Mia drove for an hour and a half without having to look at her directions. She listened to the radio until the static took over and she turned it off. The towns became farther and farther apart until at one point she drove for 15 minutes without any sign of civilization. The rain was torrential and the wind brutal. Her windshield wipers were on full bore and she leaned forward with her hands clenched at ten and two with the hopes of seeing the road in front of her. A semi-truck came towards her and she braced for the giant splash that was due to come. When she could see again, she spotted a sign that read, Wildwoode Next Left. The landscape was beautiful even on that dark, dreary day. The rolling hills hosted little farm houses set back off the road amid groves of Oak and endless rows of leafless grapevines on the South facing slopes. At one point the road narrowed and paralleled a river. The water looked icy and the current determined. Mia stopped for a moment to let a doe pass in front of her. The deer was not in a very big hurry which was fine, because Mia really wasn’t either. The deer paused in front of the car as though fully aware that the person staring at her was not from around these parts and then made her way to the river bank and disappeared in the tall grass. The rain let up and the morning sun warmed Mia’s face. She put her window down and breathed the smell the rain had brought.
The road became narrower yet and winded sharply staying close with the natural path of the river. Big fir trees came up one by one until they lined both sides of the road making it feel more like a path than anything. The trees blocked the view of the river and hushed its roar. The sun was now nowhere to be seen and it felt a little eerie. Mia kept her eyes peeled for Bigfoot as it seemed just the kind of place he might live and just the kind of road he might unexpectedly cross on a Saturday morning. She drove on for a few miles, dodging downed branches and the occasional squirrel. The sun began to peer through the mighty firs as they thinned and eventually they became only visible in her rearview mirror. As she rounded a tight corner she saw the first sign of Man. In front of her to her right was a freshly painted covered bridge with a barricade and to her left was a slightly more modern bridge. In the middle of the two aged bridges was the sign she had been waiting to see for two hours.
WELCOME TO THE HAMLET OF WILDEWOOD
POPULATION 300
She passed a few small houses and then the road turned into Main Street. Downtown consisted of five or six brick store fronts on either side. The only cars in town that morning were a few trucks parked in front of Millie’s Café. There was a hardware store with a flickering sign. A couple of the letters had burned out and it now just intermittently read, RU VALUE. Next to the hardware store was Anderson General Merchandise. If it wasn’t for the sign in the window that stated that they had the coldest beer in town and Lotto, she might have thought she had arrived through a time travel portal. Next to Anderson’s was The Man Shop. She wonder if men went there to shop or does one go there to shop for a man. Either way, she might stop in on her way out. In between The Man Shop and The Saw Shop was a vacant building with a For Lease sign in the window. Across the street was Wilde Oats which appeared to be a tavern and next to it a building with a green awning that apparently was shared by an insurance agent, an attorney, and a chiropractor. In the middle of the one-block street, stood a tall cedar tree that was being undressed of its Christmas glory by an old man on a teetering ladder. He waved at Mia and she waved back.
“This is friggin’ Mayberry.” She mumbled.
Just as quickly as she entered town, she left. More sweet cottages capped the south end of town and just beyond the last picket fence was a huge gray grain elevator complete with Purina checkers. The words Wildwoode Farmer’s Co-op had once been painted on the side, but now were faded and almost unreadable. At the base of the industrial feeling feed mill was a small building with a front porch. There were stacks of buckets, wheel barrows, pitch forks, water troughs, green gates, a rabbit hutch, and tarped straw. The marquee out front read, “Chicks Coming Soon”.
After she passed the feed store she spotted a small orange sign the said, “Estate Sale” with a hand-drawn arrow directing her left on to Holly road. The road seemed as though it had been paved at some point but was now overcome by pot holes that held last night’s rain. She slowly weaved her away around them until she could no longer. Holly road eventually became a gravel road and it narrowed to one lane at the base of bridge that didn’t seem as if it would withstand the weight of her car. She closed her eyes and accelerated. Safely on the other side she saw another sign for the estate sale hung on a black, iron mail box. Mia pulled in the drive-way and winced as the blackberry vines scraped the sides of her car. At the end of the lane, stood a tired farm house. The soft, yellow paint was peeling and the front porch clung on though it looked exhausted and as if it might give way at any moment. The front door was lavender and the wooden screen door was attached by just one hinge and the screen itself, torn from the frame. The front yard was bordered by a tall picket fence with several missing pickets and an arbor that sagged from the weight of over-grown vines. The gate that had once opened to the front walk was now leaning against the fence. A large Walnut tree stood guard out front as if it was protecting the little house from the evil elements though its very presence seemed to be wreaking havoc. Its leaves and branches cluttered the yard and the roof and the massive roots buckled the walk-way from underneath. At the corner of the house stood a Camellia tree with bright green, waxy leaves and deep pink blooms the size of grapefruits. It was the only thing that appeared to be alive. Mia thought about those black and white prints with children dressed up like grown-ups where the only color is a bouquet of red roses. The hues had faded from everything: the house, the yard, the fence, and the flower beds. The Camellia tree seemed to say, “We’re here. There is life.” Camellias were so good at that. When winter seems as though it has out worn it’s welcome and spring is nowhere in sight, it will bloom to let the world know there is light at the end of the cold, wet tunnel. They always seem to hang on to their blossoms for dear life until the first Lilac blooms or the Hyacinths find their way to the surface after their winter slumber. When it looks like spring has safely arrived, the last bloom with its brown edges will drop to the ground and the petals scatter like confetti. The tree will then wait quietly while the rest of the season’s fragile, pastel colors take center stage.
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