Country Roads

I have a sign hanging in my laundry room picturing an older pickup with the saying above it, “Many of My Favorite Memories Come From Some Old Dirt Road.” It got me to thinking of how in the last Country Roads I shared about the limestone rock that now covers many of our Jewell County roads. There was a time before that when a lot of the country roads were country dirt. I must admit some of the rides on the dirt roads were not exactly my “favorite,” but they do have a story to tell.

As a farmer’s daughter, the main country road covered with rock and gravel ran past our house. It took us to the highway which led into my hometown and school. Going in the other direction it would lead us to our country church and two of the larger towns where sometimes we shopped. All the other country roads in our area were dirt, and they remain that way today.

My favorite memories of traveling the dirt roads would be termed a no-no today. My sisters and I rode in the back of a pickup truck as Mom drove the dirt roads to check up on Dad in the fields on the Davis place southeast of Burr Oak. We liked riding in the back of the pickup, feeling the wind blow through our hair. We’d marvel as the truck went down into a draw where the large cottonwood and elm tree branches hung over the road, creating a covering that often gave us a spooky feeling. When the roads were dry, the dust would blow behind the pickup creating moving dust clouds. We’d have the picnic cooler in the back with us. It held Dad’s lunch, and we’d often argue as to who got to sit on it. The other seats were the top of the fenders inside the pickup box. We’d try singing but our words would often come out funny as the wind moved our lips. When we’d get to the field, we’d join Dad having a picnic. Dad did not take a long break and soon would climb back on the tractor or combine to continue his work.

Sometimes the back of the pickup would serve as a bale wagon. Small square bales would be loaded onto the truck and trailer pulled behind the pickup. We’d help piling the bales. Then we’d get to sit on the lower stack to ride home, another no-no in today’s times. It was a fun to ride back and forth from the home lots to the hay fields.

The dirt roads were always less traveled and didn’t seem to get maintained as much as surfaced roads. Traveling was always done at your own risk. After a heavy rain, the travel often meant extra bumps, as some one had tried to make it down the muddy roads and tore them up. Sometimes a wash out meant a detour had to be made. Bridges on the dirt roads were also a risk to cross. Often they rumbled when crossed. This added to the adventure. Teenage couples used the dirt roadways as parking places at night and steal a kiss or two.

The dirt roads made for great hay rack rides. Views of the night landscapes were often close up on the less traveled dirt roads. The wild plum and chokecherry bushes were close enough that climbing into the back of the pickup made for easy picking. Stops were made along the way to check the cattle that came up close to the road, and perhaps a stop could be made to pick a bouquet of wildflowers.

I can still see my mother driving down the dirt road in her open WWII Jeep with her German Shepherd behind her. The blowing dirt showed the direction she was taking. I could tell which pasture she was headed to while checking for thistles.

Memories of the dirt roads right after a rain are not my fondest. While attending school, our school bus had to travel the muddy dirt roads to pick up the students. Our patient and quiet bus driver, “Tubby” Morris, had driven the bus for two generations of the families along his route. He’d take his time piloting the large bus as he plowed those muddy roads. We’d sway one way and then another. I only remember the bus getting completely stuck twice. Both times, Tubby would give us students instructions, and leave the oldest high school student in charge. Tubby would walk to the nearest house to make a telephone call back to the school asking for help. Once a farmer came to our rescue with his tractor and chains. He pulled out the bus. Those were exciting times. Exciting in the happenings at the time and exciting to know we’d miss the first class or two that morning.

My dad told stories of the late 1940s, early 50s of traveling down the dirt roads when they were muddy, to go into our hometown, or to get back home to the farm west of Burr Oak. He said there was an old bridge just south of the farmhouse, near where their neighbors, the McNichols lived. His car would often slide into the ditch. Of course the neighbors came to the rescue with their pickup or tractor and pulled Dad’s vehicle out. Back then, there were only dirt roads to many of the farmsteads so helping neighbors on the muddy or snow packed country roads was commonly done and appreciated.