A July 2025 column mentioned a few signs of knowing you’re in the country. Barbara Lamb Snyder said it rekindled memories of growing up on a dirt road in Dooly County. Her comment made me realize I had barely touched on dirt roads, which probably deserve top billing in defining rural living.

Several years ago I considered writing a book titled “Dirt Road Memories.” Ideas without effort eventually settle though, like the stirred dust on country roads. So I’ll just offer a few recollections from childhood instead.

I’m not sure how old I was when the road by our house was paved, probably six or seven. One thing I remember about riding my bicycle is standing up to pedal through sandy places, sometimes even getting off to push. 

My first bike had seen better days when it came our way. Daddy hid its rusty patina by brushing on a coat of red paint. Shortly after the training wheels came off, however, my ride was upgraded. Small accomplishments sometimes lead to big rewards.

Another early dirt road memory is of Uncle Murray coming to our house looking for my father. When Mama told him he’d gone to Unadilla to Giles and Hodge Warehouse, my uncle said he was about to head that way.

Why a five-year-old decided to hide in the bed of his uncle’s truck I don’t recall. I climbed up on the back bumper while he and Mama were talking, then scrunched down between bags of seed that were stacked above the rear glass.

That’s about all I would remember if not for hearing the story retold many times. Several people along Rural Route One saw me perched atop the bags. When they waved at my uncle he smiled and waved back. After arriving at the warehouse he understood their enthusiastic gestures. Many times I’ve asked God to protect me from making foolish choices. Sometimes he’s protected me in spite of them. 

A dirt-road memory from my teen years is the brief thrill of fishtailing a vehicle. I was not brave enough to confidently master the maneuver, but my brother Jimmy loved to make the back end of his 1964 Chevy drift sideways. I was with him a few times, usually on the sharp curve between our house and Harmony Church.

His most-publicized stunt occurred near Mr. Willie Bowen’s home. Mr. Willie loved sharing the details of that entertaining escapade. Jimmy slid into one ditch, then crossed to the opposite side before getting back in the ruts. With a grin and hint of admiration Mr. Willie would tell how Jimmy never let off the gas as he went by.

I guess I learned a few things from those unpaved roads, like how standing on the pedals can help get you through the sandy places. Although I didn’t realize it until much later, I also learned a little about mercy. My family was able to laugh about a pickup ride that could have turned out badly. My brother gets credit for a third dirt road lesson. I’m not advocating recklessness, but sometimes the best way to get out of a ditch is to step on the gas. 

Childhood memories have grown sweeter with time, especially blessed when lessons come to mind. Old memories fade and settle, just as dust on a dirt road wanes, but it only takes a gentle breeze to stir them up again.