Wednesday, July 1, 2015
The old road from Aurora, through the outskirts of Springfield, led past the WigWam Motel, out and across the cricks, through the crags, bluffs and and over the hills. Red and gold in the fall, paynes' gray, dun, and dull black in winter, forest green on hunter green on olive green in summer and a miracle of dogwood, ground roses and apple green in spring. About three quarters of the way to Union, in the midst of towering pines and overwhelming cliffs a weathered, hand painted board was impaled half way up a preposterous hill. It read "hot biskits and honey". At the top of the hill an ancient black iron stove sagged on three legs outside of a rickety old cabin. No one ever appeared at the sound of our motor. No dog lounged on the falling porch, no chickens scratched about the yard and no granny woman pulled "biskits" from the rusty oven. Daddy always promised that "next time" we would stop and climb to the top of the ridge. We never did.