A Dose of Prairie

Missouri is full of corn. The high-as-an-elephant's-eye variety, although, depending on where you are, the show-me state deals a bit in the hee-haw variety too. I finally got away from the interstate scenery when I exited to head west on 136 in Nebraska. My destination today was the Homestead National Monument. Lots of corn both north and south of the 136, as well. Between the I-29 and the town of Beatrice, Nebraska is a ribbon of a road which, on this particular Saturday anyway, does not see many cars. Undulating through prairie, soft waves of hills really do give the sensation of oceanic liquid. The Homestead Monument is just outside Beatrice off of route 4; it marks the site where Daniel Freeman claimed the first homestead following the Homestead Act of 1862 (yes, the act that finalized the expulsion of various Indian peoples). Politics aside, this bit of natural prairie is beautiful and I had the opportunity to walk through it on one of the trails. Red-winged blackbirds, partridge pea, purple ironweed (I think), along with several varieties of prairie grasses, swoop and shimmer. Even though this trail sits close to route 4, since there is little traffic, it is so very quiet except for the conversations in the grasses. So the Thoreauvian experience notwithstanding, I also thought of today, how much of this is my mother's country. This, along with all of the images gathered through her decades of wanderings from one side of the country to the other, is her landscape. As much as New England is mine. Here is the essence of her frame of reference. I am still about 80 miles east of where she was born and raised, but here it begins.
In an attempt to be Catheresque for a moment (if I dare), here is the soil out of which grew the struggles, many of which were fed by the experience of abject poverty and later, scraping-by working class, as well as a family habit of stoicism and silence. Farming is not my immediate heritage--my grandfather worked in a foundry until he lost an eye in an accident--but, according to family stories, when the two Irish branches of the family ventured west, they took up land. That's pretty much all I know. That, and I think I had a great-great-grandmother who was a teacher in either northern Nebraska or in South Dakota. More prairie to see in the next three days...

Final Thoughts from Wash U.

Tourist or Occupant?

Lyricist Andy Razaf on “Ain’t Misbehavin,” 1929: “[Fats] worked on it for 45 minutes and there it was.” (source: http://www.jazzstandards.com/)


In the HBO film Boycott, the character Bayard Rustin compares the political implications of the 1955 Montgomery Bus Boycott to “jazz” as a way to give the act meaning, a contextual significance, to turn it into a movement. If I were to write a different kind of essay to unpack and support this comparison, no doubt I would find that this particular moment in time did indeed possess rhythm (or, a foundational coherence, a logic, a reason), improvisation (or, spontaneity, intuition, freedom, confidence), and call and response (or, collaboration, cooperation, thesis and antithesis, innovation). Aren’t these basics necessary for change of any kind? These are the tools for cause and the outcome, or effect, is what Dr. O’Meally called “a thick slice of culture.” At any given moment, painters, writers, historians, journalists, politicians, philosophers, musicians, and ordinary citizens are in a jam session creating that “thick slice of culture.” And yes, sometimes, it’s a slice of filet mignon, and sometimes, it’s, well, meatloaf. Walt Whitman, an ur-jazz poet of sorts, claims America is its own greatest poem, that collectively, it is free verse, pushing at its boundaries, and constantly, to rework Ralph Ellison (and Professor Herman Beavers), losing its identity as it is finding it.
To be more concrete: What if, in late August, I begin my American Literature class with jazz, the music? What if I started the first day, without any front-loading, playing a sampling of Armstrong, Parker, or Coltrane? Williams, Bryant, or Fitzgerald? Would a basic jazz vocabulary, and the music, give students an interesting path into Frederick Douglass’s Narrative, our first major text of the year? Would this approach help students access their voices, the logic, and originality in their writing? Would hearing a call and response between the piano playing styles of James P. Johnson and Fats Waller, between the renditions of “Summertime” by Ellington and Greg Osby, help forge a classroom community of learners? Learners who ask questions, practice, explore, take risks? Is “call and response” how I want them to think about my comments on their drafts and about me as a teacher of writing? If using art in the English classroom helps students hone their analytical and conceptual skills, will layering art and literature with jazz really bring it home? Or somehow make it more meaningful? Or, heaven forbid, more fun?
These questions reflect the big thinker in me; as teachers, we don’t often have the time during the academic year to ask the big questions, to ponder significant and meaningful change in curriculum, so the luxury of the Institute for me has been the opportunity to consider them. While my inner optimist lives strong, particularly in late July, a reality check may prevail and my ambitions may be reduced to a curricular unit or two. At least for this coming year, for example, upon arriving at the moment in which the paintings of Aaron Douglas and Jacob Lawrence provide an interesting and useful pairing with Locke, Hughes, and Hurston, I can thicken the slice of culture by challenging them with Ellington’s “Black and Tan Fantasy,” and “East St. Louis Toodle-oo,” Waller’s “African Ripples,” and “The Joint is Jumpin.” Using creative vehicles, giving them a jazz vocabulary would also mean a set of “jazz culture” questions that could lead us into discussions of race, power, gender, identity, and whatever else the students come up with that I can’t ever anticipate.
I leave with many questions and many temptations to experiment, take risks over and above the routine I’ve established in nineteen years of teaching. I am hoping that my own ongoing processing of, and response to, the material, lectures, and people I’ve encountered here at this Institute will continue to sit here inside allowing me to piece together some kind of theme and variation, with a blue note here and there. Now, being the neophyte that I am, I need to retreat to the woodshed and work on the swing within.
July 27, 2007

Some thoughts about cost...

"'...it's what goes on in the world that reconciles me.'" --Alexandra, in Cather's O Pioneers!

And there it is. Nerve central. The twist. The implications of Alexandra's sense of belonging and her will to stay put and rely on the natural swing of things, and believing that, as her instincts tell her, the outcome is benevolent. No matter how strong the sense of belonging, there are always forces within seeking to destabilize. It is the nature of our psyches, I suppose. But it's not just a reliance on fate, or natural cycles, or the inevitable ebbs and flows. There is a necessity to open up, look, listen to all aspects of the external world in order to unify, make compatible again, all aspects of self. A professor of note recently asked a provocative question in relation to negotiating all kinds of tight spaces in order to achieve some semblance of identity: What will it cost you to be you? It certainly costs Alexandra, partly blanketing her Eden with violence, misunderstanding, and blood. The loss of her brother, a soul mate, a sibling-son, does force her to enter the outer world on her own, instead of relying on his tales, his narratives. She can now create her own and see for herself. Her recognition of the world has always been there, but now it's her lens through which she filters it, not Emil's, even though he will remain part of her frame of reference; I still think the reconciliations should be even more fulfilling.

What will it cost you to be you? You can't always name your price and you may know it's expensive, but it is inevitable; however, being aware of the cost can put you in control. Being mindful can be reconciling and this is where I'm at. Perhaps it was the feeling of reconciliation that made me feel I was falling into Homer's painting, or Tanner's painting. Something about both, as different as they were, made me feel at home.

Museum Meanderings

"Dedicated to Art and Free to All." This is the bold proclamation chiseled into the stone above the entrance of the St. Louis Art Museum, which sits atop Art Hill in Forest Park. Not the mantra of very many museums here in the US, but then again, not many are this grand and palatial, possessing the might to waive admission fees. This past Sunday, I wandered through the American Art rooms on the main floor. A few paintings grabbed my attention revealing my mood of the moment. I stood in front of two in particular for a while: Henry O. Tanner's "Gateway, Tangier" and Winslow Homer's "The Country School." Two very different paintings, but at the time, I thought I could fall into them, like Alice, see the inner workings of the scene, the inside shape of the brush stroke, as if it were three-dimensional. And no, I had not recently imbibed anything that had been tagged "drink me." I don't really know what that's about. I felt the same way watching the hands of Red Holloway's pianist as he took his part in the chorus of improvisation. I could fall into the sequence of notes he played. What brought me out of this was the following quotation on the wall near paintings by Asher Durand and Thomas Cole:

"The great struggle for freedom has sanctified many a spot, and many a mountain, stream, and rock has its legend worthy of a poet's pen or painter's pencil." --Thomas Cole, 1832.

So goes the rhetoric of nationalism. Some hubris, too. Politics aside, in my recent reading Cormac McCarthy and Charles Frazier have certainly painted landscapes with words in such ways one just doesn't see much of in contemporary writing.

Nothing, however, compares to the wildlife I' ve spotted here in the landscape that is the campus of Wash U. (howz that for a transition?) First, the small, brown bunnies. Ok, where do they come from? Have they so over-populated nearby Forest Park, that a few have ventured out to the frontier of the quads of campus housing? Do they have their own bunny version of Manifest Destiny? What do they do when the hordes of students come back in September? When it snows? Are there sinister traps lying in wait for them somewhere? These bunnies are not of the wily Bugs variety, but the innocent Thumper variety. I have a hard time reconciling these bunnies with the environment of the city. So too, my encounter with a mother duck with three ducklings following dutifully behind. This, my first week here, in the middle of a street on my way to dinner. A city street with four waddling ducks, holding up traffic as mother duck searched for I don't know what. Someone please tell me where they came from?

Then there are the mutant, industrial-sized prairie dogs. Big ones. In the shapes of backhoes, bulldozers, jackhammers. All over campus. Digging up big holes, leaving big mounds of dirt haphazardly, as if the green grounds of Wash U was suffering an outbreak of some virulent, pustule-creating plague. These ubiquitous big prairie dogs, sometimes wearing t-shirts, denim and hardhats, come armed with spades, shovels, picks, drill bits attached to fork-lift-like chariots. Furthermore, they plant flags every time they create a mound of dirt that satisfies them, after they have poked around wires, pipes, and sprinkler systems. They don't discriminate either between soft earth and the more resistant blocks of stone and cement. Holes everywhere, I'm telling you. No wonder I've developed the feeling I'm falling into something. Someone should call Animal Planet. Or Al Gore.

To the Ozarks

From a very young age, my mother would take me to the local public library--a small, stone structure that smelled faintly of mildew--in Hudson, N.H and tell me to pick out as many books as I liked. Early on, I developed the habit of wanting to read the same book over and over and there are two books I remember dragging home a lot. One, I think, was called "The Rainbow," a beautifully illustrated story of Noah's Ark--for reasons I know not, bible stories had my attention--just not in church. The other was Alice in Wonderland, the book I learned to read with. I seem to remember the moment the word on the page connected with the word in my head, and the code was broken. I read many books as a kid--I was an avid reader, something my mother delighted in and something my father scowled at since I seemed to have my nose in a book constantly and he believed it was making me antisocial.

Louisa May Alcott and Helen Keller were my heroes when I was a child. I can't say why exactly my childhood imagination was stuck in the 19th century, but it was. I was hooked. Mostly, I was fascinated by how one lived and this included all aspects of daily life from cooking to bathing, from plowing (no kidding) to how log cabins were built (really, no kidding). But I was equally taken with all of the characters in stories I read--fictional or nonfictional. In recent years, I thought maybe the Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books--which I adored and read repeatedly between the ages of 8 and 10--had been replaced by spicier, more entertaining (whatever that means) stories. Now, I rarely have a student who has read these books, let alone heard of them. Even other people my age think of the tv series and sneer when I mention the books important to me as a child. Yes, the tv show was awful, but the books...ah the books...Yesterday, that assumption about their current popularity was modified. As I have been here in St. Louis for three weeks, I decided I really couldn't leave Missouri without traveling down to the Historic Home and Museum of Laura Ingalls Wilder (photo above). It sits outside the small town of Mansfield, population 1350-ish, off of route 60 in southern Missouri. Three and a half hours from St. Louis, the area is farm country, remarkably quiet and isolated even though it is about 40 miles east of Springfield. Touring the house with a very knowledgeable docent named Betty was charming enough, but it was the museum that spurred an onrush of memories from my childhood when I would get all excited over "old stuff;" here, there were all sorts of photographs (of the family), documents (letters, 19th century teachers' certificates, old marriage certificates), quilts, dresses, and tableware. Assorted other items indicative of lives lived. There were families there, too, usually with children around ages 7, 8, or 9. There were these two young girls in particular, with their mother, who were working their way through the museum seemingly at the same pace I was. Consequently, I overheard bits and pieces of their conversations--and they really were talking about nearly every artifact and relating it to the stories. I became impressed more and more as both girls recalled with perfect clarity what scene was in which book and how the artifact they were looking at fit into that part of the story. The two girls knew these books inside and out, and the museum made it all real for them. Later, in the gift shop, I heard a little boy talking to his mother, also quite knowledgeable about the books, never getting the plot wrong as he patiently reminded his mother of what happened in On the Banks of Plum Creek. So there are kids who still read these books...

And what novel did I finish just last night? Charles Frazier's Thirteen Moons. Yet another 19th century setting, but without the Garth Williams illustrations.

12-Bar Rest

(<--Red Holloway & Tenor Sax)
Idle instruments are awkward and beautiful at the same time. Devoid of life, but full of possibility. Yesterday, I had the unique opportunity to hear both in the afternoon and in the evening, Satoko Fuji and Natsuki Tamura (pianist and trumpeter, respectively). In the afternoon, we gathered for a q & a and Tamura's trumpet lay casually and provocatively on the padded piano bench. It waited. There, it is a vessel, an ornament, particularly mysterious and romantic to those of us who do not play an instrument. Prior to the Red Holloway set last week here in St. Louis, his alto sax and the bass waited, too. Atilt and horizontal. Not the positions they were meant for, but forced momentarily into sleep. I've noticed that when the musicians pick up their instruments, the sax, the trumpet, the bass, simultaneously become dynamic in their own right (perhaps this is my own anticipation that perceives this) and become a true extension of the musician's body--as if the musician would fall dead if that instrument were taken away, lopped off, or extricated from the grasp. In the hands of Tamura, the trumpet was him, his voice and vocal cords, organically linked. Intrinsic. Last Sunday, at Graceland, an acoustic guitar was propped up in a chair in the 'jungle room," looking far more awkward and lifeless than the glossy grand piano in the front room framed by stained-glass peacocks.

Carniverous Meanderings

Nothin' like gnawin' on pork ribs to make one get in touch with the primal. To my civilized sensibility, it just seems wrong to be scraping teeth on bone, tearing, pulling, getting remnants of it all under the fingernails. I have to say, however, once I first chomped, I felt the urge to growl every time someone walked by to let them know that this rib was mine and not theirs. Of course, in getting in touch with the primal, chomping on great ribs is far more satisfying than any holler-inducing drum circle. Hence my stop at Rendezvous in Memphis for a late lunch/early dinner after a recommendation by someone here in St. Louis who frequents Memphis "because it's so close." Entering the restaurant via a back alley where it seems to share the entrance with all deliveries gives the impression of stepping into a speakeasy and I willingly went along with this evocation since I seemed to be surrounded by the right architecture. And I had Ellington and Bessie Smith in my head. Once they slide the ribs in a red plastic basket in front of you, the speakeasy theme fades away. No, this is not a restaurant review and I'm not in the habit of talking about my meals. I had recently finished Cormac McCarthy's Cities on the Plain, the third novel in his Border Trilogy. Never having been a fan of the western (film--with some exceptions--or novel) or never having been attracted in any shape or form to the cowboy myth (or the cowboy for that matter), I was surprised to find myself taken by both the main characters and by McCarthy's poetic descriptions of landscape. Like gnawing on ribs, reading these novels tapped into the visceral, the primal, the liminal space in which humanity and bestial meet. The ruthlessness of both man and nature is a constant challenge, and when battles are lost, what is left is a good amount of desolation, loneliness, and disconnection. And, of course, death and destruction. John Grady Cole's final face-off with evil incarnate near the end of Cities is a twist on the high-noon, ok corral sort of duel--more frightening if not more apocalyptic, and resulting in a more heartwrenching ending. Very sad, and very dark. There is a moral center--thank goodness--but its survival in the end is tenuous at best.

I still think John Grady Cole, and his counterpart, Billy Parham, should get together in a story with Huck Finn. I'd say Holden Caufield, too, but I think all three would become exasperated enough with him that they would end up slapping him around (and he'd deserve it). Boot him out by the end of chapter 1. Feeling a deep connection to McCarthy's characters, something about eating mighty fine pork ribs in a dim basement in Memphis that made me think I could hunker down at a campfire and chomp on some freshly killed and freshly skinned furry animal. Ok, that was a fleeting thought and one that disappeared completely when the waiter scooped away the red plastic basket containing the remains of some deceased pig. My civilized sensibility, such as it is, quickly restored itself and then, after crawling up out of the basement and back into the sunlit, smoky alley, I was on the hunt for some ice cream.

Two Kings, an Aristocrat & All That Jazz...

Everyone marks their journeys with signs and I found myself looking for the words and images, those telling artifacts with which I could map my trek. A different map from my road atlas--as useful as it is. Even a different map drawn by a native St. Louisian (?) on yet another map telling me how to get to Ted Drewes. Signs tell different stories; they aren't the stories that people tell, and may not even be actual narratives, but at the very least signs beg the question of a story. Signs certainly tell me how to go, where to go, what direction, even what to be wary about. Signs tell me where I am at any given moment--in the non-existential sense--and how I'm standing in both the past and the present. All kinds of rhetoric--bureaucratic, historical, folksy, humorous, low brow, high brow--that I'm reminded of all that permeates the language we speak everyday. In Texas, just off the I40 and visible from the highway, is, according to the highway billboard, the world's largest cross--clean, white, looming. Large indeed. The promise on the said billboard is the ultimate spiritual experience, and sure enough, there was a semicircle of tour buses at its base, presumably seeking what the billboard claimed.

Then there are signs that transcend their original intent and become an artifact for history and sacred space.

A few miles south of the Lorraine Motel lies Graceland--another place frozen in time--and there is proof that there are differing opinions as to what constitutes sacred space. Here, signs can become words, notes, things left behind. I found all the small items at Graceland to be the most poignant.
Driving south on the I55 to Memphis last Saturday, I became rather obsessed with the sign telling me how many more miles I had to travel before I reached my destination. So my weekend was mapped by mileage, history, music, and words. MLK Jr., Elvis, and William Faulkner all had something to say about journeys, maps, and signs. On Friday night, I saw/heard the raucous 80-year-old Red Holloway playing a mighty fine tenor sax here in St. Louis; Sunday night, I was listening to Bessie Smith--this cd I bought on Beale Street--as I sped back to St. Louis. All that came in between these bits of blues and jazz--the National Civil Rights Museum, Beale Street, Rendezvous (great bbq ribs), Graceland, and Rowan Oak (in Oxford MS)--tower over anything that could be built off an interstate highway.

Rest Stop

I'm not much of a multitasker when I drive--I don't even use my cell. And I certainly won't advocate shooting pictures (or anything/anyone else for that matter) while driving. Rest assured, I was at a standstill in my lane of traffic when I picked up my camera, traveling west headed into St. Louis.

I am currently breezing my way through some reading on Jacob Lawrence, Aaron Douglas, the Cotton Club, Prairie View Co-eds, the Savoy and having a splendid time of it. I have been assiduously hunting for this 1924 essay by Alain Locke which is hard to find--not helped by a missing box of microfilm. Via email, the New York Public Library was kind enough to assist me, letting me know where else to go. It's good to know I can stump the best of reference librarians at a university library. In any case, all of this reading and all of the music I've been listening to (Fats Waller, Ellington, James P. Johnson, Armstrong, Basie) and thoroughly enjoying reminds me of all the moments growing up when my mother tried to tell me stories about famous musicians and I, being the truculent teen I was, refused to listen. Sorry Mom. Because I have to balance all of this enlightening research and reading with something more...um...earthy, I'm about to finish McCarthy's The Crossing. Stark, desolate, and downright sad tale. I normally revel in tragedy (Beast in the Jungle, House of Mirth, Tess of the D'Urbevilles kind of tragedy), but I am hoping that the third book in this trilogy is a wee bit more uplifting.

Ellington, Baseball, and Koalas

"For this world also which seems to us a thing of stone and flower and blood is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale the sum of all lesser tales and yet these also are the selfsame tale and contain as well all else within them. So everything is necessary. Every least thing." --Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing.

As unrelated as McCarthy's novel seems to the jazz I've been reading about, and listening to, over the past few days, there are broader connections, believe it or not. As much as McCarthy's novel is about epic journeys, finding self and finding place (and horses and wolves and vaqueros and very long sentences), I can't help but think Ellington's "East St. Louis Toodle-O" is also about saying goodbye, moving on, nostalgia, and an expression of excitement for the future--a journey about to begin. On Friday night I heard Greg Osby and the Osby Four do their own version of this song and today, I've been listening to Ellington's own rendition. Something mournful about it in its musical tale about coming of age. Of course, this is what I hear/see in it. A tale, too, from my friend BG in a small community in Illinois--one of finding place within a community, within a particular time in their lives, and within a land that would at last feel like home. And with a thread I am pretty sure I can spin, a connection to the conversations I overheard last night at the Cardinals-Giants game at Busch Stadium. Not being a regular attendee of any baseball game, I didn't realize there was that much talking between strangers up in the terrace section during play. I watched the game (dutifully), sucked up a chocolate shake, and, as I couldn't help but listen due to the proximity of my seat, took mental notes of states of origin (Missouri, California), occupations (attorney, math teacher), religions (Catholic, nonspecific Christian), children's schools (assorted), and who was what fan of which team and why. Very chatty folks. The more beer imbibed, the more chatty.

About 60 miles east of St. Louis off the I-70 lies Mulberry Grove, amid corn and soybean fields, stores full of farm equipment, WalMart, and funny little signs at a campground that pay homage to Down Under. These signs have a story of their own, not to mention possess the story of the proprietor--my friend BG--and her own tale of an epic journey.

4th of July 2007

About 100 miles north of St.Louis lies in wait a heavy dose of Americana. On a warm, muggy (is there any other kind?) morning, I headed up Route 79 to Hannibal, Missouri, a lazy, graceful winding country road accompanied by corn fields galore and, just to the east, the Mississippi River. I arrived at my destination just in time for the opening parade for National Tom Sawyer Days. Needless to say, lots of r,w, and b (and not a stitch of it on me), flags, and good ole carnival fun. I came with a purpose of course--though I was tempted by the fence painting contest--and made a beeline for the Mark Twain Boyhood Home and Museum. As expected, some tourist kitsch, but amusing nonetheless. Also required in this curriculum of American commerce was a one-hour riverboat ride--add thunder, lightning, and a corny narrative about the history of that part of the river, and you have a classic afternoon. Ted Drewes, back in St. Louis, completed my day and seemed a perfect outing for a 4th of July. Ordering was a challenge, however, due to my inability to make a decision and being flummoxed by what a "concrete" was. Feeling truly self-conscious in my ignorance, I could not muster the courage to ask the yellow t-shirted teenager behind the counter--her efficiency intimidated me. It's a game really. They love the first-timers, the out-of-towners and their ignorance, being polite and smirking at the same time. This reminded me of the first (and only) Philly cheesesteak I ever had at a small but famous landmark in, natch, Philadelphia. We had been warned in advance to know EXACTLY what you wanted when you approached the window and sure enough, the speed with which they worked their artery-clogging magic was an art and no indecisive tourist was going to slow them down. Back to Ted Drewes--the yellow shirted teen was not at all a brusque Philly Italian, but the way she knowingly leaned against the counter behind the ordering window spoke of her superiority and command of the entire gustatory experience. And she was generously going to allow me to partake (the cash I had ready in hand didn't hurt either). My inability to decipher and digest the entire menu of frozen custard delights in a reasonable amount of time left me resorting to a fudge nut sundae. Delicious, but I really want to go back for the pistachio.

Next up...a visit with BG...

Back in Business

near Santa Rosa, NM

east of Amarillo, TX

For June 30 and July 1, 2007
(Internet access difficulties in the past few days)

Saturday, June 30
Logged: 696.5 miles
Sunday, July 1
Logged: 504 miles
Cheapest gas thus far: $2.77 in Mt. Vernon, Missouri.

A few favorite highway signs:
“Wind Gusts May Exist” (New Mexico): This really means: you drive at your own risk; if there is a gust that appears out of nowhere and sweeps you off the highway forcing you to plunge to your death, we take no responsibility. Hey, we warned you!

“Severe Crosswinds”: In Texas. This would not have captured my attention except in comparison to the above. No tentative approach here, just direct. Of course, I’m wondering why there were no signs about the powerful stench when passing a huge cattle yard. It seems to me this was more dangerous than any nonexistent crosswind. How about: “Severe odor for next 2 miles. Proceed with caution.”

Oh, and one more…
“Do Not Drive Into Smoke”: I’m not even sure what this means, but it made several appearances on the I40 and I44 of Oklahoma.

Ooh, wait, one more highway oddity: the Adult Superstore. Right off the highway, like a McDonalds or a Love’s Travel Stop. Big sign reading “Adult Video” right along side of a souvenir shop called “Calico Country.” The gigantic, anticipatory billboards advertising, “Adult Superstore 15 miles ahead Exit 38,” just like the billboard advertising a drive-thru Animal Paradise (petting zoo, ice cream, etc.), a must see for the whole family, Exit NOW. Even truckers get lonely? I thought that’s what a CB was for. Or are Ma and Pa tired of watching the Disney DVDs in the minivan? Somethin’ for everyone on the road, I s'pose.

On a more reflective note…
Walt Whitman. Woody Guthrie. How does anyone wrap up such varied landscape into a single lyric? Varied, even over only four states, driving only two interstates. I have not, until now, driven east of Albuquerque (be assured, I have traveled, but only by air), so I was rather taken with the beauty of eastern New Mexico, northern Texas, and Oklahoma. My trusty road atlas informs me of the right highway, allows me to estimate distance, and gives me the name of every small speck of a town between more well known ports of call. But it doesn’t indicate terrain; the road atlas says nothing of the landscape. It doesn’t tell me “gorgeous scenic view of New Mexican plains, verdant in summer, low rolling hills of coniferous shrubs, perfect for that Kodak moment, especially if there are spots of pillow clouds hanging oh so gracefully in the sky.” No glossing for the Texas prairie, or for the huge sky that wraps around the earth, or for the wildflowers that give a sunny shimmery sheen to the pale green prairie grass. No endnotes about the hills and near-New England green of Oklahoma. Why is it that the only image I had of Oklahoma was of the dusty land of the 1930s? The dramatic shift to the Ozarks in Missouri did not go unnoticed, but my romantic vision of landscape was put on hold when I found myself in the middle of a rainstorm and trying to avoid the fearless truckers who could care less about the waves of water their giant tires can spew on to the vehicles directly behind them, reducing visibility even more and increasing the likelihood of hydroplaning. I learned quickly to take advantage of the uphill grades which my Honda climbed effortlessly, making it possible for me to pass any semi through its watery wake with only a few seconds of lost visual contact with whatever was outside my windshield—advantage: me.
I can’t begin to do the scenery justice without treacle or cliché, both crimes I’ve committed above. It does, however, remind me of Whitman and Guthrie who were able to poetically, and memorably, catalogue the vastness and illustrate their admiration (even if one assumed a democratic right to the landscape and the other had to demand this right) for all of the possibilities and opportunities this varied landscape promised. And they both did so also reminding us of the cost to others. I couldn’t help but think about this as well every time I passed a sign informing me I was driving through, or leaving, one of several Indian reservations.