Contemporary Nomads

The local news caught wind of the oddest, sweetest story without ever recognizing the clues that lie in front of them.

Valerie was comfortable with that, though.

The rambling and various noises from her car continued, lasting the last thousand miles and carrying her forward loudly, with feeling. Valerie liked everything about the sounds of the road beneath the tires, the squeals and squacks and thuds of any true mechanical thing. It is her roar in this world, and the heralding concert celebrating her sheer will to live fully engaged in this new adventure. The tired machine groans further and she pet it gently, knowing her automotive steed will not let her down.

She passes gentle, jagged countryside; sagebrush had become a familiar sight the last few destinations. The earth seems to have run out of ideas and it carpets this landscape with sagebrush because it ran out of the more interesting stuff.

But Valerie could see why her grandmother felt different here. She’s finding herself feeling it too, especially every time she opens the journal to the trip’s next destination.

“September 23rd, 1998. Some veneer being stripped away by the heat, the brush, the dirt and dust. My sense of self is having a real scrubbing, down to bare essentials. Nothing is left but the physical sensations of my body. My raw thoughts and consciousness are exposed. But safe.”

A few journal passages later detail today’s destination. Custer State Park in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

“September 24th, 1998. I’m really excited to find out if I’m going to die today!”

Her grandmother Violetta was a creative and imaginative woman, always expressive without any sense of hierarchy; her knowledge of and visions for life never colored her expectations of others. Your job, your worldview, your past, your deficiencies were never a focus for her. Violetta was always far more interested in being interested in life. The quiet and the spectacular were equal fodder and that fact alone means that experiences can always be interesting.

Her visit to the Black Hills was to view the Annual Custer State Park Buffalo Roundup where over a thousand bison are rounded up and herded at the end of the season.

Violetta had volunteered as a rider for the event when she wrote her journal entry. She had applied and waited a few weeks to hear back, her entries tellingly absent until she knew the result. She wanted to know the reality when she wrote down her thoughts about this.

“It’s the closest I’ll ever come to the running of the bulls here in the US and, though I know the herd is culled as well, I still think it’s the most humane way to enjoy the thrill of possibly getting killed in several different ways.”

After her application was successful, the next three months with her and her horse were all bright and explosive moments:

July 1st, 1998. Hazelnut needs to be re-shod! My goodness!…

July 18th, 1998. Hazelnut and I just ran through the roughest terrain yet! She is doing FANTASTIC!…

August 16th, 1998. Landed badly again. I really have to get better on this new saddle, this is the 4th time already!”

September 3rd, 1998. We jumped over fallen trees today! We jumped over fallen trees today!”

As much as the excitement and giddiness of prepping for the event carried her grandmother through the weeks, the dangers of the event itself were never hidden. The worries were real and the preparation real; the only way to stay safe is to be prepared for everything.

That work was non-negotiable. Her grandmother had always taught her more than material lessons. In life you need to be prepared, willing to let go, and always ready to enjoy the moment. Non-negotiable.

Behind Valerie a little girl cries out.

“Mommy, mommy look at that pretty brown one!” the little one trills, pulling her mother and pointing as if she could force her hand across the world if she tried hard enough. The roundup had ended so the horses were the star attraction for some folks now.

“Which brown one, honey?” the mother smiled.

“That one right there, with the white diamond on his head. Oh look he’s eating a carrot now!!!”

The conversation continued that way for several more horses, the pair stopping each time with slack-jawed admiration, over and over again. As the crowd dies down so do the thrills of the day.

“Mommy why can’t we get a horse yet?” the girl asks.

“Because it’s expensive, honey.”

Valerie walk slowly, careful to keep listening in to the conversation as she follows mother and daughter towards their car.

“I can make a lemonade stand, all by myself! I already cleaned the barn and helped get everything ready, how long do we have to wait?”

The mother pauses and so does Valerie.

“Honey, it’s going to be a very long time, I think. I know moving into grandma’s house means we have a barn now, I know I said we can afford it once we are settled. But horses cost a lot of money to bring home.”

“How much?” the daughter asks.

“Too much for us.”

“But mommy, we got everything ready, I’ve been waiting and waiting…”

“You have to let that go for now. I know we are trying, we’ll always keep trying, but right now I need you to forgive me and be okay that we just can’t.”

“This is a bad idea” Valerie thinks before reaching for her phone. The pair exist in their little bubble of a world, impervious and vulnerable. Valerie takes their picture and another of their license plate just before the car drives away. She has plenty to ensure that the right stable, coupled with the right donation, will subsidize the young girl’s dream.

A new, raw intensity takes her over. A blind-siding enthusiasm, like most things in life, that had been washed away with age. This trip is turning into practice confronting what had been washed away. Finding a way to dirty herself up again with the deep focus she learned in youth.

The first news story came as a bit of a surprise to Valerie.

Five weeks into this trip a local Denver station covered a hospital children’s ward that was gifted the funds for a “today-day” party; the goal was to inspire and encourage the children, some terminally ill, to think about each day and live smilingly in the moment.

The surprise that caught Valerie off guard was how the event blossomed. It became a huge hit with the kids, expanded media coverage that then spawned talk of other hospitals doing similar. It was as if it was a beast of its own, a story that would carry on elsewhere and everywhere.

The next garnered slightly more coverage, detailing the no-fees day at an over-crowded animal shelter in New Orleans. The donations had been higher than expected this last year and that meant making it easier to place those that were waiting longest for a home. One donation, in particular, had been especially large.

More stories followed Valerie through the recreation of her grandmother’s travels, decades earlier: the free chili festival in Alabama for the town that had lost a major factory; the free concert and lunches in St. Louis church, the pre-paid book fair in Buffalo.

This celebration of her grandmother’s life was detailed in the final pages of her journal. Notarized, she made it her official will; legally paraphrased but not misunderstood.

The final destination, in stark contrast to the loudness of those prior, has very little in it, despite being the open sea. The Pacific Ocean presents itself to her.

This place scares even Valerie.

She is sitting on an outcropping of rock, slim and solid enough for one person to stare out into the impossibly busy depths of a quiet sea. It is an existential and physical fear, pulling at her rational and primitive minds alike.

It is a fitting place, to be sure, but what it fits is anyone’s mystery.

In the final pages of her journal, Violetta laid out a large sum of money to be spent on various endeavors, divided into budgets.

There was a budget for making people happy, another for giving people respect for life, another for helping people get through the day, and a final for showing people what’s right in front of them.

Valerie, as the trustee, was responsible for these disbursements. Partly because the connection she shared with Violetta was more than genetic; their outlook on life was a pragmatic, creative, imaginative one. That the burden of existence challenges us to consume the fruits of this earth without regard to what you’ve tried before or will taste after.

“My motto for life: No loose threads, no weak muscles, never forget the salt.”

The cryptic but perfectly sensible budgets were funded well enough that Valerie took months of traveling to spend them all. Memories detailed in the simple, stoic, black notebook Violetta left behind were the real source of the specific places that meant something. The specific places being revisited on this trip. All in all, there was no better starting point, no better plan.

But with the budgets came a last one, a $20,000 lump sum that came with one stipulation.

“Embed your life into the stuff of this universe, Valerie. Leave the marks of you, everywhere.”

For most, a windfall is an excitement. A new opportunity, a thrill in wondering what to do next or how to maximize some value of happiness or expedience or practicality. Valerie was capable in life, without too many worries for money because she didn’t give herself too many reasons to worry about money. Preparation in the world of money is the same as for riding in a roundup: non-negotiable.

With preparation comes a sense of comfort, of learned knowledge, and of being ready even if you know you will fail. So many times in life Valerie was taught, guided, mentored to be exactly where she is now, tempered by the same motto that carries her still.

No loose threads because finishing a thing is as important as building it.

No weak muscles because controlling your body and mind is the first step always.

Never forget the salt because if you don’t taste and enjoy your efforts, what was the point of it all?

For most people, a windfall is an excitement. But Valerie is hardly most people and, instead, she saw all the chances to press herself into the world.

Town to town, story to story, person to person. She found the causes, the needs, the souls that embodied the family motto. Now with the final parts of her lump sum sent off to the stable, she thinks about that little girl finally seeing preparation being realized. Knowing that despite all the times for failure and times for triumph, she will be giving that girl a more powerful thing than money alone could procure.

Months of being tracked by the news without anyone realizing they were following her. A trip well spent and a reminder from the grandmother who taught her so many things.

Valerie’s mind finally settles into rhythm, staring at the waves. The water is still, by large, but constantly changing. The noises are steady and predictable but deafening to one’s inner thoughts. The colors are intense, deep, and powerful without bowing down to some blinding spectrum.

A fitting place for a trip of such experiences. A fitting place to be reminded of the obstacles and false prizes strewn about a fully lived life. To be reminded that those jagged countrysides of existence live amidst the real and precious moments of awe.

Valerie looks at her grandmother’s final sketch of this place, of this view, of this feeling. She inhales this new knowledge from her still-forever teacher and feels a new wildness, a manic scrawling of her own book, yet to be written.