My forehead rests comfortably on the unrelenting window pane. The temperature is a little below forty degrees, but the North wind says otherwise. If I had to place money on the table, I’d say it’s close to thirty-five degrees. Cows feeding, land sleeping, and wind blowing; it’s the quintessential late-Winter Nebraskan evening.

          As I look out on the passing landscape, my eyes are drawn to random things. I notice the cleanliness of farms, or the herds of livestock. There’s a small group of black Hereford cattle huddled in the northwestern corner of their pen. Now, I’m no cow whisperer, but I can tell when livestock are treated badly. On this farm, they’re treated badly. I can tell by the state of the buildings, and the appearance of the livestock. The cows appear to be sad.

          My thoughts turn inward, and the chances of me participating in a meaningful conversation are currently zero to none. How would I treat my cows? Is there a way to keep cows warm all day? Are cows capable of being miserable? Do cows know what fate awaits them in the Beef State? Do cows know they outnumber us in Nebraska? They could overthrow us. It could be like a Planet of the Apes situation. What if – BAM!

          The truck comes to a crashing halt. What in the sweet hell is going on? I whip my head to the left, and survey my father in the driver’s seat.

          “Dad, what are you doing?” It’s one of those situations, where you ask the question, and you know you’re woefully unprepared for whatever answer is given.

          “I had to stop the truck. I see a picture.”

          Great. I follow his line of sight. He’s looking at the Western horizon. The sun has just set, and if there’s one thing Nebraska has a lot of, besides corn, it’s beautiful sunsets. To paint this particular sunset, you’d need differing shades of pink, orange, yellow, purple, blue, and white. There’s a halo of cumulus clouds hugging the picture. It’s a true portrait of euphoric proportions. It’s breathtaking, but this is all beside the point, for I’m now in a bad mood. I don’t appreciate taking a long country drive, and having to stop every five minutes to accommodate the aspirations of the next Dorothea Lange.

          I exhale loudly. I’m trying to get my point across without verbally acknowledging my dad.

         “There’s nothing there.” There is, but I want to leave.

         He patiently adds, “Well, we’ll never know if we don’t take a few pictures.”

         Great, he’s a philosopher now. “Fine.” When any woman says fine, it’s never fine. If you didn’t know this, you’ve either never met a woman, or never had a conversation with one.

         The camera shutters five or six times. He places it down on the leather console in between us. In a Ford F-150, the console is big, so it supports the huge Canon camera he’s using.

         “Okay, let’s go.” He picks his drink up, and we drive on our merry way.

          We continue to talk about topics that coastal elites would deem above our intellectual paygrade. We discuss philosophy. What is our purpose? Why do some believe in God, and others believe in nothing? We discuss politics. I won’t elaborate on this because politically-charged discussions never end well. We discuss family. What restaurant is grandma at? My grandmother eats out every Friday night with relatives and friends. I track her dining whereabouts because it’s America, and I can. Is my sister ready for college? Is she signed up for the ACT? We discuss sports. Why can’t the St. Louis Cardinals win? Do the Pittsburgh Pirates have one of the best pitching rotations in the entire league? Will Nebraska football be top-10 this year? These topics seem mundane, but they’re like a bundle. They ignite conversations that force my father and I to examine ourselves, and our lives.

         These smaller conversations always lead us down a different path, a deeper path. After our sudden stop, so dad could take his pictures, we wound up discussing our ancestors, who ventured out to Nebraska in the late 19th Century, when Nebraska was still a territory. They were courageous. They were paragons of bravery. Hell, I don’t have the guts to pick up my stuff and move out to California, and it’s the 21st Century.

As we converse, I’m licking the chili cheese dust off my fingers. I’ve polished off a bag of Chili-Cheese Fritos in less than ten minutes. I’m not bragging, but I am. My father is on his third Slim Jim. He’s eaten two Original-flavored Slim Jims in less than ten minutes. I’ve learned so much from my dad. For example, in our family, eating isn’t a hobby, it’s business.

          I lick my pointer, and notice there’s more chip dust under my nail, so I gently nip at it until it’s gone. Worst case scenario, I hand the job over to my dog, and loyal sidekick, Luna. She’ll get it clean. Now, we’re talking about my great-grandmother Adeline – she’s my namesake -, and her husband, my great-grandfather Harold. They weren’t rich. They weren’t the fanciest people in the world. They were genuine. They were kind. They were hardworking. My father and I talk about them, and we do so with reverence. My great-grandparents survived the Great Depression with five small kids. Great-Grandma Adeline gave birth to her sixth child, my grandmother, with one kidney. My Grandpa Harold could chew glass and spit it out with no problems. Okay, I made the last thing up, but I bet he could’ve done it.

          My mind begins to wander again. My eyes are drawn back to the landscape. I notice more farms tucked back into the York Creek Valley hills. They’re beautiful. I notice the creek’s lone miniature waterfall. It’s beautiful, too. I’m amazed at the small things – BOOM!

          “Stop the truck. I think I see another picture.”

         “Oh, come on, Dad!” What does he see now?