Their

vitamins were lined up on the kitchen counter, which was

void of any appliances, cookware, etc.

They eat a bowl of cereal

for breakfast (a store brand, economy pack). They take

two bologna sandwiches for lunch and a piece of fruit,

usually a banana.

When they get off work at

4:30 p.m., they ride the roads until around 9, with the

gasoline for such excursions being their only splurge.

They seldom eat supper, either because they are too

tired, too busy seeing the land, or just not willing to

spend money they are saving to get them through the harsh

winter they have been warned about.

They have no television. No

movies. They apparently have no interest in dating anyone

just now either. They are in bed by 9:30, 10 at the

latest.

What gives? What would

possess two healthy young men just a year away from 30 to

live like this? One thing. The desire to be "turned

loose, let go and allowed to live somewhere in the middle

of Montana."

Derrick, my younger son,

and his friend, Rusty, are living the dream many of us

just talk about. April 1, they packed up their

fouro-wheel-drive trucks, loaded the F-150 Ford on a

trailer to be pulled by the 250 Dodge diesel, instructed

Duke dog (Rusty's lab) to load up, and they headed west.

They had been planning the move for more than six months.

About two weeks ago, Daniel

and I received an invitation to come visit. We flew out

for the long Memorial Day weekend. I cried five times,

maybe six, on my first day out there. I do that when

emotion overtakes me and there is no other way to let it

out. So awestruck was I at the beauty of the land, tears

were my only release.

Snow-topped mountains stood

watch over the green valleys that invited us to linger

long in their embrace. Wildflowers were blooming

everywhere. An abundance of wildlife including moose,

mule deer, long-horned sheep, and elk welcomed us.

Driving up from Salt Lake City, we passed through several

old ghost towns that called out to us, but we didn't

stop. I was too anxious to see my son.

In a matter of hours it

became easy to understand why they had made the move.

They are renting a little

house in the Bitter Root Valley (yep, the same one John

Denver sang about) and are surrounded by national

forests. It's the forest service roads they travel in the

afternoons after work and on Sundays after church.

Rusty was with the Forestry

Service and Derrick was a firefighter and paramedic in

Georgia. Now, they both are working for Rocky Mountain

Log Homes. They were thankful to have found their jobs

within three days after they arrived in Montana.

Both would rather be

working in their chosen professions, but time will tell

if Montana will make a place for them in those niches.

For now, they take it a day at a time. They are happy.

They are thankful.

On Memorial Day, while the

boys and Daniel did some kind of guy thing, I drove into

Darby for "supplies." On my way, I passed the

Lone Pine Cemetery where I glimpsed a young woman stooped

over a grave, shoulders bent, and shaking in grief. She

was alone.

I drove for a mile or so

before I turned around. Did I dare intrude on her

privacy? Did I dare not?

Just after I parked my car,

the grieving woman stood up from her stooped position

over the grave and wiped her eyes. I waited. When she

began slowly walking toward her car with an empty vase in

hand, I started toward her. As our eyes met, I reached

out to take her in my arms. I kissed her on the forehead,

and slipped a copy of the little book I recently

published into her hand. No words passed between us, but

profound communication occurred.

I returned to my car and

cried. For a few brief moments her pain was mine. I was

glad to have had the opportunity to share it. I can only

hope our encounter helped to ease the burden she carries.

We are all brothers and

sisters, you know. The circumstances we are forced to

claim as our own may vary. There may be a stark contrast

between the locales in which we live. The color of our

skin may be different. But our triumphs and losses make

us kin. We are meant to care for one another.

It is my prayer that

Montana will care for my son and give back to him what he

gives to it. They have embraced one another. It is

Georgia's loss.