On the back roads of my youth

To a certain degree, you become your environment. I first realized this when I lived in Terre Haute. For five years, my apartment was located in a heavily populated student section of the city next to a fraternity. Often the sounds of broken beer bottles, the squeal of rogue tires and acidic yells would pierce through my poorly insulated walls.

While school was in session, crowds of people could be heard as they walked past my house on the way from one party to next. A Saturday night was rare if it didn't meet a certain level of expletives, which would be too coarse to print.

To people who enjoy a quiet pace of life, the sounds of the city may reverberate in the most sensitive portions of the ear, reserved for sounds akin the chewing of aluminum foil. But after a short time, the sounds dissipated to background austerity of normal existence. For me, there was a comfort in the madness of the overpopulated sidewalks of 6th Street.

A year and a half ago, I applied for a job at the Greene County Daily World, and after being accepted for the position, I found myself back in the area I was raised.

"You can't go home again," is an expression taken from a novel written by Thomas Wolfe under the same title, but if applied to a given situation, holds an element of truth.

For me it was the sounds -- specifically the lack thereof. During the nights of summer, autumn and fall I walk my dog Rufus, who has an aversion to warm weather. It was during the first nights after my move, I noticed the absence of most sounds, which amplified every noise in the distance. A truck passing Wendy's could be heard as clearly as though I was standing at the intersection of 4th Street and Highway 54, a distance of six blocks from my apartment. From 10 blocks away, the contorted echo of a dog barking made the distance feel so much closer. After living in a city where the sounds of human existence is present throughout all hours of the day, Linton presented the inverse -- as though after 9 p.m. I was the last form of life on a vacant planet. Any disruption from the stillness of the night, appeared as stark as an edge of broken glass.

As time passed, this feeling faded and now, when I return to Terre Haute or other cities, I feel audibly assaulted. Adaptation to one's environment is not necessary from an evolutionary perspective, but necessary in order to live.

For almost a year and a half, since I began at the Greene County Daily World, rarely have I ventured further than the paved roads connecting the communities of Greene County, with the exception of last weekend.

As warm weather was present around the county, I decided to break the mold of my Saturday tradition: Wake up, make coffee and read. Instead, I reached for my camera and hit the back roads. More so than the wildlife, one thing which left an indelible impression on my conscious was the scope of the beauty of land. Rolling hills often met the clouds on many of the partially graveled roads, lined with telephone poles which faded into the distance. Besides taking over 188 pictures, I gained one thing in which I thought I had lost: An appreciation for the beauty of this area.