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FROM THE REARVIEW
MIRROR
Thoughts during a journey
May 25,
2008 -- Eyes on the road ahead
May 26, 2008 -- Missoula,
Montana
May 27, 2008 -- West
Yellowstone, Montana
May 28, 2008 -- Buffalo, Wyoming
May 29, 2008 -- Custer
State Park, South Dakota
May 30, 2008 -- What God hath
joined together
May 31, 2008 -- Mount
Rushmore, South Dakota
June 1, 2008 -- Hardin, Mont.
June 2, 2008 -- Deer Lodge,
Mont.
June 3, 2008 -
Grangeville, Idaho
June 4, 2008 - Home
EYES ON THE ROAD AHEAD,
May 25, 2008
By Mary Koch
In a few minutes, I shall click the “send” command to dispatch this
missive, then pack my laptop into its carrying case, put it and Sadie –
the People Dog – into the already-packed van, and head for South Dakota.
It will be my first, extended solo venture since John’s death; I plan to
attend a wedding in the beautiful Black Hills on May 30.
Besides Sadie, I’ll be accompanied by twinges of guilt about the gas
I’ll consume. I justify the personal expense of $4 gas by camping along
the way (the van’s rear seat makes into a comfy bed), thus saving money
on lodging. Yet I wonder if I’m being a responsible citizen of the
world, barreling along the Interstate in a gas guzzler.
People used to ask me what kind of mileage we got with this big,
heavy-duty van, especially with its extra weight from the hydraulic
wheelchair lift. I never bothered to figure it out. What choice did we
have? The van was a gift, a blessing, and I always felt blessed as I
drove it.
My first stop, as I leave town, will be the cemetery and John’s grave. I
want to remind myself that after years of stroke-induced silence, he
finally was able to whisper a simple benediction whenever I drove away
without him: “Go with God.”
John and I enjoyed touring cemeteries when we travelled. We would wander
through the graves, read headstones, imagine the stories behind those
few terse words, do the math and marvel at either longevity or lack of
it.
This morning I woke early, knowing finally what to inscribe on our grave
marker. John died eight months ago today, and I’ve been putting
off that last funereal decision. It will be simple enough, a flat
headstone, but details are important: Full middle name or initial? Spell
out the dates or abbreviate them, newspaper-style? Border or no border?
Granite or bronze? What typeface?
Typeface! There’s a stickler. John loved well-crafted typefaces and
appreciated when they were used appropriately. He would cringe when
advertisers insisted on what he called “stud-horse fonts” (big, bold and
ugly) in their ads.
No stud-horse fonts on our headstone! No, siree. So there I was in my
pajamas this morning, with a thousand other things to do before leaving
town, designing a grave marker. Because our cremated remains will share
a single grave, we will also share the headstone. That meant typing my
own name into the design, leaving an empty space for the final date. Now
there’s an exercise for contemplating your own mortality!
Yet it all seems so academic, so unrelated to reality. Neither the grave
nor its marker makes John’s death real to me.
As I drive along the highway, I will regularly scan my rearview mirror.
For so many years that mirror reflected John, sitting in his wheelchair.
Now I will have an uninterrupted view of the road behind me. That empty
view – it’s what makes his absence real.
MISSOULA, Mont. (May 26, 2008) – Now this is kamping! Here we are in
one of the West’s great basins, rolling hills and snow-capped mountains
in a 360-degree panorama. Amidst it all is the Missoula KOA, bordered by
apartment buildings, a new housing development, the school district bus
garage and strip malls.
I am not complaining. It’s so cold and windy, all the “campers” are
tucked inside their RVs, probably watching cable TV. It’s as quiet as a
church on Monday morning.
Last night – our first – was our shakedown cruise. We parked in our
friend Penny’s yard in Cheney, Wash. (just 150 miles from home), and
tested our sleeping arrangements.
Sadie was content on her usual cushion. I snuggled in my goose down
sleeping bag, freshly dry-cleaned after too many years of non-use. Most
important, the “Hunter’s Loo,” which I found on the Internet, proved to
be serviceable as advertised – saving me from making those dreaded
middle-of-the-night treks to the facilities. (Available from
www.sportsmansguide.com, but get your environmentally-friendly bags
from REI .)
Because we are now officially tourists, we could not leave Spokane
without ogling Spokane Falls, which are thunderous with an unusually
high runoff from last winter’s snowpack. All the way along the
Interestate, water flowed with an abundance that can delude us into
thinking we have too much of it.
I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t over-indulge in looking at the past
through my rear view mirror. But this route is replete with memories.
They go back to 1957, when I rode with my parents from Midwest to West
during our wintry move from Minnesota to Tacoma.
As I stopped for lunch in Wallace, Idaho, I remembered my 12-year-old
awe at the powerful mountains, the sheer vertical walls of snow-covered
trees lining that narrow valley. I’d seen photos of such a thing, but I
never expected to see it in real life. I was already excited at the
prospect of living in the West, and that scene put me over the edge,
convincing me that life would be nothing but magic from then on.
Shaking myself back to the present, I was determined to stop dawdling
and get to my Missoula KOA by daylight. Yet, I considered stopping route
at the huge used book store in western Montana where John and I had
browsed years ago. He’d been thrilled to find an out-of-print copy of a
book by his cousin, Ralph K. Andrist. We eventually visited Ralph at his
home on Cape Cod, but you see how one memory leads to the next and
before long you’re far from the road you’re travelling on.
The real reason you want to stop, I accused myself, is to find John E.
Andrist in those musty shelves. I knew that was futile and kept driving.
Sadie and I are settled in for the night. Her light snore is covered by
the classical music that I’m streaming on my laptop. With Amerikoan
kamping, you get wi-fi.
WEST YELLOWSTONE, Mont. (May 27, 2008) – I’m not calling this a
vacation; I’m not looking to vacate or get away from it all. In fact,
I’m working very hard to stay connected. The Internet and cell phone
stretch like great umbilicals, keeping me in touch, even allowing me to
do a little work so the credit card bill might be less painful when all
these charges come rolling back at me.
This morning, while I was packing up to leave the Missoula campground,
my cell phone rang. It was a longtime newspaper publishing friend, who
wanted to tell me about a series of memorial donations he’s made – all
of which started with one in John’s name. He wanted me to know that
John’s passing had been the spark that led him to what he described as a
very “exciting time in my life.”
I stood in my 100-square-feet of mobile living space, surrounded by the
disruption of packing and unpacking, cell phone pressed against my ear,
and I felt very much connected with the present, with that dear friend
and the past we shared, and with the future that he is so cheerfully
endowing.
My e-mail today brought me news that a friend’s mother had died, that
another friend’s grandchild was born and that my mother has pneumonia.
Life. Its sorrows, its joys, its worries. Who would ever want to
disconnect? The e-mail from my sister about Mother detailed the
treatment she’s getting, and I was reassured that she is being well
cared for.
No guilt. No need to scold myself for not being there as I drove across
the “big sky” country, marveling with every mile. You think you’ve never
seen a more beautiful valley, a grander range of mountains, and then you
round a curve or cross a summit and there’s something even more
spectacular. It’s as if every square inch of Montana (and how many
billions of inches might that be?) is vying for your attention: “I’m the
prettiest! Love me the most!”
Approaching Yellowstone, there’s everything you expect. When the sign
warns, “Slow: Buffalo Crossing,” sure enough, there’s a buffalo that
decides to cross the highway right in front of you.
“That’s OK,” I told him as I stopped and waited. “My kind did its best
to eliminate your kind, so it’s only fair that I take time to live and
let live.”
I thought my high-tech connections were going to fail me tonight when I
pulled into the West Yellowstone KOA. I tried to call Mother, but the
signal kept breaking up. Later I popped over to Idaho for dinner (this
is that funny finger of Montana that inserts itself for a just a few
miles between Wyoming and Idaho) and spotted satellite dishes atop one
snow-crested peak.
Ordinarily, I’d be offended by such desecration, but I pulled out the
cell phone and got a crystal clear connection.
“I’m doing OK,” Mom assured me, and was thrilled to hear about the
buffalo.
BUFFALO, Wyo. (May 28) – Along with my AAA tour books, I am guided
this leg of the trip by a 3-by-5 inch Spiral “Memo Book.” The notebook
was my travel journal when my parents and I took an extensive road trip
through the Rocky Mountain West. I was 11 years old.
My mother saved the little notebook and mailed it to me a few months
ago, before either of us knew I would take this trip. She was not in the
habit (nor was I) of saving childhood writings, school projects, etc.
Nonetheless, here it is again as I crisscross much of the same route.
The ’56 trip took the opposite direction, starting in Minnesota and
heading west. The little travelogue and I intersected for the first time
today in Yellowstone Park.
Nothing in the journal suggests that I would one day earn my living as a
writer/editor, but I had mastered the art of cliché: I described a road
that was “real winding,” a “very blue sky,” “just beautiful scenery,” a
mountain brook that was “babbling,” a cabin we stayed in that was “real
cute,” and at various turns of the road, “the most beautiful view I’ve
ever seen.”
Worse than the clichés was my inattention to duty. I’d ignore the
journal for days on end. Mother would fill in the gaps with her tiny,
precise writing and wry humor.
I was on duty, however, when we got to Old Faithful in Yellowstone.
Here’s the future journalist’s account:
“5:20 – Waiting patiently (?) for ‘Old Faithful’ to spout off.
“5:35 – Old Faithful spouted. Only lasted a few seconds. It started out
very low and gradually came to it’s (sic) peak.”
Today, when I reached the crowded parking lot at Old Faithful, I
recalled the journal entry, thought about the late start I’d gotten and
the many miles ahead. I decided I’d take my own word for it, and pulled
back onto the road. After all these years, Old Faithful is still
spouting off, it probably still starts very low and gradually comes to
its peak, and I have learned something about apostrophes.
Late in the day, I arrived at Wyoming’s imposing Big Horn Mountains,
which I still had to cross to reach the campground I’d reserved. I
remember crossing those mountains with my parents; it was Dad’s first
experience with switchback roads. He gripped the wheel while Mother and
I maintained a tense silence, all of us terrified flatlanders.
I’m an experienced mountain driver now. Not that I enjoy it. I thought
about putting off those last 90 miles, forfeiting my deposit, staying in
Worland.
But Worland held no appeal, and I kept going. I’d just missed a storm
that left hailstones an inch thick on the road. I felt alone on the high
pass until, through dense fog, I was comforted by wheel tracks ahead of
me.
It was dusk when I reached the campground, set in a grove of cottonwood,
Russian olive and willow trees.
“Just lovely.”
CUSTER STATE PARK, S.D.
(May 29, 2008) – An energetic songbird woke me before dawn in last
night’s otherwise quiet campground. I was close to awake anyway. I’d had
a fitful night, trying to arrange myself into a comfortable sleeping
position.
“I’m ready,” I thought. “I’m ready for a real bed and a shower of my own
in my own private room.”
That had been the plan all along. Four nights of austere camping, with
three nights of deluxe accommodations – like caviar between crackers –
before the final four nights of austerity.
I have reached my destination and tomorrow will attend the reason for
this sojourn: A wedding at the elegant and remote Sylvan Lake Lodge in
South Dakota’s fabled Black Hills.
The day before, as I’d driven through the amazing Shoshone River Canyon
and then confronted the vast Big Horn Mountain range, I’d been thinking
about a couple friends who were born and raised in Wyoming. I always
wondered why they were so happy to leave the state behind.
The answer came when I joined Interstate 90, which cuts an amazingly
boring swath through rolling drylands. I saw an occasional oil well but
no antelopes playing. The antelopes were either quietly grazing or lying
dead along the roadside, where they’d lost in the competition with
interstate traffic.
I stopped only twice, and both times pondered communities that reflect
the hopelessness of what my husband would have called a thin soil
economy. I pulled in at Powder River looking for a cup of coffee. The
only other customer in the coffee shop was curled up on a hard bench,
sound asleep.
I wanted decaf, but they didn’t have it, so I drove on. I had a hard
time finding decaf in Wyoming, apparently a place where people need
their caffeine jolt. I stopped for lunch a few miles short of the South
Dakota border. I ordered a salad, thinking no one could screw up a
salad. I was wrong.
I thought I’d be eager to reach my four-star lodge with gourmet dining
to match. But as I neared my destination, I was surprised at my own
apprehension. Would we fit in? After four days of living in a vehicle,
one tends to acquire a somewhat rumpled look. I’d forgotten the golden
rule of American travel: If you have the right kind of plastic, you fit
in.
Because my travelling companion is of the furry persuasion, we are
staying in a cabin instead of the lodge. The quiet cabin, set in a pine
forest, is rustic chic, complete with stone fireplace that I will not
bother with.
Thick towels, a pristine shower and two inviting queen beds. The irony
is, the high-tech convenience of KOA campgrounds is lacking. I have no
cell phone service, and if I want to connect with the Internet, I have
to tote my laptop up a steep hill to the lodge.
After five days of driving, I need the walk more than I need
convenience.
WHAT GOD HATH
JOINED TOGETHER
A Widow
Bit – May 30, 2008
By Mary Koch
SYLVAN LAKE, S.D. – “Remember,” a friend e-mailed. “It’s OK to cry at
weddings.” It was more than OK at this wedding today; even the heavens
shed tears of joy.
I cried in January when I opened the invitation with its pen and ink
sketch of the Black Hills. Then I laughed. Maybe I should go, I mused.
Imagine! Travelling all the way to South Dakota for the wedding of two
people I’d never met.
Stacy, the bride-to-be, and I connected on the Internet many years ago.
I was 27 years older, and we lived on opposite sides of the country (she
in Georgia). But we had two big things in common. She was the editor of
a small-town weekly newspaper, as I had been for many years, and her
husband – like mine – was “locked in.” At a cruelly early age, he too
had suffered a brain stem stroke that left him totally paralyzed and
unable to speak despite being fully cognitive.
Between our passion for community journalism and struggles on behalf of
our husbands, Stacy and I talked the same language. We felt secure about
sharing with each other some of our deepest, scariest thoughts and
frustrations. Throughout, I was in awe of Stacy’s determination and
wisdom.
In all those years we spoke only once. She called me the night in 2005
when her husband died. We knew it was coming, and I was touched by her
consideration in telling me personally.
The e-mails became more sporadic after that, but we stayed connected.
She mentioned dating, without enthusiasm. Then she mentioned a boyfriend
– with notable enthusiasm. Last August, she reported that Andy had
proposed. I knew, without meeting him, that Andy was exceptional.
Anything less would not have appealed to Stacy.
We finally met, just a few hours before the ceremony. It was like
meeting old friends. In fact, Andy had served in the Peace Corps with
someone I knew, and the world once again got a little bit smaller.
The wedding was to be held in an enchanting setting, where glimmering
Sylvan Lake reflects towering pillars of rock. And so we gathered,
family and friends from all over the country, under ominous clouds. A
weaker person would have moved the ceremony inside, but Stacy,
determined to the core, kept saying, “We’ll be married at the lake.”
Rain began to fall at the start of the ceremony. The father of the bride
held an umbrella over his daughter as he escorted her down the aisle,
the groom cuddled his bride against the biting wind, and the minister
wisely cut his remarks short.
Andy and Stacy were pronounced husband and wife, and then, as they
walked back up the aisle, heaven pronounced the benediction: a clap of
thunder that sounded like a million-trumpet fanfare. Instantly the
clouds parted, the sky shone brilliant blue, and the sun bathed us all
in warmth.
This marriage was blessed with divine approval like none I’ve ever
witnessed.
MOUNT RUSHMORE, S.D. (May
31, 2008) – If you want to see the faces of America, this is the
place to come. I’m not talking about the four chaps memorialized in
granite. I’m talking about the seemingly endless crowd that flows from
the multi-level parking garage onto the “Grand View Terrace,” where
hundreds of cameras are uniformly focused at any given moment on the
massive sculpture.
Tourists R Us.
If you believe that everyone in America should look, speak and act as
you do, Rushmore is not the place for you. You’ll see every size, shape,
color, gender, age, clothing style, intelligence quotient, political
persuasion, religious conviction and sexual orientation possible. What
will amaze (perhaps dishearten) you is how easily you fit into the
crowd.
I am resistant to patriotic displays that are designed to manipulate the
heart strings. But there’s something about Rushmore that must inevitably
touch even the most jaded. If it’s not the sculpture, it’s the
pilgrimage: Over the decades, millions of people have gazed and pondered
over those four personalities and the difference they made. Not to
mention the fifth personality, sculptor Gutzon Borglum, who
conceived of and executed the impossible.
I missed John more acutely today than on any other part of this trip. He
reveled in American history; he adapted Theodore Roosevelt’s “walk
softly and carry a big stick” for the title of his weekly newspaper
column, yet he somehow never made it to Rushmore.
I’m not sure why, exactly, other than there was never a newspaper
convention held nearby nor is there a decent ski hill in the vicinity.
Those were our two perennial vacation destinations.
I’m sure, if life had gone as we expected, we would have ultimately
visited Rushmore. And we would have devoted far more time than I did
today – although I doubled the time spent when my parents and I visited
in 1956. Then, it required just 45 minutes (as documented in my
journal) to look, photograph and eat lunch.
There’s more to do and see now, and I spent an extra couple minutes in
the “Sculptor’s Studio,” waiting out one of the rain squalls that have
persisted during this visit.
John would have required much more time to take all the photos the place
demands. I rarely stop to pull my camera out. Consequently, I’m never
ready for the only photos I want to take: photos of people taking
photos. I missed, for example, a shot of the young man who posed his
wife/girlfriend in front of the monument, then clicked the shutter as
she chatted on her cell phone.
Later, while driving along the spectacular Iron Mountain Road, I
followed another young man who was standing up through the sun roof of
his Volkswagen, videotaping while his partner drove.
She (the driver) pulled over so I could pass, and when I got next to
them I leaned over and commented through Sadie’s open window, “YOU are
the picture!” Their grins told me they knew it was true.
HARDIN, Mont. (June 1, 2008) – “We’re having our first ice cream
social of the season tonight, with entertainment by ‘Almost Willie,’”
the owner of the Hardin KOA cheerfully announced as I checked in.
“Almost Willie,” I echoed weakly. She was clearly disappointed in my
lack of enthusiasm. I should have realized that “Almost Willie” would
provide the perfect end for a disconcerting day.
First stop today was the Crazy Horse monument. In my 1956 journal, I
wrote: “Almost saw Crazy Horse.” In 1956, “almost” was the operative
word; the monument was more concept than reality. Now you can see the
stunning profile of the legendary chief emerging from the mountain in
the first stage of a project that is taking generations to complete.
The sculpture may be long from finished, but it has generated a busy
tourism center promoting Native culture. There’s an enormous collection
of art and artifacts, unfortunately presented with no conceivable
organization – at least none I could understand. It was if you took the
words from a million stories, tossed them all in a big bag, and then
pulled them out, tacking them on the wall one at a time. You’d have the
words, but no stories
Perhaps if I’d spent more time, I could have made sense of it all. But I
don’t like leaving Sadie in the van for very long, and we had many miles
to go. It was one of the longest, mind-numbing stretches so far, both in
reality and metaphorically. We began with Crazy Horse and ended at the
Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument.
It was evening when I parked next to the small field of uniform, white
grave markers. Last Sunday I’d visited the cemetery where John is
buried, and now, exactly a week later, I was once again at a cemetery.
There is a significant difference between a small town, civilian
cemetery and a military cemetery. They’re both about death, yet in the
military cemetery, it is about abrupt, violent death. Sacrificial death.
You cannot visit Little Bighorn and come away untroubled. I pulled into
the KOA, ready to lay my head down for a night of sorrow.
But to have ignored “Almost Willie,” the self-proclaimed No. 1 Willie
Nelson imitator in the country, would have been un-neighborly. His big
red, white and blue bus is parked next door to our humble van.
The former funeral director and county coroner (if you think I’m making
this up, I direct you to
www.almostwillie.com) was looking for a “change” and stumbled onto
the Willie gig. He performs almost nightly in RV camps and similar
venues around the country.
Willie Nelson has never been accused of singing on-key, so his imitator
is not greatly challenged. In between songs he tells “dumb blonde” and
“redneck” jokes – something to offend everyone.
I’d pulled into the campground trying to make sense of the day, of life.
But there is no sense to be made. There is only the need to accept, like
Almost Willie, the absurdity.
DEER
LODGE, Mont. (June 2, 2008) – Not many couples could live together
within the confines of a small van, plus cope with the pressures of
long-distance travel, without eventually getting on each other’s nerves.
Which is why Sadie, the People Dog, and I are engaged in something of a
mutual tiff this evening. She has had no supper, and she is not getting
supper. She has thumped her chin onto my lap several times to let me
know that it’s well past supper time, but I’m not budging.
Earlier, as we were barreling along I-90 at 70 mph (I am too chicken to
drive at Montana’s 75 speed limit and, amazingly, so are most other
drivers), I could hear crackling and crunching behind me. At that speed,
I wasn’t about to turn around and look. Not until our next rest stop did
I discover she’d eaten my entire package of Wasa crackers.
They were to have been a major component of my dinner, spread with the
cheese that I’d caught her nibbling on yesterday. I cut off the part of
the cheese that she’d mouthed. I think. I’m trying to convince myself
that there are no doggie germs on the remainder. I’m settling for cheese
and apples, instead of crackers, and figuring that Wasa crackers
couldn’t hurt her. But she’s not getting both crackers AND dog food.
Despite this tiff, Sadie has been the ideal travelling companion. She
captivates people with those melt-your-heart eyes, and they want to know
what happened to her leg. I briefly explain about the amputation of the
badly shattered leg, and if they’re disturbed – as one little boy was –
I add the vet’s pep talk: “Dogs come with three legs and a spare.”
Sadie’s been essential on this trip, however, not so I can meet people,
but because she gives me something to worry about besides myself.
Anyone who has travelled with a dog will tell you, the dog comes first.
You make more rest (aka potty) stops than you otherwise would; you’re
careful to park in the shade, which means you have to walk further to
your destination; you take the dog for walks uncomfortably early in the
morning and late at night, when you’d rather be curled up in your
sleeping bag.
Dogs are a bother, thank God.
John’s death – the death of any loved one – is a bundle of losses. For a
longtime caregiver, the bundle includes loss of purpose and loss of
where to focus the basic human need to care, to bother.
Care, say the writers of “The HeartMath Solution,” inspires, gently
reassures us and lends us a feeling of security and support – “it feels
good – whether we’re giving or receiving it.”
In a minute I will pick up Sadie’s leash, a signal that we’re going for
a walk, and her stump of tail will go into high motion, making me smile.
It’s as good as we’re both going to feel all day – and that’s good
enough for me.
GRANGEVILLE, Idaho (June 3,
2008) – As I was steeping myself in the rich history of South Dakota
and Montana, I remained (purposely) oblivious to the fact that history
was happening all around me.
I managed to miss both Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, who were
touring both states in the final days before Tuesday’s primary election.
I glanced at a few newspaper headlines and occasionally heard references
on the radio, but if you’re on the tourism circuit, it’s easy to stay
out of the political loop.
Clinton visited Mount Rushmore four days before I, and – according to a
New York Times columnist – the day was so foggy you couldn’t see the
presidents. Now what kind of a metaphor was that?
I was having lunch in a pricey (which is why it was lunch, not dinner)
Black Hills restaurant and overheard an affluent-looking couple about my
age enthusiastically telling the young waitress they’d snagged tickets
to see Obama in Rapid City. I would have pegged them for Republicans.
You never know.
I haven’t had a dog in this fight – neither Republican nor Democrat, but
I’ve been intrigued that this is the most historic presidential campaign
in my lifetime. I’ve wondered what remarks John would have made, whom he
would have favored. I’m looking forward to the rest of the campaign,
even though pundits predict it will be especially bitter. I hope they’re
wrong.
This morning – my last in Montana, I ate my one and only restaurant
breakfast in a little cafe in Deer Lodge. Turned out it was the
gathering place for the local good ol’ boy coffee klatch. With the polls
already open, a couple of the guys expressed a “who cares?” attitude
about the presidential primary. One fellow (I could tell he enjoyed the
role of protagonist) reminded them there were local races on the ballot,
too. Perhaps he was trying to get an argument going by mentioning he had
his doubts about the attorney general and also wanted to see the local
legislator out of office.
No one was biting. Political discussion ended when what appeared to be
oldest of the ol’ boys scoffed, “Well, I’m just so excited about voting
for Hillary, I’m about to pee my pants.”
I thought about the obvious sincerity of a young woman I’d seen by a
freeway entrance in Billings yesterday. She was waving broadly and
enthusiastically at cars speeding by while holding her “Hillary” sign.
Who knows? She could have been the ol’ boy’s granddaughter.
My mother was excited to vote for Clinton. Then she was dismayed when
someone told – under Washington’s screwed up primary system – that her
vote wouldn’t “count.” But for a woman who was born before women even
had the right to vote, it did count. It counted a lot.
I sent her a postcard from Rushmore and wrote, “When a woman is
ultimately elected President (and it is inevitable), do you suppose the
guys will move over and make room for her?”
HOME (June 4, 2008) – We arrived home to rose bushes in full bloom,
a full river that had dropped just a little during our absence, and a
cat full of attitude.
I’m not surprised that the trip went so well – no mechanical
difficulties, no accidents, not even a mishap. But I take no pride in
any of it because all along, I was just doing what John told me to do.
Rather, what he would have told me to do.
I could easily imagine him all the way through the planning, preparation
and packing. Anytime I was tempted to take skip details, like not
bothering to check tire pressure, I reminded myself that John would have
done it. I’m sure it saved me a lot of grief.
When we got home, I resolved that I would thoroughly clean out the van,
then reward myself with a martini and steak – a very John-thing to do. I
got as far as the van and martini, then went to bed. The steak will have
to wait.
The last day of driving had been the most tiring emotionally because,
once again, there were all the rear-view-mirror memories. I crossed the
border into Washington and drove through Pullman, remembering visits
we’d made there.
Long ago, John and I had presided for a week in the journalism
department as “publishers in residence.” It was fun and inspiring. More
recently, I’d taken John to Pullman a couple times for therapy
treatments. Why are the more recent memories – the post-stroke memories
– so much more painful, I wonder.
Further along the way, I saw water from the rapid snowpack runoff
spilling over Grand Coulee Dam. John loved to photograph that roaring
white water pouring and splashing over the massive concrete wall. But
the real memory from Grand Coulee, one that no one who participated will
ever forget, was John, with fierce concentration and determination,
steering his wheelchair across that hot, shimmering concrete in June
2000.
The most beautiful approach to Omak, in my opinion, is from the east. As
you descend from Desautel Pass, you see the massive North Cascade
mountains, so shadowed they look almost ghostly. Then you top the crest
of a hill and catch your first glimpse of the Okanogan Valley floor.
This valley is so deep that when you’re in it, you can’t see the
enormous mountains that protect it. It is easy to become unmindful of
them, just as it is too easy to become unmindful of the presence of God.
This is John’s country; he loved it so much, and I came here because I
loved him so much. Recently I was discussing with my daughter-in-law the
possibility of selling my house. I cannot, she suggested, because John
is in it.
But he isn’t. He is all around this house, in the valley, out on the
reservation, especially in the mountains. All of the Okanogan was home
to his soul, remains home with his spirit, and that is why I, once
again, am home.
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