Last Outpost

The sounds of engines leave the air…
Gratitude for the gifts of all the living
and the unliving, gratitude which is
the greatest gift, quietest of all,
passes to me through the trees.
Wendell Berry, excerpted from Leavings (XI)

Mornings I take the shortcut over to the highway, the last house I pass always has three men sitting on the front porch. The house, a modest brick, is for sale. The men, who look to be in their 60's and 70's , are strung out across the porch with their coffee as if they were just passing time before the potential purchaser was due to arrive. Since it has been on the market for over a year now, apparently the potential buyer, whoever that may be, must not know they are waiting, not that it appears to be a cause of concern. The men lean back in their chairs gesturing to each other with their conversations and are often laughing. Sometimes one of them is out in the yard conducting the time honored male tradition of inspecting the grass or once or twice I have seen the youngest on that deeply revered male apparatus, the riding lawnmower. But no matter what their momentary pursuit. as soon as a car drives by they collectively glance over from the porch to take notice. Since the shortcut is known to lots of folks driving into the city to work, I have imagined that the men have figured out by now all the regulars from watching the same cars go by day after day.

As I pause waiting for the light I occasionally wave, which arouses a hearty response. I sometimes think about their view from the porch and wonder about their comments on the drivers and cars. I imagine them conjuring up short vignettes of life from what they witness while the cars wait for the light to change and built from the expressions of folks on their cell phones, wafts of music heard through rolled up windows, crying babies, sulky teenagers trying to look cool and distant because they aren't old enough to drive themselves to school or maybe missed the bus, or on the flip side, a car full of teens noisy and boisterous, the music LOUD and the cigarette smoke thick. I wonder if they worry about them the way I do. Of course there is always the ever changing array of automobiles to consider which I would think they would enjoy because they seem very much the type. But do they notice the tired shoulders of the Moms and Dads sucking down their coffee, listening to the news, and wonder if they are worrying about the day ahead and the mortgage? When they see the pokey hesitant driving of old folks do they wonder as I do, how in heaven's name they were able to get their license renewed?

Mostly as I drive by, I have a feeling of gratefulness. There they all are, waking up over their hot coffee and commenting on what I love to call the real world—the weather, the trees and fields, the people coming and going. After a while, the cars will come less often, the morning rush will be over and they will go about their day in the quiet. It feels a bit like the last outpost before setting out for the unknown World of the City. A last friendly wave and raised coffee mug that says, 'have a safe trip, we'll keep an eye on things till you get back'. And you know what? I believe they will.