I don’t know how to take care of a gravel driveway. I’m sure there’s an intricate ritual for its upkeep known to all country folk. But no one’s letting me in on the secret. I imagine there must be truck loads of gravel, shovels, rakes, and lots of dust involved, and I’m really not into that scene. Dust makes me sneeze.

It’s okay that I don’t know what to do because I really don’t want to do it, anyhow. Whatever it is. I like how the grass and weeds are growing up in the middle of the driveway and turning it into an old country road like in Anne of Green Gables — the “White Way of Light.” And the bunnies like it too. They like to eat that grass and those weeds. They like to sit in the middle of the driveway and have their breakfast until I hop out of the truck and dance about waving my arms and cackling, “Booga booga booga!.”

I know the farmers would look at our raggedy driveway and shake their heads and rant about city folk and their strange ways. I know eventually I’ll be dodging ruts and holes. I also know I don’t really care.