Preparing to travel without GPS

This morning five Canada geese flew low over the house, forming an uneven “v” formation, all chatting at once, heading northwest. Knowing that out here there is no one within shouting distance I did, in fact, shout, “You’re headed in the wrong direction!” All quieted for a brief moment, and then continued on their way. We’re into the sincere, quiet grayness of January, a time out here when cold winds from the north howl through the trees, hurtling noisily past the northwest corner of my house, whooshing, hissing, whistling, awakening wind chimes a friend made for me, and sometimes waking me in the night.

A U.S. Department of State passport renewal application lies complete on my dining room table, awaiting action. All I need now is the obligatory mug shot, then I’m good to go. And go I shall, having long been an inveterate traveler. Not sure to where I’ll next travel, but one day I know that I shall travel to a place known only to those who have gone before, a place requiring neither passport nor special papers, a place where all are welcomed and remembered. I shan’t travel today or tomorrow, but soon enough. Soon enough.

Last week I stood in line at a grocery store (no, I don’t know how to check myself out) and after the person in front of me concluded her transaction, a young cashier/checker put her hands on her own back and arched it meaningfully. “I’ll bet you have a different reason for a backache than I,” I said. “Oh my,” she said, smiling. “I had a baby six months ago and my back has hurt ever since.” Asked how motherhood was going, she beamed, and said, “Oh, I love it. He’s already trying to crawl!” It was a brief, insignificant exchange of words between two strangers who will likely never see each other again, a moment that made me happy for a fellow traveler on this earth. God bless, child.

Not learning how to check myself out of a grocery store is not indicative of my age but rather my simple approach to things. On New Year’s Eve I paid for a meal for three others and me, using a credit card. First time in my life I’ve used a credit card for food. Next thing you know I’ll be using a credit card for groceries and gasoline, and perhaps parking meters or Starbucks. The mind reels.

I don’t care to know how to use my car’s GPS, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed stopping in gas stations or chatting with postal people making deliveries, to get directions. I have neither dish washer nor cable television; no garage door opener, and I wear only analogue wrist watches from the 1940s and 50s. A cellular telephone would make me umbilically available to others, thus I do not carry one. And only four people know my landline phone number, all women. I live in the woods for a reason.

On a recent damp, gray morning I was traveling up my gravel road toward the two-lane on the ridge, when an American bald eagle decided to be my escort, dropping to within yards of the hood of my car, pushing ahead, safely ushering me out of the silence and aloneness to which I have become accustomed. Silence and aloneness comprise a specific destination, a place wherein most are not comfortable. The eagle couldn’t know that I was headed toward the cacophony of civilized people, some known to me, most not. And she couldn’t know that in the inherent messiness of our lives, her presence was both calming and profound.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.