Wanderlust, Words and Views

Walt Whitman wrote of the "call of the open road", and I like to think that I know exactly what he was referring to.  Those landscapes that just keep unfurling ahead of you; that road ahead like a long stretched piece of gum that you had to look at but aren't done chewing just yet.
It's amazing to experience this by one's self, but remarkable to do so with a loved one.  With Bertha, there is interest and history in virtually everything, peppered with a genuine sense of intrigue.  This has to be where I inherited my own wunder/wander/wonder-lust...
"Antelope!"
"Look at that one cow in the water.  Don't you wonder what the other cows are saying?  He looks pleased as punch."
"Oh my God - look at that red - Buttes?  Canyon - mesa?  What do you call that, anyway?"
"Do you think that crop is beets?"
"You know, we had a windmill like that; it ran the pump for the well.  You don't see many of those anymore."
From time to time, the conversation wanes and slows, like a cloud shadow passing over the distant mesa; then radiates once again.  There are places where the words sometimes take corners, like boxers in a fight; particularly when certain political or religious ideas may emerge.  The sentences sort of square off of each other; and more often than not, decline to take the first punch.  Rather than point to our own interpretations of these ideas, we stick to the intrigue of the places in which we walk hand in hand, see eye to eye.  Sometimes, we acknowledge the differences with humor and then let them rest.  Like "Mom, I know you are NEVER going to like my hair.  And that's ok.  I've made peace with it."   For example.
Words, really, are a lot like landscape.  They roll, spontaneous yet eternal.  Sometimes you stop and think, and sometimes you just go and don't look back.   As much as we gravitate towards the "presets" of Red and Blue, Dem or Republican, White or Black, Evil or Good; those words are only a single post in a long line of fence.   And there's a whole lot more there to see, over every hill and curve.
We gravitate towards "presets" in our traveling this planet, as well.  We all peg ourselves to places on the globe that we hold near and dear:  disney, hollywood, the Mall, etc. etc.  Yet the places in between, around, behind, and across are, in all probability, far more interesting.  They are changing all the time, challenging us to see rather than having someone show us.
Like 85 South out of Dickinson to Belle Fourche.
Like conversations with my soon-to-be-93-year-old mother.
There's a grace to that, but no app for it.

Til we - will we - meet again....

Two folks at a 1960's kitchen table, in Hankinson, ND.  One is soon to be 92 years old, the other a month away from turning 93.  Distance cousins, counting off other cousins to see 'who's left'.  Matter of factly.
I remember being in Israel, in 1979; in a Bedouin emcampment.  The custom, when greeting someone, was to greet as though you never expected to actually see them again.  The custom when saying goodbye was to wish them well as though you would never see them again.  The desert has some harsh realities.
So, back to the ND prairie....
I have those pangs of emotion in watching these interactions; talking about things that happened 40, 50, or more years ago.  About Adeline's husband whose arm got caught and ripped off in farm machinery.  About how Pearl kept in touch with everyone.  About Edward, who's still alive but pretty crippled up.  About the 640 acres that the Hohenstern's used to farm, with horses first and later with tractors.  About how my dad had marveled over the number of pigs, wondering how the guys could possible tell if they'd all been fed or not.  About the 11 'or so' kids that Aunt Bertha had, and how many of them didn't make it.   An accounting, so to speak, of time and space and people.  About how Donald doesn't mow the lawn anymore, and is seriously thinking about an assisted living apartment in Breckenridge.  About how Pearl died so suddenly, in the night; and how much of a shock it was to all who relied on her to keep track of everyone.  About the apples on Donald's tree; that sometimes get ripe before winter.  About Donald going to war for his brother Elmer when Elmer got drafted, so that Elmer could go through with his planned marriage.   How Donald just doesn't feel good going out in the heat any more.  How Bertha's knees just hurt.
As I watched these two beautiful eloquent human beings, a world full of life experiences sparking between them, I couldn't help but tear up.  How do you say goodbye?  When you're 92 and 93?  Do you say "see you on the other side?"  Do you say "well, see you next time" - when the odds of a 'next time' are very tenuous?   Or do you hug, and stand in the doorway for a long goodbye?
I will always fondly remember my mother standing in the door when I'd leave.  Watching and waving until my car faded out of sight.   Til "it's place remembers it no more."
An Old Testament verse came to mind:  
 ...He knows how we are formed,
    he remembers that we are dust. 
The life of mortals is like grass,
    they flourish like a flower of the field; 
the wind blows over it and it is gone,
    and its place remembers it no more.
These nonagenarians know, undoubtedly, that sooner rather than later their "places will remember them no more".  If that bothers them, it certainly doesn't show.  It bothers me - tears in my eyes as Donald stood in the doorway, grinning.  Perhaps there is a wisdom and acceptance at 90+ years that we 50-somethings are sorely lacking. 
If their places don't remember them any more, I certainly will.