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The 1-Finger Wave
by Jeanne Fyfe

The wave that means you're almost home

The other day when I was driving down the highway, leaving the urban landscape where I reside behind, some guy I didn’t even know gave me “the finger,” and I reciprocated with a smile and a similar gesture.

And no, it wasn’t that finger.

I’ve come to appreciate—to even look for—that index finger lazily raised from the steering wheel. It’s the kind of “howdy-do” that lets me know I’m headed home. Every time I leave the big city (Denver, Colo.) for the place I still call home after more than a decade of being away, I wonder at just what mile marker I’ll first get the finger. Experience has shown it’s usually just a few miles north of the Wyoming border, typically on that long stretch of two-lane road where the deer and the antelope really do play.

Anyone with a rural background has been on this road: mile after mile of little else than prairie grass swaying in the wind, cattle grazing on hillsides, the strategically placed windmill, and, on this particular paved road (Highway 85, which, by the way, is NOT the speed limit) there’s also that lone state patrolman, who you can either hope is far ahead of, or behind you. But that’s another story.

I can’t explain the feeling that such a simple gesture of goodwill gives me. Perhaps it’s because I know that someone actually sees me—really looks at me—even if only for a brief passing moment. Before I moved to the city, I didn’t really pay any attention to those few seconds of locking eyes with a stranger. Now I crave connection. I try to make conversation with people in the elevator or on the light rail. Now and then, I get a taker, but it seems I’m always hoping for that … something … that makes me feel validated, safe and secure, and just a bit closer to “home.”

I always joke that even if you don’t know the person who just waved at you on that rural road, you probably know their brother, their cousin—or someone they know (sort of that six-degrees-of-separation thing). And it’s just that kind of interconnectivity that leads to a bit of civility on the road. If I know I might see you again (probably in church or at the supermarket), I’m more likely to treat you with the neighborly respect you deserve. I’ve often thought that the reason we drive like “crazy fools” (my dad’s words—but then he was once pulled across four lanes of traffic and ticketed for driving too slowly in Denver, so he’s still a little bitter ) is because we’re all nameless to each other. I’ve tried thinking of the slow-moving octogenarian in front of me as my father. It works, for a while, but then I forget. And besides, in the city there’s no time for making eye contact and waving to strangers, who I’m certain I’ll never see again.

I’m getting ready to take a trip north in a few days. My little sister just had their third baby boy—Gabriel Dean (“Gabe,” for short—rolls off the tongue easily, like “Zach” and “Josh,” his siblings). Anyway, I’m looking forward to a little family time. Strangely, that feeling of “family” will likely once again overtake me while I’m yet on the road, when some guy or gal lifts a finger, gives that familiar nod and adds a bit of humanity to my travels. From there, it’s just a few more miles of solitude and almost-summer scenery. I’m already thinking of that refreshing, syrup-laden cherry coke I’m gonna stop for at Scotty’s in Scottsbluff. Dad likes ‘em too, so I’ll probably get one “to go” and surprise him with a treat. You know, they just don’t make sodas like that anymore. Not where I live. But that’s another story.

Now living in Denver, Jeanne Fyfe is a freelance writer from tiny McGrew, Nebraska (pop. 103) in the Western panhandle of the state. You can see more of her work by visiting her Web site at www.write-on-communications.com

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