Kansas is a very flat state as you enter from the West. You can see for miles. Even a Prairie Dog will catch your eye. So sometimes the foot tends to get a tad bit heavy on the gas pedal. I know it does for me, especially when I am driving West and headed for my home in Colorado. I had spotted these two roadside markers on my way down, so I was watching on my way back.
The stretch of road between Syracuse and Lakin is as straight as a laser beam. There are a few rolling hills, but if you have ever driven Kansas, you know just how little those rolls are! The distance is about 35 miles. That is why I was a little surprised to spot these and the sad part is, they are just a few yards apart and they are very new.
I could have researched this and found out all the details of who, what, when, where and why, as good reporters do, but I did not. By being on the side of a highway, they by virtue of the location become public. The details matter, but are of little relevance in this piece. They can only serve as a reminder and memorial to the people who placed them there for that purpose.
I must confess that as I passed the first one, the blue cross, my foot came off the gas just a little. The second one, brought it up a little more and by that point I was probably obeying the speed limit.
I know these little markers can be found all along every highway in this proud land. As we speed past a little beacon flashes on and makes us aware that some one died on that precise spot. This has been marked by friends or family of the deceased and thereby committed forever to memory. Or so it seems. But years will come and go and the memorials will become faded and then turn to dust. They will be replaced by newer ones with a different name and date. That is just the way it goes.
My brother Jake was an enigma. He was my only brother and I loved him dearly. After I married and left home we sort of drifted apart, but not really. I knew he was there. I knew if I needed him he would be where I was, somehow. His name was Delbert Leroy, but we never called him that. We called him Jake. Mostly Shakey Jake. He made people laugh, and everyone loved him. He had a scar that ran from the bottom of his eye, across his cheek and down and back up. A horrible looking thing that came from a horse kicking him in the face, but nobody ever noticed it. He was that kind of guy!
My brother was killed in 1964 at an intersection some where near Inman, Kansas, I think. Or maybe it was McPherson. I know he had just gotten off work and he and his friend, John Rogers were heading for home. Probably they were in a hurry. Jake had only recently discovered the Lord and I think he was hurrying home to go to church. He was not driving, but that is not important. What matters is that there on a very lonely stretch of road, my brother and his friend went through a stop sign and into the side of a loaded gravel truck. Clearly they were at fault.
Efforts were made to save Jake and he did in fact live long enough for me to get home from Western Kansas. He wrecked on my daughters first birthday which was also my 4th anniversary. He died on Halloween. I never went to see that intersection. I never went to see the pickup or the gravel truck. The day we buried him the doctors amputated Johnny's leg. Four days later we buried him. That was a bad year.
I did not put up a cross, but I have one in my heart. I thank God every day from October 31, 1964 to this very day that he found Jake before he became a statistic. I need no marker and hardly ever visit his grave. He lives in my heart today bigger and stronger than ever before. I think of Johnny occasionally and am secure that all the markers in the world would not make a difference. I think he and Jake were talking about how great life was when the conversation ended abruptly. I do not think either of them seen it coming.
So, when I came to this particular place on Highway 50, I stopped. I stood for a while and thought about Jake. And I thought about Johnny. I can still see Jake in my minds eye. Johnny has fade, but Jake remains there still 29 years old and still with his lopsided smile. He will never grow old. He will never loose his boyish grin. His eyes will forever twinkle and I will forever think of him along a lonely stretch of road, or up in the mountains, or down by the river, and I will pray for him every time I pray. I will never cease to thank God for the chance to know this little fellow that slipped through my life and brought me so much joy!
Dedicated to my brother
Delbert Leroy Bartholomew
October 5, 1939-October 31,1964
