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A Tale from Windy Hill by Bill Kennedy

It is a wonderful late-spring day, sunny and bright with a gentle breeze to keep things quite comfortable. My son and I are off on what I hope will be an educational journey for us both to the place that brings me many enjoyable remembrances of my childhood. I have reached the age where, like many others, I have begun to ref lect on my life and seriously consider my own mortality. That is the reason for the road trip. My son and partner for this journey is rapidly approaching 40. Since he got all of the good genes from me and his mother, he is much more fit than I was at that age. He is fully 6’4” tall and maintains his college football weight, a muscular 245 lbs., more or less. From my home in Taneytown we’ll be off toward, but skirt, the big city. We will head due east through the outskirts of our state capital, Annapolis, and on to U.S. Route 50. We will cross the wide expanse of the Chesapeake Bay via the William Preston Lane Memorial bridge, simply known in these parts as the Bay Bridge. I remember taking the ferry across the bay before the bridge was built in the early 1950s, (origi-

nally it was only one lane in each direction). Once on board the ferry, the trip took fully 45 minutes or so, and my usual treat for the trip was a half-pint container of chocolate milk, which I savored. We continue on U.S 50 past the f lat farmland, and the ever increasing housing developments that have replaced much of it, until we reach Easton, which has exploded with growth since I regularly visited there as a youngster in the ’50s and ’60s. We pass through the outskirts of the Talbot County seat, and our turnoff, once landmarked by an old dilapidated barn but now identified by an auto dealership and sporting a traffic signal, comes into view. A left turn onto Landing Neck Road, and almost immediately we’re engulfed by stands of tall pines. Acres of field corn and marketable vegetables crisscrossed by creeks and separated by marshes are also part of the landscape. The winding two-lane road, where my grandfather would drive slowly and search the roadside for the wild asparagus growing there in season, wends its way for nearly five miles until we come to the crossroads village of my youth, 51

August 2016 ttimes web magazine  

Tidewater Times August 2016

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