The Other Side

The small home I spent my youngest years in had a narrow field behind it. A macadam path cut through it horizontally, extending behind our row of homes. It went nowhere, apparently a remnant of some ancient civilization.

Beyond the path was a hill, perfect for sledding in the winter and rolling down on a boring, lazy summer day. The hill was topped by a busy road. The cars sped by. We could see the ones going from left to right, over a bridge to the other side, where they seemed to disappear into thin air.

In fact, if you were a five-year-old, with a slightly literal, slightly abstract, slightly quirky mind, you watched the cars speed along until they dropped right off the edge.

Actually, I have a hard time describing my brother’s mind. Over the years I’ve narrowed it down to saying he’s brilliantly eccentric.

But at that young age he wondered why people did that and where they ended up. Was there a big pile of wrecked cars on the other side? Why didn’t somebody warn them?

He kept those thoughts to himself, reasoning and imagining until it all became too worrisome. Then he shared his concerns with the resident experts in all common wisdom. Our parents explained that the road continued even though he couldn’t see it.

My father took him for a walk through the hilly brush, and past the bridge. They eased through the broken part of a fence, an obvious well-worn illegal trespass (um, shortcut). And to his surprise and relief, there was no big pile-up of wrecked vehicles.  He watched the cars continue to their varied destinations and delighted at the sight of his mistaken, previously imagined other side of the hill.