Back in the 1950s, my friend Bob and his buddy hopped onto a freight train in Watsonville, California, and got a ride to Salinas, and from there to Los Angeles.

When I say onto, I mean onto — the two boys spent the trip, tunnels and all, lying on the roof walk of one boxcar after another.

Back in the 19th century, my grandfather along with a buddy of his own made a cross-country trip west, from Michigan to California. I don’t know how they got to California — by train? hitch-hiking? That historical detail is lost to me. But I do know that, in his neck of the Michigan woods, some folks were still getting around by horse and buggy.

Fortunately for my grandfather’s progeny and for that of my friend, both men made it home sound enough of mind and body to settle into their families and their life’s work with pretty good long-term results.

Young and Alone in Germany

In 1963, fresh out of college with a $2000 college graduation gift in hand, I got on a plane, alone, to fly across the Atlantic to spend a year as a student in Germany.

I had only one or two friends over there and no plan of study. I hadn’t even gotten myself enrolled at a university. Back home in Michigan, most of my college friends were finding husbands and accepting teaching jobs. Not me.

I wept with anticipatory loneliness as I boarded that airplane. But I was going off to Germany for a year, and that was that.

I was very young. My grandfather was very young. My friend Bob was very young.

By young I mean immortal.

The three of us, each in our own way, went about our plans, our lives, as if there were no tomorrow. That is — as if there were infinite tomorrows ahead of us.

We were invincible. We had plans. Our plans would work out. If they didn’t, we’d make new plans.

We’re Not Immortal After All

My grandfather and his seven children are long gone. Bob and I are still here, no longer young, not one bit young. We looked at each the other day and wondered — how did we do that? Hop freight trains? Buy one-way tickets to Europe?

We are mortal now, Bob and I. That is, we are noticing our mortality. Stiff in the joints. Hard of hearing. Keeping up with acquaintances via the obit page.

I’d love to have the physical wherewithal to hoist a 40-pound suitcase onto a train bound for Heidelberg (which is where I wound up). I’m sure Bob wouldn’t mind having the dexterity to scale a boxcar ladder with a pack on his back.

How Big It All Is

Still, there’s an upside to this mortality thing, I’ve noticed. There’s a big plus to knowing that you’re mortal.

When you’re mortal, you can’t help noticing how big your existence is, how mysterious. The mystery is right there next to you. No need  to hop a freight train to Salinas.

More about Germany at “A Mother Who Prevailed at Auschwitz.”  More about Europe at “Dying Jesus . . . Dying Churches?”