Life on the Back Roads


Have you ever noticed how life seems to go at a slower pace on the back roads of this country? I hear the politicians calling the mid-west, the “fly over states” all the time. Guess they think anything of importance only happens in New York, Washington, or Las Angeles. I wonder if they know where that steak was raised they had for dinner last night along with that baked potato or sweet corn on their plate. Do you suppose they know that a farmer picked that cotton that the shirt on their back is made of? I don’t suppose they really care, unless it’s election time, and they want our vote!
I believe that growing up on the back roads of America gives us a better view of the world. Living in a small town where everyone knows each other, even though we may bicker and complain now and then, we have each other’s back in a minute when the chips are down. When someone in our community comes down with cancer or some other disease or hardship, we’re all right there having a fund-raiser to help with the medical bills, lending a hand or a combine to help a farmer get his crop in, or showing up with a casserole for the family who just lost a loved one. Those are the things that count in life, not making more money on Wall Street or being chosen as the next America Idol in Hollywood.
Now, living in a small town might get your back seat filled up with zucchini squash come August if you leave your car unlocked on Main Street, or you might be called upon to make some cookies for your church’s next bake sale, but that’s a small price to pay for being part of a community where the back roads always lead you home.

Debbie Dovel


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s