Historical Markers

I never knew if we stopped because my dad loved them, it was an excuse to get out of the car or because we needed a bit of history in our lives. A bit of history in the proper context.

We always stopped. Few passed by without notice. It has been a long time that I have been with the girls on a road that had any. Cross country travel is now punctuated by road side rest areas with cold water and blow dryers and McDonald's. It has lost some of it's charm.

I passed one on highway 12 and realized my mistake. I then stopped at the next one and made the kids get out of the car. Then, horrors of all horrors, I made the kids go with me the Whitman Mission. It was very hot and M-E was limping but we walked out the wagon. It sits on a part of Oregon Trail. A long time ago someone pointed out the trail in the desert. You can still see the wagon track in the ground after all these years. It is sort of sobering to realize that they are still there, visible. Tracks that held the wheels of so many hopes and dreams. It also makes it real to see even a short part of the trail.

We headed home after our stop. A bit more aware of the vast distances we could travel and the comfort of that passage.

Maybe we will look back at these words and pictures and these will be the historical markers of those that follow our journey in the future.