The Coonridge Digest – Back roads state-of-the-kernels tour

Greetings from the Ridge.

The tough part of Midwest summer travel has nothing to do with airlines or train schedules, but the annual assault of the state highway departments upon our local roads and tempers. In fact, most states have websites warning you of construction areas. That’s fine and dandy, but the websites don’t go far enough. If you plan to do any traveling at all this summer, there are other far more dangerous road hazards lurking.

For example: Herb and I always take the back roads once the corn is planted. We can’t go anywhere via a straight line due to Herb’s incessant need to check the crops. Ever since he retired from the farm, he feels like he’ll somehow lose touch with his humus unless he knows the progress of each and every corn and soybean field with an occasional nod to the wheat crop. A 30 minute trip can take half a day when you take the Herb Crump Agricultural route.

This is all agreeable with me as long as we have time since interstate highways bore the paddiddle right out of me. We were on just such a back roads state-of-the-kernels tour last week when we were attacked by the most shocking hazard of Midwest travel right through our open window.

Irrigation systems now crawl like hydraulic spiders across the prairie landscape and in our part of the world you can look any direction to see their tentacles reaching out to water the thirsty acreage. And therein lays the hazard.

The center-pivot systems are designed with a nozzle on the end to reach out and give the corners of the field a high-powered squirt. And these same nozzles are designed to shut off when they approach a public highway. In practice, few do. Such was the case when Herb and I were toodling along last Tuesday, gazing at the tassels and arguing politics. It happened somewhere in the middle of Herb’s tirade about Hillary’s health care plan. The man likes driving with the window down and the irrigation was on his side of the car. He called it a life-threatening disaster. I deemed it to be the hand of God smacking down an infidel. In a moment, the flood was upon us and Herb had forgotten his ark.

When the blast came through Herb’s window the stub of his unlit cigar was blown plumb against my window, his Burrus seed hat went flying into the back seat, and his bottom denture somehow ended up in my lap.

I could be mistaken, but I think it was still talking to me.

Just a small warning on the state webpage: "Irrigation in use today. Please roll up your window or keep your mouth closed," would have sufficed.

Midwest Hazard Number Two: The yard sale. You should approach these summertime doo-dad bazaars with the same caution as you use around a school zone or baby duck hatchery. There is nothing – and I mean nothing – that distracts a truly dedicated yard sale commando once she steps out of her car and sees her long-awaited item basking in the July sun on a beat-up picnic table. The woman is a bargain-hungry tsunami when she bounds out of her still-moving vehicle and beats a scorched path toward her prey. She will not heed oncoming traffic. In fact, she will not heed a gnat-maddened herd of charging Nebraskan buffalo. She hears nothing, sees nothing, and will feel nothing until she becomes the hood ornament for your Pontiac. And be warned: she may try to purchase the hood ornament.

Used to be, you had to keep a close eye on traffic when approaching busy intersections or bustling shopping centers. Today’s summer road jam is the demolition derby. There’s something about the sight of grown men and women turning automobiles into chrome accordions that appeals to the American sense of culture and woe be it unto you if you happen to be passing the fairgrounds when one of these smash-fests lets out. Not only will the crowd be bigger than church or second coming, but the spectators, hyped up by two hours of mechanical mayhem will not likely be in an after-you-please state of mind.

(Herb’s Aunt Louise, a notoriously bad driver, once tried to find a place to park at the fairground, mistakenly took a wrong turn onto the racetrack during the demolition derby and won the thing while simply trying to back into a parking place.)

Maybe all this warning is unnecessary. If you live in my neighborhood you won’t make it past the first deer.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.