ancestor arrives, departs, on motorcycle

His middle daughter, the one who tends to be in town, away from the house, on vacation, sleeping, when he drops by -- passed him on the highway. She did not know him from; adam, steve, jerry, bill. His name, of course, is Jim. She passed him on the highway and did not think -- "I wonder if that man on the motorcycle is my elderly father, my ageing father who lives those seven hundred miles away." Because that would be silly.

He has, needless to say, histories. He has a history of visiting this way -- sporadic, unannounced, burdensome.

So she parks and the motorcycle, muffler popping loudly, pulls up behind her car. She thinks "one of my husbands friends, one of the old gang, someone from ago."

He takes off his helmet, a version of her face, my father's face, my face.

The story goes:

He traded some cattle for the bike, decided to ride it up while the weather was still good. From Redding, CA to the NW town where his family moved after the depression, where he raised his children, where he left his wife.

This 78 year old man, riding up I-5, 700 miles, with one arm paralyzed (field, beating, infection, white satin glove) by his side. Just to say hello. He stays for dinner, continues north.

Says he's going to track down his brother.