Stephanie's Light Judith Nakken   © Copyright 2025 by Judith Nakken

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia.

"I'm going almost to Portland," I answered, "staying here on I-84 all the way. But I'm late for a rendezvous and can't stop for anything."

"That's great." She spoke with the innocence of a 1960's preteener, and began to pick up her stuff from the roadside with quiet precision.

"Wait a minute!" I leaned over and yelled at her back through the open window. "I smoke a lot when I drive."

"That's great, too! I also drink beer...." she toasted a previously unseen Coors Light at me.

"Well, I don't...." my controller's voice, which I had vowed to leave in Salt Lake City on this week's vacation, took over. "And I can't have an open container in the car."

She upended the can, not even taking a final sip. Opening the passenger door gently so she wouldn't frighten me (she's afraid she'll SCARE me! I thought,) she presented the emptied can as if it were a nosegay to the Princess of Wales. "I'll need to put this in your trash bag," she crooned.

She reassured me, leaning to pile her backpack in the rear seat and arrange her belongings. "I'm not really a drinker. I'm into good drugs. But some folks from the Rainbow Family gathering came by and they didn't have room for me so they gave me hugs and that beer."

"I guess you didn't see my bright orange bumper sticker?" (Damn! Why wouldn't my Iron Lady voice stay home this week?) “It says 'Let's Stop Drugs.'"

"Not drug drugs!" she continued to reassure. "Just good marijuana, and only to meditate."

"You must meditate," she patted my worn 24-hour book on the dashboard reverently, "so you know what I mean."

She babbled for thirty miles. Her name was Stephanie. Her house was on her back. I was only the second woman who'd ever picked her up. She had come from Jacksonville, Florida to attend the 20,000 strong Rainbow Family gathering in a national forest outside Twin Falls, Idaho. Her birthday was next Sunday, and she always got happy a week or so before. She didn't get to be a hippy in the 60's because she was raising her family (My God! She's as old as I am!) but they were grown now and she'd dedicated the rest of her life to doing exactly as she pleased.

As she consulted the tattered Rand McNally from her pack to see where she'd be when I dropped her off at Cascade Locks, the hair on my left arm stiffened and rose. My exact words, I marveled. Exactly what I promised myself when, divorced and responsibility-free, I left my home of twenty years and came to land in Salt Lake City.

And continue to do as I please, I argued with myself. My too-responsible job, sweet little antique house and sometimes possessive sweetheart are all things that I chose to acquire, am pleased to have.

She interrupted my uncomfortable reverie, offered a cello-wrapped cinnamon candy. My childhood favorite. Its taste sharp in my nostrils and glands rebelling at the suddenness of the forgotten flavor, I nearly missed the Baker City exit.

"I have to fill up the tank now, Stephanie." (Thank you, God. This voice I am using is the one that speaks to my sister.) "I can't stop to eat, but if there's a place close to the gas station you could run over and get us an ice cream cone or something."

"Great! I'm starving." She returned to the car with the change from my $20 bill carefully clutched in her left hand, eating french fries in childlike abandon with her right, bag of burgers under her arm. "I'll get drinks - my treat!" and she loped over to the Coke machine.

The Cutlass cruised at exactly 45 on the city street, anxious to return to the breezy 65 of the highway. I will now talk with you, Stephanie, I thought. I want to tell you about Keith's death, about the bumper sticker. There are so many things I want to know, to understand, about the way you live and think and feel. I will now open my mouth and hear the voice that loves begin to speak to a sister.

"Gosh! That looks like fun!" She pointed at the Lions International tents and displays in the Baker City park we were passing to return to I-84. "Oh, my....fun!"

"I'll drop you if you want to stay, Stephanie." Iron Lady spoke. "Of course I don't mind," and she was offloaded and had made her self-proclaimed idiot check of the car and the area around it before I knew she was really leaving me. She smiled, fluttered a butterfly wave, and disappeared into the crowd.

Her Coke lasted nearly to Cascade Locks. I savored the last sticky drops as I arrived at my rendezvous only ten minutes late. I was hugged and loved and fed cinnamon rolls and apple pie by my mother's aging sisters. We spoke of the dead and the dying, and of the gas mileage in our respective Oldsmobiles. On the return trip, I watched the Columbia Gorge scenery resolutely, not discerning the size or shape of the occasional backpacked hitchhiker.

Rested and refreshed, ready to resume my life, I am home on Saturday night. I have caressed the cool strawberryness of a Royal Beyruth pitcher as I add it to my collection on the shelf. The silver Light can, destined never to become a part of roadside litter, twinkles from that same shelf. I'll pitch it tomorrow. Tomorrow is my birthday.

Happy birthday, Stephanie.

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