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By local author Edward Morris
Maybe it's because I grew up on a West Virginia dirt road that meandered for two miles through farm gates, creek beds, mud holes and sharp rocks before finally connecting to a paved thoroughfare. Or it could have been having to plot my own roads when I crossed various hills to visit neighbors and relatives, choosing on this day perhaps to tromp through thick forests and around brier patches instead of taking shortcuts through a field allegedly patrolled by a fiercely territorial bull. Whatever the genesis, I've always appreciated good roads. And sometimes—like this morning—I find myself paying close attention to them.