It's not Mr. Peabody's coal train that John Prine sang about hauling it away, but the logging trucks on my road have sure been giving it their best effort.
Starting every morning around six, the heavy machinery cranks up, buzzing, grinding and then an earth-shaking crash that we can feel in the house.
The large acreage that was thick woods my entire life has been erased. The pines well over a half century old that blocked cell phones, satellite and high-speed internet over the last 20 years are gone. Logging trucks have parked in the road, in the curb, muddled the highway, torn up the already soft road shoulders.
