Starting off like many of the stories people will write about their hometown, I’m from a small, backwoods town which you’ve probably never heard of in your life time. I’m from Rock Hill, New York with a population under two thousand as of 2012. We’re about an hour and a half up from New York City, about forty five minutes from the Hudson River, and are surrounded by beautiful woods and mountains. My favorite thing to do when I’m home is to enjoy every moment of the outdoors.
As if it weren’t enough to say that I live in a small, backwoods town, my road is about twelve miles long off of a main road, and it looks as though you’ve left civilization. It is that feeling makes me feel right at home. By saying the road I live on means a great deal to me may make me seem crazy, but there is so much more to that road than the cracked pavement. For starters, the cracks in that pavement represent those harsh winters we endured there, the long hours of shoveling ourselves out of the driveway, and the bumping up and down as a little kid on the school bus come spring time. All of those memories just from something so simple and almost unnoticeable as a road.
Further down the road, to where my house is, I’ve taken countless of walks up and down my road to just take in all of what is around me. It was my greatest stress relief and my favorite escape from the restlessness of the world. On my road, that other world seems to not exist. In the autumn I watched as the trees changed and fell, the winter I saw the snowy sparkle that was created from the sunlight, in the spring I watched as everything come to life from trees to baby deer, and in the summer I would lie on the side at night and watch the stars. Home to me is that road. That’s the place where I live.