Memory Stones
Twenty-five years ago in early October, a couple on their honeymoon stopped to listen to a dark beauty, slender as a stalk of wheat, serenading the morning. Accompanied only by her guitar, her songs ascended the crisp autumn breeze. Sunlight filtered down to the street amidst the aged stone buildings with brightly painted sashes and fluttering awnings that grace old Quebec City along the St. Lawrence. The man, taking his new wife in his arms, waltzed to the sweet strains of a poignant love song.
This year, in celebration of a quarter century together, Joe and I had planned to go to Paris. A kiss beneath that iconic tower at dusk, a repast at some quiet, quintessentially French bistro, the strands of a dream, slipped from our grasp, like the plans of so many others which were changed or cancelled by a shared crisis. C’est la vie, mes amis.
Joe, undaunted, made other plans. He had once taken me to see Mount Rushmore only to discover along the way that the national parks and monuments were all closed due to politics. We saw very little on that trip, having been required to leave for home two days ahead of schedule in order to outrun a blizzard that left South Dakota frozen under three feet of early snow. My lone memory was an image of Crazy Horse peering through fog looking for the future.
In his quiet wisdom, my husband decided that this year would be the perfect time to seek a fresh acquaintance with the land of Black Hills, bison, and bold legacies. I was simply glad to go anywhere after the solitude of shutdowns. So we set out, not to take in the best of French culture and art, to kiss beneath the Eiffel, but rather to encounter monuments to the heritage and history of our own country, including a visit to a different tower of mysterious origin rising from the rolling terrain of eastern Wyoming.
The geological magic of rainbows embedded in rock, and ghost cities emerging from the tops of rounded hills made me marvel at the nomenclature: the Badlands. Learning the history of settlers’ attempts to tame the land for farming at the Prairie Home Historical Exhibit made the sentiment more understandable, yet earlier cultures had found a way to survive there, following herds of buffalo and bighorn sheep. Beauty abounding on every side, it was easy to fathom why her first peoples held this land to be beloved, even sacred.
Returning to the Crazy Horse Memorial with its attendant museums, this time in the fairest of weather, we learned of the tenacious, yet tragic legacy of a proud nation. From the bronze model in the museum to the plaster replicas sold in the gift shop, the image of august magnificence emerging from the mountain that was Crazy Horse, was all around us. Captivated by the rich tapestry of Lakota history, we were likewise moved by the multigenerational mission of the Korczak Ziolkowski family to realize a monument to one of the greatest heroes of the First Peoples. Resonating throughout our time at this auspicious site was the inescapably heartrending echo of a warrior’s promise to return to his people in stone.
On our final evening in Rapid City we dined at the Delmonico Grille, one of several excellent culinary experiences we discovered in this state of transcendent landscapes. Of course, we had the steak, the region being known for its beef. As we strolled back to our car in the cool evening breeze, a voice called to us from shadows shrouding a narrow cross street. Joe took my arm protectively, but I turned to see a long, thin frame huddled against the wall. Streetwise wisdom decrees avoidance of panhandlers, but I am a fool.
I turned and walked toward the man, asking if he was hungry. As he lifted his head to look at me, I caught a glimpse of his profile in the light of a streetlamp. For a fleeting moment, the features reminded me of the mighty warrior of legend; yet this face held no pride, no resolve. The eyes were sad and a bit vague, devoid of vision that can see past time to return resplendent in granite.
Politely, yet meekly, he asked if we could spare any cash. Joe replied that we had none on us, and it was true; he had left the last of the cash we had brought in our hotel room for the trip home in the morning. Having only the neatly packaged remains of our meal, we offered that. Brushing aside his momentary disappointment, the stranger graciously accepted. In my awkwardness I said “God Bless you,” as we walked away. My words left me feeling ashamed at their inadequacy in the face of his obvious need. And yet, he returned the blessing, adding, and “the blessing of the spirit of my people go with you also.”
I have with me now many mementos of this unexpectedly singular excursion. Pictures captured on my phone, bits of rock collected at each site, as is my habit: my memory stones. I brought home wine and jewelry, and yes, even a T-shirt celebrating Wyoming and her cowboys. A beautiful piece of mountain blasted from Crazy Horse rests upon my hearth.
Of all the treasures I brought home, the memory of the Lakota son we met on our last night is the dearest. There is a saying recommending kindness to strangers, because one may entertain an angel unawares. Perhaps in some way we touched the angel of legend. Perhaps he was just a poor, drunken panhandler. I have no photo, no bit of stone from that sidewalk, only the memorial of his generous blessing.
Since returning home, I have reflected on how differently this anniversary was celebrated compared to the trip of which I had dreamed. Though the City of Lights has its reputation as the penultimate destination for romance, our trip to the American heartland has proven a truer testament to the years Joe and I have shared. We have known romance, but also hardships and challenges, and the combined will to overcome. We have learned the wisdom that it is the commitment to each other that makes the love last. This memory stone, twenty-five years in the making, I carry as a jewel in my heart.
And as for Paris, there is always next year.
