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Authors: Cynthia Ruchti
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met several times on multiple Easter Sundays and Christmases.
“You be careful up there,” Pastor says, his eyes sweeping the lot of us. “And keep in touch as able. Do you have cell phones with you?”
Jen jumps in to explain that there is no cellular service where we’re headed. She might want to dive into an expla- nation of the wonders of satellite phones, but we have a full day’s drive and an unknown future ahead of us. So I pull away from the communication curb faster than she can and tell him, “Thanks for coming to see us off, Pastor. That means a lot. We hope to be back before the week is out.”
“I came to pray God’s blessings on your trip.”
So he does. Then he presses two hundred dollars from the church’s benevolent fund into my hand to help cover the cost of the trip. Before he can say bon voyage or vaya con Dios — either of which would sound a little strange coming from a tall Swede—I thank him and open the passenger door.
“Well,” he says, “we won’t stop praying for you three and Greg. Can’t wait to hear the miracle stories.” Yeah. Me, either.
64
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
********
I watch the familiar fade from my field of vision. Riding
shotgun isn’t all it’s cracked up to be when the road leads away from the comfort of home and toward an unknown that prom- ises nothing but the likelihood of an unhappy ending.
The first miles of our trip seem innocuous enough. If it
weren’t for the twin-peaked canoe “awning” visible through the windshield and my father-in-law behind the wheel, this could be a trip to the antique mall—if it weren’t for the awning, my father-in-law, and the tightness in my chest.
Dawn was tardy but eventually showed up. The corn looks
good. Both sweet and field. Subtle difference in tassel color. Even those of us who don’t farm can appreciate the sight of healthy cornstalks along the highway followed by close- cropped hayfields followed by pastures of healthy-looking Holsteins.
Greg always sees these scenes through the spectrum of a
grocery store: cases of creamed corn, gallons of milk, a cooler full of meat, ingots of cheese.
I see them as artwork. Green on green. Shadows and light.
The delicate symmetry in the height of the cornstalks and the pattern of enormous round hay bales waiting for hungry heifers.
What have he and I ever observed through the same eyes?
Our children.
I turn in my seat to see if Jen has anything to talk about. I
need a diversion stronger than corn. She’s napping. Good idea. Would if I could.
“You okay?” Frank asks from the cockpit of this adventure
ride.
I face forward again and search the view through the wind-
shield for an answer to his question. “Fine.”
65
They Almost Always Come Home
“How is that possible?” He tosses me a smile full of empathy.
“Frank, thank you.”
“For what?”
“Making this trip. Allowing us to come.”
His hands grip the steering wheel at eleven o’clock and six o’clock. Now ten and two. Now five and seven. “Did I have a choice?”
“Sure you did. You could have told us what we already know—that we’re crazy.”
“And if I hadn’t given in to you two, what would have hap- pened next?”
The turkey farm to my right draws my attention but offers no words for me. I’m on my own. “We probably would have pestered you until your eardrums bled.”
“Figured as much. Get a steady diet of that at home.” He’s never before admitted anything of a personal nature. What am I supposed to do with the confession? “Well, thanks anyway.”
“You’re welcome. I’m no saint, though.” I know. Me, either.
He continues, “I don’t mind telling you I have my doubts you two can stick this out more than a couple of days at the pace we’ll have to keep. No offense.”
I want to respond with a reminder of how many years it’s been since he took a trip like this, how rusty he might be, how much older he is, how it’s dangerous to underestimate the power
“You be careful up there,” Pastor says, his eyes sweeping the lot of us. “And keep in touch as able. Do you have cell phones with you?”
Jen jumps in to explain that there is no cellular service where we’re headed. She might want to dive into an expla- nation of the wonders of satellite phones, but we have a full day’s drive and an unknown future ahead of us. So I pull away from the communication curb faster than she can and tell him, “Thanks for coming to see us off, Pastor. That means a lot. We hope to be back before the week is out.”
“I came to pray God’s blessings on your trip.”
So he does. Then he presses two hundred dollars from the church’s benevolent fund into my hand to help cover the cost of the trip. Before he can say bon voyage or vaya con Dios — either of which would sound a little strange coming from a tall Swede—I thank him and open the passenger door.
“Well,” he says, “we won’t stop praying for you three and Greg. Can’t wait to hear the miracle stories.” Yeah. Me, either.
64
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
********
I watch the familiar fade from my field of vision. Riding
shotgun isn’t all it’s cracked up to be when the road leads away from the comfort of home and toward an unknown that prom- ises nothing but the likelihood of an unhappy ending.
The first miles of our trip seem innocuous enough. If it
weren’t for the twin-peaked canoe “awning” visible through the windshield and my father-in-law behind the wheel, this could be a trip to the antique mall—if it weren’t for the awning, my father-in-law, and the tightness in my chest.
Dawn was tardy but eventually showed up. The corn looks
good. Both sweet and field. Subtle difference in tassel color. Even those of us who don’t farm can appreciate the sight of healthy cornstalks along the highway followed by close- cropped hayfields followed by pastures of healthy-looking Holsteins.
Greg always sees these scenes through the spectrum of a
grocery store: cases of creamed corn, gallons of milk, a cooler full of meat, ingots of cheese.
I see them as artwork. Green on green. Shadows and light.
The delicate symmetry in the height of the cornstalks and the pattern of enormous round hay bales waiting for hungry heifers.
What have he and I ever observed through the same eyes?
Our children.
I turn in my seat to see if Jen has anything to talk about. I
need a diversion stronger than corn. She’s napping. Good idea. Would if I could.
“You okay?” Frank asks from the cockpit of this adventure
ride.
I face forward again and search the view through the wind-
shield for an answer to his question. “Fine.”
65
They Almost Always Come Home
“How is that possible?” He tosses me a smile full of empathy.
“Frank, thank you.”
“For what?”
“Making this trip. Allowing us to come.”
His hands grip the steering wheel at eleven o’clock and six o’clock. Now ten and two. Now five and seven. “Did I have a choice?”
“Sure you did. You could have told us what we already know—that we’re crazy.”
“And if I hadn’t given in to you two, what would have hap- pened next?”
The turkey farm to my right draws my attention but offers no words for me. I’m on my own. “We probably would have pestered you until your eardrums bled.”
“Figured as much. Get a steady diet of that at home.” He’s never before admitted anything of a personal nature. What am I supposed to do with the confession? “Well, thanks anyway.”
“You’re welcome. I’m no saint, though.” I know. Me, either.
He continues, “I don’t mind telling you I have my doubts you two can stick this out more than a couple of days at the pace we’ll have to keep. No offense.”
I want to respond with a reminder of how many years it’s been since he took a trip like this, how rusty he might be, how much older he is, how it’s dangerous to underestimate the power
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