Idiot He often recounts an experience from his childhood. His family was visiting relatives on a farm in far northern Minnesota. The bored children got underfoot and were ordered to “take a hike” so the grownups could talk. They took the directive literally and disappeared. After a couple of hours of wandering across field and fence, the kids returned. They were surprised to learn they had wandered into and out of Canada, probably several times.
Idiot He remembers a sense of wonder. How was it possible that the border between nations was something so insubstantial? What seemed on maps to be so important were really just imaginary lines… drawn by men on paper and completely irrelevant to reality. Wars were fought… lives were lost… “possession” established and lost… and it was all just invented! Borders aren’t real…
The Idiots admire the work of Médecins Sans Frontières – Doctors without Borders. Their employees and volunteers recognize how little manmade boundaries count when faced with real things, like love and life and health. They focus on humanity, not politics or government.
The Idiots live largely without borders. They reject any efforts to separate people with lines or labels or definitions. They wander across social and cultural boundaries much like they do country and state lines… recognizing them only as curiosities, not realities… relying on good spirits and good intentions to overcome impediments to human interaction.
And so… they are on the road again… in the belly of the Beast… avoiding the snows of winter in Minnesota… traveling first from family in Minnesota to family in New Mexico and Arizona…
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Every region has its charms… but some are harder to love than others. West Texas is singularly unlovely - flat arid expanses, punctuated with oil and gas fields and giant feedlots… the acrid fumes of fossil fuels blend with the sick-sweet emissions from mountains of manure. Most travelers seek only to pass through as quickly as possible.
An Idiot He selfie…
Exhausted after two days and a thousand miles, the Idiots wheeled in to spend the night in the Walmart parking lot in Dumas, Texas, just north of Amarillo. Contrary to humorous suggestions, the name is prounounced “DO-muss”. The next morning, as they drove the streets of what appears to be a dying town… they couldn’t help but think the alternate pronunciation – “Dumb-ass” might be appropriate. Poverty is rampant and formal education brief. It’s the kind of place that blue jeans don’t have designer labels and cowboy hats and boots are not worn for show or post-modern irony.
The Idiots visited the McDonalds for coffee and an internet connection so slow that semaphore flags would have been preferable. Idiot He was snarky in his assessment of Dumas – until Idiot She pointed out one of those little stories that demonstrate the pride and strength of small towns.
Many years past, the local sheriff performed some of his duties on his palomino horse named Sandy. A second sheriff inherited the police horse and continued the tradition. When Sandy became too old for duty, she retired to a pasture on the main street in the heart of town. Sandy was a town favorite, often visited and the frequent recipient of treats from passers-by.
When the old sheriff died, his children inherited his land - with the stipulation that Sandy be allowed to live out her life in her little pasture. As the town grew, the land in question became valuable prime property… but Sandy lived past the age of thirty, and the owners honored their father’s commitment.
After Sandy died, the land was sold to McDonalds… but in respect, the town insisted on a memorial to Sandy. Her well-maintained statue gazes out on all the traffic passing through town. You’ve got to admire small town pride like that!
With a sigh of contentment, Idiot She looks out on the welcoming landscapes of her beloved New Mexico…
