20 on 15

The Susquehanna River is a buxom, bawdy broad strutting her curves to the east and to the west with no apology and in stark contrast to her timid neighbors, the Appalachian mountaintops, kid sisters to their bigger brothers in the south. In contrast, they exercise modesty under faint petticoats of sugar maples. To traverse Susquehanna’s shoreline is to amble through a time capsule that was never buried. Tight, narrow rowhouses gossip beside the railroad tracks imbued with three generations inside who gossip around heirloom oak dining sets. A ramshackle building in cobalt and white shouts ‘CARPET’ in large, outdated painted letters with an arrow pointing to an overgrown field full of switchgrass and highway litter beside it - but nothing else. This stretch of road is a veritable culinary Jurassic Park protecting the last of several restaurant species: Arthur Treachers Fish & Chips, Perkins and Long John Silver’s on the stretch before the climb. Briefly the road parts ways with the shoreline into a sky that isn’t sure if it wants to be blue-gray or gray-blue but doesn’t know how to be fancy like ‘slate’ or ‘roman silver’. It is overstuffed with snow-laden clouds and framed by jagged ice encrusted rock walls that descend into the valley at roughly the same angle as the Titanic in its final hour. And, on the decline, dark ‘S’ markings are left in rubber with retreads at the end but no dead deer despite hunting season. Score one for nature. The road levels off toward what appears to be a hayseed mirage until a tiny cluster of buildings become clear. Watsontown sits above White Deer on the exit sign as if that is the proper order of things. Turkey Hill gas station boasts a logo that seems oddly familiar. It takes a moment to place it. It is the Wonder Bread bags that mothers used to line winter boots in the 1970s and then, as if the Universe knows the geolocation, Fleetwood Mac comes on the radio. Evangelical Community Hospital is nestled behind and directly between the smokestacks that are the cause for their admissions. Parasitically present. And then ‘big city’ becomes country again. Dueling Amish quilters have taken up residence side-by-side as if, while hanging their laundry, they have fallen prey to capitalism. And in open fields lone majestic weeping willows sweep their arms down as if preparing to hold the hand of a sapling who will likely never come. Then more signs. Spray-painted for an RV Campground and choked by sumac. Hand-sprawled with the word ‘firewood’ beside a structure that was clearly once a home. It is uncertain if the owners wrote it before the fire or have decided that there is nothing left to salvage but $5 at a time in a tin can. Then one for the Jersey Shore where country chapels with gaps in the siding have been converted to pubs. Street signs like ‘Albert’, ‘Ranger’s Way’ and ‘Old Homestead’ leave one to wonder if the only occupant was allowed to choose the name. And then open highway again with a 45-mph speed limit so as not to forfeit a rightful share of nothingness. Here, Purity Candy is nestled between two XXX adult stores and then, as if to balance crass with decorum, moss covered tree stumps announce the drive to the federal correctional complex. Suddenly the road kisses the river again. Clouds have parted and muted sky pastels float effortlessly on the water’s surface caressing the reflection of the trees from the far bank. 70mph. Gaps in the yellow lines. Nobody ever leaves this place. Even fallen branches from the windstorm grip the ground with their digits and not a single moving license plate is Pennsylvania. The end of day feels more like forward than anything in the rearview mirror. And, as sunlight falls to darkness, mine sulfur and diesel begin their waltz again as they have every night for decades.