There used to be an old man that parked his car at the bottom of Jack Town Hill, overlooking Highway 41. Every day I would see this man at 8 AM and 6 PM, keeping watch over the cars passing into my hometown. I called him the Peebles Lookout.
Nothing could deter this sentry from his watch. Seven days a week, during all daylight hours, this man kept a vigil over the southern border of Peebles. Had we been at war with a neighboring town, our stern watchman could have spotted columns of an advancing Manchester Army. Unfortunately we lived in peacetime, and he only saw cars going to and from Wal-Mart. Still, no minivan, Ford or Chevy, escaped his eye.
This is the sound he heard all day. You may want to play this video as you finish this blog:
One day I pointed him out to my friend Melinda and she said, “That’s my uncle Jim.”
I was astounded to hear that the Peebles Lookout had a name, let alone a family. I pressed Melinda for details about this man’s life. Who was he? Did he live alone? Where’s his family? Most of all, why-why-why did he sit by the road all day?
She didn’t have any answers. He was one of those distant uncles, the kind your mother points out to you at the grocery store. Even though he was family, Jim the Peebles Lookout remained a mystery to us all.
A few days later I decided to satisfy my curiosity. I parked my car beside Jim’s. It was time to ask this old man what was so important about this stretch of highway. Today he would roll down his window and give the world some answers.
This was my first close look at him. He was nothing extraordinary to look at—just a man sitting behind glass, keeping an eye on the road ahead. He didn’t acknowledge me. Suddenly it felt wrong to disturb a man so shut off from the world. I circled around, intending to drive away.
Then I stopped. My car was parallel to Jim’s, facing the road. I killed the engine, and watched through the windshield.
A car wound around the distant curve, crossed the bridge over Brush Creek, then whipped past me up Jack Town hill. A small line of cars and trucks followed.
A semi truck came down the hill and disappeared over the bridge. My windshield muffled the roar of its engine.
Who were these people, where were they going? Perhaps to Wal-Mart for some need, real or imagined. To the courthouse, or a baseball game. Meeting a new friend, or confronting an old lover. It was their business, not mine.
There was a thin glass armor protecting my world, as I saw all things stressful and pleasant roll up the hill, down the hill, there and back again.
Every person had a reason to travel, some task to keep them on the road between elsewhere and home.
Not me. I was nowhere. Watching all of those cars reminded me that none of their errands were mine. I wasn’t expected anywhere.
As long as I watched those cars, I had the gift of isolation. I was perfect, still, and alone.
I’m not sure how long it lasted. Maybe a few minutes, then it was time to start my engine and join the ranks of the moving forward.
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