U.S. Route 52 winds and curves diagonally from the South Carolina coast to the Canadian border in North Dakota. 2,072 miles of pavement stretches through forests, fields, cities, and small towns, but only one one hundredth of a mile means anything to me. In a lonely passage connecting Dubuque to Bellevue, one specific spot shortly after a break in the trees, for one second, allows you to see 180 degrees in every direction. I anticipate it on my drive home and slow down slightly as I approach it.
In the split second I spend there, I take in my surroundings. In front of me and behind me, the concrete extends from horizon line to horizon line. It shows evidence of years of weather abuse and makeshift snowplows scratching across the surface in the form of deep cracks and a sun-bleached top. The yellow paint, though redone every few years, seems faded and washed out. Next to the road on either side, the ditches are populated with all kinds of wild flowers and brush. Vibrant shades of green, yellow, and purple pop in contrast to the brown skeletons of bushes.
To one side, downtown Dubuque pokes through the valley of two grassy slopes. To the other side, I see rolling hills populated with soybeans and corn stalks. Three plain houses dot my surroundings; all are worn but not unkept. Old machinery and antique statues litter their fenced in yards. Telephone lines strung from pole to pole go in all directions and never seem to end. In every time of day, every kind of weather, every season, the quiet beauty of this place strikes me every time I drive home. On foggy mornings, I rarely see half a mile ahead of myself. The entire area rests under a blanket of white that slowly retreats by the afternoon. I can see the city in the distance, still hidden by the fog by the time the roads are finally clear. I see the tops of buildings floating on clouds, as if the fog is swallowing them. On days when I can see the sunrise, I feel my day get off to a good start. Warm colors paint the sky. Hues of oranges, reds, and yellows slowly illuminate the cornfield to the side of me. The darkness retreats slowly, but I can never stay long enough to watch it disappear completely. At sunset the colors are deeper, more vibrant. Sharp pink turns to dark purple, blood red to bright orange. The sun disappears, but its effects are present until the very last moment when the light finally fades out. Even when I come home too late to see the sunset, the elegance of the area is not unknown to me. Ten miles outside of town ten million more stars shine in the sky. Some blaze brilliantly, others barely flicker their fuzzy white lights. No building, some nights not a single cloud, masks any loop on Orion's Belt. Then I truly understand E. E. Cummings when he described “frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing.” It seems that around the speckled stars, millions of shades of the night’s blues and purples flow into eachother. In the valley, the lights glow in the sky around the city, forming their own kind of constellation. What I appreciate most about the stars here is that they are always constant. No matter what the season is, it seems the stars stay in the same spot. In the winter, black ice envelopes the road. …show more content…
The speed limit is 55 but for once, no one minds when I drive 25 under. As cars slowly creep along the road, my spot becomes more prominent. The browns, blacks, and greys of the buildings in Dubuque stick out like a sore thumb among the brilliant white snow reflecting the sun’s rays. One or two cornstalks poke out under the layers of ice and snow flakes, but the majority of them hide under the snow. In this time of year, I can feel the crisp air in my car no matter how high I turn on the heat. The cold wind almost overwhelms my other senses; I know that I will not smell nature again until March. Somehow in the spring the greens appear greener and the sky appears bluer. I don’t know whether it seems this
In the split second I spend there, I take in my surroundings. In front of me and behind me, the concrete extends from horizon line to horizon line. It shows evidence of years of weather abuse and makeshift snowplows scratching across the surface in the form of deep cracks and a sun-bleached top. The yellow paint, though redone every few years, seems faded and washed out. Next to the road on either side, the ditches are populated with all kinds of wild flowers and brush. Vibrant shades of green, yellow, and purple pop in contrast to the brown skeletons of bushes.
To one side, downtown Dubuque pokes through the valley of two grassy slopes. To the other side, I see rolling hills populated with soybeans and corn stalks. Three plain houses dot my surroundings; all are worn but not unkept. Old machinery and antique statues litter their fenced in yards. Telephone lines strung from pole to pole go in all directions and never seem to end. In every time of day, every kind of weather, every season, the quiet beauty of this place strikes me every time I drive home. On foggy mornings, I rarely see half a mile ahead of myself. The entire area rests under a blanket of white that slowly retreats by the afternoon. I can see the city in the distance, still hidden by the fog by the time the roads are finally clear. I see the tops of buildings floating on clouds, as if the fog is swallowing them. On days when I can see the sunrise, I feel my day get off to a good start. Warm colors paint the sky. Hues of oranges, reds, and yellows slowly illuminate the cornfield to the side of me. The darkness retreats slowly, but I can never stay long enough to watch it disappear completely. At sunset the colors are deeper, more vibrant. Sharp pink turns to dark purple, blood red to bright orange. The sun disappears, but its effects are present until the very last moment when the light finally fades out. Even when I come home too late to see the sunset, the elegance of the area is not unknown to me. Ten miles outside of town ten million more stars shine in the sky. Some blaze brilliantly, others barely flicker their fuzzy white lights. No building, some nights not a single cloud, masks any loop on Orion's Belt. Then I truly understand E. E. Cummings when he described “frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing.” It seems that around the speckled stars, millions of shades of the night’s blues and purples flow into eachother. In the valley, the lights glow in the sky around the city, forming their own kind of constellation. What I appreciate most about the stars here is that they are always constant. No matter what the season is, it seems the stars stay in the same spot. In the winter, black ice envelopes the road. …show more content…
The speed limit is 55 but for once, no one minds when I drive 25 under. As cars slowly creep along the road, my spot becomes more prominent. The browns, blacks, and greys of the buildings in Dubuque stick out like a sore thumb among the brilliant white snow reflecting the sun’s rays. One or two cornstalks poke out under the layers of ice and snow flakes, but the majority of them hide under the snow. In this time of year, I can feel the crisp air in my car no matter how high I turn on the heat. The cold wind almost overwhelms my other senses; I know that I will not smell nature again until March. Somehow in the spring the greens appear greener and the sky appears bluer. I don’t know whether it seems this