I've Been Writing. Just Not Here.

I've been flexing my writing muscle lately. Just little things, self-assigned essays here and there on a myriad of topics. I feel like I'm working up to something good, but not a clue yet as to what it might be.

For the moment, though, here is this morning's pontification on the drive home. Not today, of course, as today is late winter and not nearly as pretty as it was back September. In that vein, let's call this "September's Drive".

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Route 9 meandered through the hills on those outlying reaches of Northern Virginia, winding between upstart neighborhoods with their sprawling estates and shiny sport utility vehicles. The new construction was incongruous to the sprawling landscape, and the houses gazed at each other across their grassy meadows as though surprised to find their suburban splendor exiled to this lonely place.

The road curved off and away, further out into the countryside. Only here and there was the blank horizon dotted with ramshackle houses and the occassional unmarked dirt road. Out on the down slope of an unremarkable hillside stood a solemn old farmhouse. Antiquated plows and harvesters tucked snugly up under the well-seasoned planks of its eaves. An ancient American flag was stretched and tacked to the exterior wall, flanked on either side with buntings that had long ago faded in the eastern sun.

Soon fences rose up and dotted the hillsides, blending into the slopes. They blurred into weathered rows of trellis, clamboring with thick vines and heavy with fat, purple grapes. Modest, hand-painted signs named the myriad vineyards. A few announced seasonal dates, hours for tours.

The landscape dropped off sharply as the hills rose higher and higher into the Shenandoahs. The trees swooped up on either side of the road, ensconcing it swiftyly and silently in dappled shadows before shuttering out the sun entirely. The dark woods, foreboding in the bare starkness of winter, were lush and green and comfortable in the shaded relief from the
late-summer sun.

Here, tiny cottages and run-down trailers hid among the rich foliage. Small signs of civilization began to peek out at the road - a small restaurant with signs advertising Keno games, a faded yellow pawn shop, an incongruous elementary school. The curves in the road grew sharper as they slalomed back down the side of the mountain, as though the road were enjoying an exuberant frolic down the slope after the relentless climb to the top.

The trees and vines fell away without warning, and a gleaming cement bridge crossed the broad expanse of the river. Below, the calm water was dotted with the fluorescent craft of the river-rafters and the occassional kayak, heading off downstream in pursuit of the frothier adventures to be found there.

There was a sharp bend in the road, a billboard announcing a new housing construction project just down the way, and suddenly the empty farmland stretched away and was filled with the imposing form of a huge cathedral. In the sunlight it was the color of dried blood, capped with an alabaster spire that stabbed into the clear blue sky. A small cement sign, just past
this incomprehensible house of worship, announced the entrance to a modest subdivision.

At last, then. Home.