The
rural roads outside Corvallis
Lead
in many directions
One
is out into a little farm community
It
is known as Philomath
For unknown reasons
Somebody’s
delusions of grandeur
That
ended up being a few farming homesteads
I
googled Philomath
It doesn’t even come up first
It
means a seeker of knowledge
Perhaps that fits
A place of seekers, not possessors
It
has a hopeful tint to it
When
I lived there I was 6 or 7
A committed seeker of trouble
I
looked through the barn
Met the cows and the tractors
Saw
the hay in the shed
The
wood pile under the house
The
abandoned cages and pens
One
day my dad showed me some lumber
He
also showed me some machinery
An odd wheel or two
And
a length of rope
I
was less aware in those days
Perhaps I had seen the materials before
But
today I noticed and understood
We
were building a go-cart
I’m
sure it took some time to make
Though
I don’t recall the waiting
One
night I saw the parts
The
next day I was sitting in the cart
Right
at the top of the driveway
A
gentle breeze nudging the grass
I held still
In taught
anticipation
Bursting
with potential energy
Half
listening to my father
As
he gave a few last minute tips
The
release came like sunlight
My
sense of reality altered instantly
As
I headed down the dirt road
Gaining
speed and avoiding death
I
moved with grace and elation
Down,
down, through the first flat
Over
the last drop
And into the main yard
Thrilled
by the speedy descent
Impatiently dragging the cart up the drive
A
passionate Philomath
Seeker of thrilling knowledge
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