Reflections - Gauntlet of Geezers

On April 22, a snowy Thursday morning, I drove around the bend on West Creek Road and gasped. I’d planned to accelerate to a dust-raising, zipping-along speed for the scenic, four-mile drive to Carlton post office. Instead, I slammed my foot on the brake pedal.

I don’t always sail through the intersection of West Creek and Creek. Sometimes I slow to wave at Dan driving the township grader or Kathy heading out to the store. I also pause for the occasional dashing deer, ambling black bear, or trotting turkey. I’d never stopped for a traffic snarl of SUVs and pickups.

Though I had the right-of-way, vehicles maneuvered as if my little white Crosstrek were invisible. Pulling out of the line that parked half on the berm and half on the road, a black SUV turned downhill toward the bridge over Deer Creek. A red pickup squeezed past and headed east on Creek Road. The four other vehicles followed.

Puzzled, I joined the end of the line. Since none of the vehicles had parked by the bridge, I ruled out fish fanatics. Fishing season had started April 3 and the stocked trout were hooked—or hook-wary—by April 4. Perhaps the drivers had watched a state trooper clear an accident. Maybe they belonged to a hunting group and scouted for turkey prints in the snow. Turkey hunting season would begin in eight days.

I glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten-thirty. Our local post office is only open from nine to eleven weekdays. It’s rude to pop in on Stacy when she’s closing up, but I had time even with the vehicles moving at my husband’s cautious, don’t-stir-up-dust pace.

The line stopped at the intersection of Creek and North. Again, the vehicles parked half on the berm and half on the road. This time they’d joined others lining North Road down to the bridge over Deer Creek. When I pulled out to pass the metal pack, a gray-haired man opened his pickup door and hopped down in front of my car.

Gritting my teeth, I crept forward and caught a glimpse of a boxy white truck. If it was a Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission stocking truck, that would explain the traffic. Gray-haired groupies always gathered to watch the commission officer release trout into Deer Creek.

For the remaining mile and a half of dirt road, I wound around mimicking the curves in Deer Creek. I didn’t encounter any more vehicles until my tires had whined over the iron mesh bridge, and I rounded the bend leading to the Kid’s Fishing Area. A lone SUV parked by the entrance. No children and no accompanying adults were in sight.

Congratulating myself for escaping the crowd, I turned on the hard road to Carlton, zoomed up the hill past fields, then glided down through the woods toward French Creek. An approaching gray pickup with zigzagging red-orange flames on the side made my stomach contract. Hutch. My neighbor. He drives in the middle of the road and steers toward anything, or anybody, he wants a closer look at. I eased onto the narrow berm.

He jerked back into his lane. Since he didn’t wave, he must not have recognized my car.

Gripping the steering wheel, I made it to the light blue cottage—half post office, half private residence—without encountering any more vehicles. I parked beside Stacy’s gray sedan with her kayaking sticker, I could use a good paddle. After the crazy men drivers, I could use some female conversation. I checked the dashboard clock. Ten forty-five. Plenty of time. I tied on my mask and walked inside.

“Good morning, Janet.” Stacy usually pulled her long hair up in a bun to reveal dangling earrings. Today she let it fall past her shoulders and cover the top of suspenders.

“Morning.” I handed her an overweight birthday card. “Is the fish and boat commission stocking Deer Creek today?”

Deer Creek

“Possibly. You could check their schedule online.” She placed the envelope on the scale and printed the postage. “Has Spence been working in your garden? I planted my onions and garlic two days ago, but with this snow . . .”

Mesmerized by the scarlet griffins woven into her suspenders, I wondered if she’d lost weight so her belt didn’t fit. “He has plants growing in the hoop house. His garlic’s ready to transplant.”

“Not in today’s snow. Maybe tomorrow.” She pressed the postage onto the envelope. “My best to Spence.”

Untying the mask, I hoped the gathering of pickups and SUVs had dispersed.

It hadn’t.

It had increased.

At the Kid’s Fishing Area vehicles parked on both sides of the road leaving a single lane open. Old men wandered around the boxy white truck and stood beside a long tube extending from the bottom of the truck to the creek. A young commission officer stood on top of the truck. He dipped a net into one corner, brought it up full of squirming trout, and emptied the flip-flopping fish into a transparent, fabric funnel. The packed trout thrashed making the funnel bulge and wiggle.

For a moment, I considered parking for a better look. However, all the gawkers were guys, and they’d probably snicker at me if I joined the crowd wearing a mask. Besides, Spence would think I’d had an accident if I didn’t get home soon.

Taking a deep yoga breath, I crept through the gauntlet of geezers without meeting oncoming traffic. I relaxed and exhaled.

Unfortunately, two pickups had parked on the iron mesh bridge. A man, ignoring my approaching car, crisscrossed the bridge carrying fishing gear. He hustled to catch the trout that had been in the stream less than fifteen minutes.

Lifting my foot off the gas pedal, I let the car slow to a crawl.

To my horror, Hutch’s gray pickup rolled down Jacobs Road, through the stop sign, and onto Creek Road inches in front of my bumper. Sheesh. Following him would be more frustrating than driving past him. He crossed the bridge at 10 mph then sped up to 20 for the mile and a half drive home. That gave me plenty of time to think. I didn’t need to check online. The men had gathered for fish stocking. But, I did need to check the stocking schedule before venturing out to the post office next April.

Pansy in Snow