Chapter 4

Highway Markers, an Update

Recently on a trip through Montana's Clark Fork country, I discovered that the politics of politics have reached even the most isolated communities. It seems that even in death, folks can not be satisfied with the status quo. In the past, the State of Montana marked the locations of fatal accidents by locating small white crosses in the places where souls left the Big Sky and moved on to greater horizons. Passing the site of one such tragedy near Noxon, Montana, I was surprised to see state installed, brilliant red hearts replacing the old state sanctioned white crosses. The accident scene, marked by two red heart monuments, signified not only the tragic point of impact on the lives of those involved, but left me thinking about the power of change over the next several hundred miles.

The way we mark our lives and their passage is unique and individual. The monuments mentioned above were left behind for future travelers to share, see, and maybe even wonder at. These painstaking remembrances were not carbon copies records of other similar tragic events. They were unique labors of love left atop freshly disturbed soil. Here familiar hands caressed bloodied ground and the remains of vehicle carcasses, favorite hats, and laminated photos were arranged with the care usually reserved for intricate gardens. Sorrow stood tall against the taller silhouette of hope. The remains of devastation marked the last stand of those left behind who hoped and struggled to rebuild.

The Montana crosses and now red heart's perch precariously atop metal cattle fence stakes, driven into the ground with the aid of mourning heartbeats. Left to rust and tarnish and catch the last light of another painted sky, they provide a standard upon which to console, remember, and then as life always does, move on. At the first sight of those parallel hearts vibrating in the wind I was unsettled. Change and maybe political correctness influenced the state to rethink the white crosses. I didn't know if I agreed with their decision.

Recently many jurisdictions have attempted to regulate the increasing numbers of highway markers that seem to multiply all across North America and the world. As the numbers of highway markers increase, so does the scope of these testaments. In the past, localities were sensitive to the concerns of those creating the monuments. Kind hearted maintenance and highway workers turned a blind eye towards their presence. Yet according to recent reports in the Associated Press and other sources, those days of sensitivity both in the U S and abroad may be numbered. Some officials would like to see a more standardized, state sanctioned way of remembering the passing of loved ones on the nations highways. And, if, any monument is to be erected at all.

In our sanitized world the uniformity of culture often presents a unique challenge when individuality is expressed. Especially in mourning. The thought of state sanctioned hearts replacing the religious symbol of white crosses troubles our individualistic, don't fence me in western spirit. I wondered why the tradition had to change and why government couldn't just leave well enough alone. Starting to get into a nasty mood, I was saved from my stinkin' thinkin' by a whole gang of Montana's finest young men shootin' hoops.

Passing the town of Hot Springs Montana, I noticed a beat up trailer park linked to the highway. In one of the drives, a convention of old pickup trucks was parked on either side of a long line of mailboxes. Shirtless men wearing cowboy hats and boots played basketball while helpful, horse mounted bystanders roped whoever had the ball. It seemed like a chaotic and surefire ticket to comedy. Pulling over to watch them, I was treated to some fine ropin' and some not so fine hoop. Several of the basketball players sported casts and I wondered if they'd been in some sort of accident together or if their injuries were the result of previous games of cowboy basketball.

Under an early summer sky portioned by deep blue overheads and thunderheads raining down to the north, I watched as the tan cowboys whooped it up. Sometimes the ball would get away from them and they would take off in hot pursuit. Chased by the horsemen's lassos, cowboy booted basketball players wildly chased basketballs in a flurry of dust. The pickup man and header showcased their style while the players attempted survival. Mounted on surefooted quarter horses, flying across the shoulder high prairie grasses framed by the broad valley and tall mountains in the distance simple innocence scored a victory.

I thought of the red, stationary hearts defying the wind. Standing tall and solitary, those markers note a passing, before the highway descends into this perfect place. I wonder what the men playing hoop would think about crosses verses hearts. Did they know the victims? Was some of their blood spilled alongside the highway and if so, was the state's method of marking that end enough to satisfy their sense of loss? Cross verses heart. White verses red. The cross is a stark and sometimes lonely symbol. But the heart is vibrant and alive. Beating life into rhythm and measure. I considered the meaning of these two symbols as I pulled back out onto the highway towards Kalispell.

The cross remains for many a symbol of death. Yet in the Christian's mind, the belief in eternal life runs parallel to such a grim reminder. The hearts speak of passion, longing, and desire. The fact that life ended did not end those emotions. Speeding vehicles and rubber skids, laid down in a panic, testify to the wild uncontrollable motions of life. Breaking glass and unfinished sentences are remembered by a simple symbol.

I long for happily ever after. I look ever toward the thought of eternity, especially in the context of saying goodbye. Yet, I also relish life in the here and now. The heart glances back towards what was in memory with the zeal of emotion and craving. I would like to see both symbols if I could.

As the truck picked up speed the mounted riders chasing basketball players disappeared into the broad expanse of cattle country. The summit of the fading pass fell into place along the other peaks of the range and my heart raced towards unknown destinations. In my mind, I left the either/or issue of highway markers and their proper place undecided.

Save for one thought: But better the hearts than nothing at all.