Landmarks. Marks in the land that help us navigate
or show us where we’ve been. Hard to imagine being a child traveling by wagon on
a weekly or monthly foray into town asking, “are we there yet?” when all one
has to do is survey the scenery for that old oak tree or that rock formation.
Davey Crockett was a familiar face on the way to Zuni from Gallup. His profile (Coon
skin cap and all) could be clearly seen in a rock outcropping along a bluff
just off the roadside. His nose pointed the way, a clear indicator you were on
the right road. If you pass Shiprock and see Sleeping Ute Mountain, you are
heading north from New Mexico into Colorado.
We have landmarks in our lives, too. We personify
one the moment of our birth. Our parents mark this significant time of their
lives by remembering our birthday. The paths of our own lives become clearly
identifiable by landmarks, significant and personal moments that stand out in our
memories when we look back. Did you know groups of people who refuse to use
Facebook are called “Resisters?” While many simply don’t want to connect,
others would rather not because of what lies in the past.
Two landmarks stand out in my mind and the first
actually lies at the very end. It’s called a tombstone. We all will have one.
Well maybe not a stone per se, but definitely a grave. There are some
magnificent tombstones out there and some fairly plain ones, too. A very significant
landmark whatever it’s form. I remember hiking in the Rocky Mountains and walking
into an Aspen grove somewhere on some mountainside came upon a fence surrounding
a solitary grave of a small child. The family had moved on long before my
grandfather was born.
I would like a very small stone, if one at all. I
want no epitaph on that stone because nobody will see it. What is important is
my mark on the world. Each person has no choice but to leave one, so it does
not matter what is cut into stone about a person. What each person cuts into the
world says more about them.
Think of it: where is Mozart buried? Nobody knows. What do you know of Mozart? Only
by what he left behind.
This leads me to the second landmark: trophies.
I don’t understand them. A trophy is a decoration
that marks success. In my mind, the achievement is cheapened by the decoration.
What I mean is to ask “what is the goal?” I will always remember the year I
played football and we won every single game—except the last one. I can’t tell
you for the life of me where the tarnished piece of plated plastic and marble
is today that carries the engraving of the occasion. I remember catching my
first fish. I can’t tell where the stuffed thing is. The memory is greater than
what sits on the mantle—that (incidentally) I do not have. I believe I have some medals . . . in a box . . . somewhere.
Would I like a trophy for anything? No. I have a
huge collection of trophies all wrapped up in the landmarks of my memories. But
that is only half of my collection. I have living landmarks that I would not
exchange for anything: my family. My wife and kids are my trophies. Know why?
Because we experience life together. And we win. Even when we lose in an
incident, we are victorious in the end.
