When I was a senior in high school, we moved to the desert in, literally, the middle of nowhere, and set up house at the base of a cinder cone volcano. In that desolate place there were ten miles of dirt road in every direction before you even hit pavement. So in the daylight there was nothing but desert and sagebrush and the occasional wheeled sprinkler line for as far as the eye could see. And at night, there was only blackness, a few feeble home lights, and the distant, headlight-bespeckled freeway to the north, and the sky which seemed to be making up for the emptiness with billions of brilliant stars. There wasn’t much to do there but irrigate and star-gaze, so when the monotony was broken up by a visitor, it was an occasion to rejoice.
When we expected a visitor by day, we’d watch anxiously for dust clouds, and then watch their progress for ten to fifteen minutes as they approached our home. Soon they took to beeping their horns at us for the last half mile, as they could see us hanging over the balcony, waiting. And by night, we’d watch the distant headlights leave the freeway, and make a slow decent towards our home. It became tradition for Mom to blink the home lights off and on a few times. “I know you’re out there in the dark. Be safe. I love you. We’re all here waiting for you.” And the distant headlights would respond in kind, “I see you’re light. I am coming. Can’t wait to see you. I love you too.” Every five minutes or so the sequence repeated until we could hear the “beep-beep” of their long-anticipated arrival.
Our place became a favorite stop-over for travelers who went way out of their way for the “short cut” to civilization because, well, who doesn’t love the idea of being anticipated like that? Headlight-blinking and horn-beeping was a tradition. “Can you guess who’s coming to visit you? We love you! Can’t wait to see your surprised and welcoming faces when you know it’s us.” And our lights responded, “Don’t know who you are, but we’re waiting for you. It’s dark. Be safe. We’ll see you soon.”
What a fun tradition. What a loving gesture. We all loved it, us grown-up kids, our roommates, husbands, wives, and friends. We loved that ten-mile long road of “I love you’s”. It was a tradition very specific to our parent’s location, and perhaps not applicable to many places now. But in that remote time and place, it was a beautiful communication of love. “I know you’re out there in the dark. Be safe. I love you. We’re waiting for you.”
We’ve since all moved on. The children married. The home sold. The roads paved. Now bright lights of a huge dairy wash out the once crazy-brilliant sky. And Mom died. And then my Dad passed on too. And in my urban home, sometimes when I'm out late at night gazing up at the faint stars, I could swear I see my far-off home lights blinking. And when that happens, with my face full of warm memories, I blink my eyes in response.
