I was kind of excited about moving to a place that was on a dirt road. An actual dirt road...still in existence in the year 2010 (said like twenty-ten for more futuristic impact). It seems like the present time just skipped by this particular road and left it rutted with wagon wheel imprints. Okay, so the last statement is an exaggeration, but it strikes me as the epitome of rural living to be livin' on a dirt road. I could picture John Denver strolling along it on a sunny summer day, strumming his guitar, humming "Country Boy". I thought of a dirt road as a piece of history that stood for a slower time, when folks weren't in a rush. I was dead wrong.
Now that I've lived here for a month the dirt road has lost a lot of its rustic charm. Part of the problem is the local traffic. There aren't a lot of houses on this road, but enough so there's plenty of folks driving by. The road has a slight uphill as it passes our house, then there is a dramatic nearly 90 degree turn that wraps it right around the back of the property. I felt pretty secure that our pets would be safe living here even if they did cross the street, because to me the turn looks fatal if you were to drive faster than 20 mph through it. Apparently, all the residents on this street took a course with the Skip Barber race car driving school, because most of the traffic goes by on two wheels, churning gravel and sending great billows of dust cascading into the atmosphere. It's crazy. The first couple of weeks that we lived here I was livid with the speeders. I wanted to go out in the night and dig great big pot holes, shield them with a piece of brown cloth and then watch the axles break one by one. I threatened to call the police, until I saw a police car drive by the farm at mach one, taking the corner in his cruiser like he was chasing a kingpin of a drug mob on a video game. The other day I was at my mailbox by the edge of the road when I heard a car coming. As it approached, I expected to hear it slow a bit for the corner. As it came around the bend, I saw that it was one of those ridiculous Porsche SUV's and it was going at least 40 mph (read:way too freakin' fast). I stared at the driver with my best look of resentment and bitterness and he never once even glanced towards me. Instead, he accelerated as he went by me and I was left sputtering and coughing in a maelstrom of dust particles. "Cidiots!", I cried shaking my fist at the rear end of the car. Cidiot is a word that us country folk use to call the New Yorker's who come up on weekends to enjoy the pastoral amenities that country life has to offer. What a lot of them fail to recognize is that by driving their jackass sports car version of a pick up truck at reckless speeds on our quiet country road tends to ruin the the peaceful surroundings for everyone else.
I've been thinking of posting signs on the roadside to capture the attention of the drivers. Like, "Slow Down for Free Porn". That might work for a little while, right? Especially for the male drivers. They'll be locking up their brakes. I've got to come up with something. These maniac drivers must be stopped! Besides the dust that is swirled up from their blazing tires finds its way into my windows and settles over everything in my house. If it doesn't rain for a few days my furniture begins to resemble items one would see in a haunted house. I've gone through an entire can of Pledge since we moved here. And I hate dusting the furniture!!