I have lived in 8 of the 50 states in the United States of America. I have visited 36 more. I have only 6 left to explore and then I can share an anecdote from the home state of any guest, at any cocktail party, from sea to shining sea. I am proud of what I know of this country, my glimpses through car windows, from school classrooms, inside McDonalds’ dining rooms. Others can define their patriotism in the flags and ribbons of abstract concepts; my connection is based on tangible memories of place and people.
Because I traveled so much as a child, my recollections are unapologetically nostalgic. I imagine that I am peering through my old red View-Master, clicking through disc after disc of snapshots, each state a new story, my perspectives changing with time. I marvel at the brightness and multi-dimensional quality, still fascinated that such tiny pictures can seem almost cinematic. In this way, my links to a handful of tiny dots on a map reference a deep sense of identity as part of this diverse and complex nation.
What I see on my picture reels:
A face smudged with powdered sugar, eating a basket of beignets in the French Quarter of New Orleans below a statue of Joan of Arc in full armor.
Listening to a cassette of Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman, riding my bike in the Phoenix twilight, the desert drained to grey, color seeping upwards across the sky.
Tripping in Birkenstocks sandals on the uneven sidewalks of Cambridge, the bricks jutting above the sand mortars.
An electronic dinosaur lurches forward, roaring in a park in Ogden, Utah, as twenty terrified children scatter like beads breaking from a cheap necklace.
Standing tip toe, grabbing the neck of a seven foot corn stalk in Iowa, pulling it down and yanking out the silk tassel, castrating the plant to alter the fruit. I look in one direction and see a row of corn bowed and scalped, in the other, a day’s worth of work with long yellow hair waiting.
On the way home from a camping trip in Michigan we stop to see the 55 ft. tall “Cross in the Woods” crucifix, the magnified gore of the dead Jesus overwhelms my five year old life. I run back to the car and hide behind the seat.
Saving up to buy a Prime Rib dinner for $6.95 on the Stardust side of the Las Vegas strip, years before they developed the Disney version down the street.
Biting into a loaf of sourdough bread at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.
Lying in a hammock on a patio in downtown Manhattan, staring at the lines of lights on the Brooklyn Bridge, imagining Stryron’s Nathan introducing Stingo to the literary greats of New York City.
In Juno, Alaska, wiping the rain from my eyes, squinting through the fog, trying to make out the outline of a glacier in the distance, having no idea what a glacier looks like.
And tonight in a suburb outside of Chicago, pirate fireworks from Indiana reverberate through the backyards, mere echoes of the more dangerous, more beautiful displays in the city.
I love the View-Master simile. My favorite picture reel:
On the way home from a camping trip in Michigan we stop to see the 55 ft. tall “Cross in the Woods” crucifix, the magnified gore of the dead Jesus overwhelms my five year old life. I run back to the car and hide behind the seat.
The following made me smile–I remember those days, too:
Saving up to buy a Prime Rib dinner for $6.95 on the Stardust side of the Las Vegas strip, years before they developed the Disney version down the street.
These are beautiful images. Thanks for sharing
Happy 4th of July everyone!!
I sang this <a href=” “>song just for you.
Hey. what happened.
<a href=” “>Here it is.
<a href=””>now?
i can’t do it!!!
…collapses on floor in tears…
ok one more try
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! (Sound of clapping)
Happy 4th.
that’s funny, on the side like that you look like a flag waving. did you think of that first? or is that just a happy accident?
lane, i wish i had thought of that!!
i just couldn’t get youtube to rotate it.
xoxo
Has anyone here been to all 50 states?
I have memories of that Dinosaur park too; as a kid, it was all very fascinating and very real. And now I live there.
And I haven’t gone to the park since that one time.
And I don’t want t live here anymore.
I haven’t counted how many states I’ve been in, but I know I’ve been through many, One year my mom and I drove from California to Wisconsin in her Country Squire station wagon. It was unbearably hot driving through the plains and Texas, but I have great memories of the flat countryside unfolding before us, vast blue skies and fluffy white clouds. The only air-conditioning we had was a wet washcloth and the vents open wide. We’d stop at a diner or curio shop and the Carpenters’ “I”m on the Top Of The World” or Tanya Tucker’s “Delta Dawn” would be playing on the stereo system. that was probably the best trip ever, just me and my mom, long stretches of optimistic road before us.
Awesome post, Pandora! I too LOVE the View-Master in your mind — brilliant.
J-Man, I too took roadtrips with my ma — every summer for a few years from Albuquerque to Pauls Valley, without air conditioning. The “Delta Dawn” moment you describe is so powerful — puts me back into the un-belted front seat with my mother, and as you say so eloquently, perhaps about the rest of our lives at that time, we had “long stretches of optimistic road before us.”
“…riding my bike in the Phoenix twilight, the desert drained to grey, color seeping upwards across the sky.”
Another beautifully vivid observation, like so many of yours, Pandora. I love the image of the color flowing from earth to sky in one long continuum. Fantastic.