The Rural Voice, 2005-05, Page 6416
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2 THE RURAL VOICE
Carol Riemer
The passing parade
Carol Riemer
is a freelance
writer who
lives with her
husband and
two
children near
Grand
Valley,
Ontario.
Just like colourful spring bulbs
that pop up after a spring rain, a
perennial variety of travellers
reappear at the first sign of warm
weather.
Taking to the road like ducks to
water, some of them are heading to
the cottage for the first time this
season. With canoes and bicycles
securely strapped to the roofs of their
cars, they are closely followed by
others pulling boat trailers or mobile
homes, creating what soon becomes a
long and winding caravan of mobile
vacation seekers. Eyes glued to the
road, and fingers clenched to the
wheel, their thoughts are probably a
hundred
miles away, somewhere on the sandy
shores of a peaceful little lake in
cottage country.
I have often wondered what causes
this annual migration. Maybe it is a
case of wanderlust, or just a need to
get away from the crowded city.
Perhaps it is the desire to gain some
inner perspective, to connect with
nature, or to listen to the wind, as it
whistles through the pines. They may
want to feel some sand beneath
their feet, and concentrate on nothing
more significant, than the sound of
the water lapping up against a
wooden dock. Whatever their reason,
these travellers have one thing in
common: they are determined to get
where they are going.
In the spring, our road suddenly
comes alive. Motorcyclists dart in
and out of their lane, screeching by in
a cloud of exhaust, while slower
vehicles adopt a more leisurely pace,
saddled down with a carload of kids
and camping gear. Daredevil cyclists
cling to the gravel shoulder,
momentarily ceasing to breathe, as
large transport trucks leave them
wobbling in their wake. Not so long
ago, two young cyclists stopped at
the bottom of our driveway to ask for
directions. The sun was going down,
and I was about to head back to the
house, having finished weeding
along the fence line.
"How far is it to the next town?"
one boy asked, wiping his forehead.
"It depends on which way you are
going," I replied.
"That way," the other said, point-
ing in the direction of the setting sun.
I hesitated for a moment, as
people often do, when they have bad
news to deliver.
"It's about 30 kilometres," I told
them, with a slight grimace. "You
won't make it before nightfall."
I was about to suggest that they
call and have someone pick them up,
but, discouraged, the adventurous
twosome turned around, and quickly
sped off in the direction from which
they had come.
Of course, not everyone wants to
be somewhere else. Experienced
runners usually take advantage of the
cool morning air, while novices are
apt to set out in the midday heat, a
decision that, more often than not,
leaves them red in the face,
dehydrated, and nursing a painful
sunburn. On occasion, my husband
and I have found them resting by the
side of the road, taking refuge from
the unrelenting summer sun, in the
deep shade of our old Maples.
Beneath this seemingly tranquil
surface, however, a busy new
growing season is about to begin. As
our neighbour's tractor slowly rolls
along the gravel shoulder, its massive
tires create patterns like the giant
footprints of some mechanical beast
that has just been awakened from a
long winter's hibernation.
Another tour bus whizzes by, and
the passengers peer out from behind
their darkened windows. They may
not always recognize the subtle
changes of the season the way that
rural dwellers do, but I am sure that,
somewhere down the road, these
travellers will join up with the
motorcyclists, the cottagers and
boaters, to continue their journey as
part of the passing parade.0