The City Council: A fictional narrative of rural life in the American West: Episode 176: The Drive Home

“A lot like me,” he mumbled, lightheartedly. “Someday my sand will all run out.”

The drive home was a poignant sojourn, mile after mile of the arid West allowing him the expanse to survey the terrain of these unwinding miles.

The lands he traveled through spoke to his ignorance, which he readily acknowledged — in geology, in botany, in anthropology. He thought, “I couldn’t tell a Zuni dance from a Navajo from a Hopi if my life depended upon it.” He laughed, thinking of the adage, “The more I know the more I know what I don’t know.”

George shrugged, accepting his limitations within a life well lived, “Me on this highway, just another baby boomer driving across this stark, beautiful Southwest.”

His eyes were getting heavy, so he pulled off, spotting a Denny’s for a cup of coffee.

Walking in, he was drawn to an old native man sitting alone, drawn enough to ask if he might share the booth, for the man’s Vietnam War Veteran ball cap cried, “Welcome, friend!”

“Rest your bones right here.”

The man smiled, revealing a gleaming gold crown on a lower molar.

They introduced as the waitress and her coffee pot arrived. Briefly, they shared their army units and their deployed time in Southeast Asia.

George’s new friend said, “I’m Laguna, from the pueblo.”

“Tell me more,” asked George.

“Well, in the pueblos the people have war gods to protect them, so we feel safe at home, our adobe homes. Rising from Mother Earth, the first people gasp at first breath — at the wonder of it all! Here the creator gifts rabbit and turkey; the people nurture nature, growing corn. Squash, beans. The people dine on stories, the land, our community.”

The man could see that George was genuinely listening.

“You probably are in a hurry to make your miles on the Interstate. Yet, there are many roads better for your soul to heal this last loss of yours.”

They both chuckled at this candor of this spontaneous coffee klatsch.

“Our time is different in the pueblos. The four seasons, the sun, the moon, these are our calendar and clock. Our hearts too beat time, of course.”

George nodded. “I’d like directions. Back home as a farmer, I know the strength of the land that pulls a fella to smell the earth, to praise the sun and the rain in turn.”

Antonio withdrew a pencil nub from his breast pocket and proceeded to draw a map on his napkin.

“Finding your way can really be quite simple. It’s really not some kind of nebulous over-the-rainbow kind of crap.” He winked. “The sun, the moon, the stars, they are of the heart of your compass rose, but you well know that. You appear to be a man who likes his silences as well as his chances at fellowship.”

How is it that friendships materialize? This chance encounter, two kindred souls meeting, what are the odds? That one human in passing brings some serenity to another just by being himself or herself, this mutual gift! If you are one of those readers who scoffs at the notion of the miraculous in everyday occurrences, then this ending is surely not to your satisfaction. If, on the other hand, you often see a benevolent supernatural sleight of hand about you, then you might smile knowingly on George’s good fortune.

George and Antonio began a letter and email correspondence, which brought joy and insights to both men, both widowers. It was not long before George was invited down to Old Laguna to enjoy some Pueblo hospitality including lamb stew and elephant toes bread, fresh from the horno or beehive shaped adobe outdoor oven.