We drove my fathers big white Buick up the River Road and into the backroads beyond in tranquil scenery that calmed our souls. My father, who suffers from long car rides at 91, sat in front and told family stories punctuated by songs. His lungs and voice arent what they once were, but his wit is in full force.

Pop is a place memory tour guide along any road we take, with a story to match points all along the way: This is where we rounded up the livestock along the road; this is where a farmer rescued me the night my oil plug came out, and so forth. His world is a world of stories with points on a memory map anchoring each story: Spanky, Eldred, Bluffs.

From my backseat window, landscape flew by: a doghouse almost as big as the owners travel trailer; irrigatoring machinery arching over the fields of corn and soybeans like Predadactyls; bank signs blinking corn and bean price quotes instead of time and temperature.

Its been a long time since you were out driving these roads, my niece remarked as Pop noted changes time has wrought. Still, hes the best navigator in the car when it comes to where to turn or go straight. When we come to a bridge, Pop says, I dont know what it goes over; its something we need to go across. And afterwards: I dont know what we went over, but we went over it, said with his trademark wryness and seeming to sum up a heap of metaphoric crossings in our joint lives.

Then, on the road to home, we glimpse white cranes on the side of the river, always a sign of good fortune.