced inside these simple places.

A rusted swing set caught my attention in a side yard. The kind of swing set I grew up on. Not the big fancy ones of today, but the ones with two simple swings, and, if you were ever so lucky, a slide or see-saw kind of ride on one end.

Just-turned fields proliferated the landscape. The dirt looked rich, moist. I was reminded of the land, its provisions and promise.

Then there were all the little churches. One seemed to pop up every few miles or so. A Church of God here. A Baptist church there. Churches whose names began with Beulah, Zion and Berea. And churches whose names had a little ring to them – The Holiness House of Refuge.

Further along, I passed by a house being painted purple. A sign stuck in the ditch, advertising bush-hogging services. Another, deer processing. A boy playing with his dog. An old truck parked under a shelter. A baseball field, the kind you rarely see anymore. Chicken wire strung high on tall poles for the backstop. Lean-to dugouts. A well-worn pitcher’s mound. Dandelions dotting the outfield with dollops of yellow.

And then, my personal favorite, a tire swing hanging from the fat limb of a big tree.

Or maybe the poles of mailboxes made out of old plows. The “JESUS SAVES” signs that popped up like wild onions along the side of the road. An old country store, “Est.1928.”

You want to feel better about the world we live in? You want to be reminded that a sort of steadiness and steadfastness still exists in our tangled midst?

Get off the highway.

Find a back road.

Be prepared to slow down for a few wild turkeys crossing the two-lane and be prepared to feel at peace.

Merry Christmas, all.

Salley McAden McInerney is a local writer whose novel, Journey Proud, is based upon growing up in Columbia in the 1960s. She may be reached by emailing salley.mac@gmail.com.