I'm reminded of changes in my own community.
A hundred years ago, this community, called Love, was more populated than today. It was called Cupid's Capitol because people would come here to have their valentines stamped with the Love postmark.
Sixty years ago, the mountain road from Sherando to Love was a narrow dirt road, winding its way up the mountain. Bridgeless streams had to be forded. People walked or used horses and buggies to church or visiting. There was a one-room school house, a country store, a grist mill, a blacksmith shop, a post office, and two churches. Sheep and cows grazed the hillsides.
Today the post office is beset by weeds and decaying with the ravages of time. The other buildings are gone. A few of the original homes remain and some new ones have been added. There are even several new housing developments.
The mountain road takes on changes with the seasons. Spring lines up an abundance of wild flowers and fragrant trees; heavy rains cause flooding across portions of the road; riverlets trickle out of the mountains.
Summer brings lush fields which sometimes turn into dry stubble from drought. Mountain Laurel and Rhododendron abound. Honeysuckle and wild roses cling to posts alongside the road.
Fall transfers the road into a splendor of color and an endless barrage of traffic.
In the winter the road becomes less travelled and quieter. After a snowstorm, the road is transformed into a pristine ribbon. In past days the road was used for sledding, but today's traffic has made this sport too dangerous. However, occasionally a single sled can be seen flying by my house in a flurry of snowdust. Sometimes cars become stranded trying to make it to the top of the mountain and people walk to my house to use the phone.
I have come to love the sights and sounds of the mountain road in the thirty years I have lived here. I like the sound of the wind in the pines across the road. I can set my clock by the school bus that goes up and down the road each day. The logging truck has an unforgettable sound as it comes off the mountain every morning at six. A teen-age neighbor can be detected by his loud radio as he passes the house. Another neighbor's truck rattle has become familiar.
Many years have gone by since we first drove this mountain road. Though new homes and people inhabit its boundaries, one thing never changes. That is the love I feel for this old mountain road. I never tire of it. I travelled it many years and still see something different along the way.
This is the road to home. No matter where or how far I roam, it is always good to travel this road home again.
