Got No Time for Spreading Roots
July 10th 2008 02:46
When I was 8 years old, my dad bought a Country Squire station wagon—mainly for the purposes of our trips. I called it Woody (because of the faux wood paneling). We would hook up our travel trailer to it and go on the open road. We traveled to many places in that wagon— to Colorado to visit Pikes Peak, west down Highway 66 to California, north to Branson Missouri to see the Baldknobbers perform, many places along the Blue Ridge Parkway, up and down the Florida coast, and all over Texas to visit family. We traveled with grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, church groups, etc… There was no end to our rambling.
In all of these trips we visited as many kitschy places along the way that we could find. We visited the Uncle Remus Museum in Eatonton, Georgia and the World’s Largest Chair in Anniston, Alabama. We toured the Jack Daniel Distillery in Lynchburg (my mom agreed only because the county where the facility is located is dry). We went to Booger Hollow (pronounced “holler”), Arkansas, the Tick Museum in Statesboro, and Bedrock City (home of the Flintstones). Don’t be jealous…. We were there and all the while singing the tunes of my dad’s favorite country or bluegrass singers. My parents would always stop and eat “where the locals” ate. My dad believes that life is measured in greasy spoons. I loved how the sun streamed through the filmy glass walls, the surly or “sweet as pie” waitresses, and the home cooked meals. No matter where we ate my parents look on the waitresses as family. I loved how they talked in a kind of short hand. Coffee? Can I freshen that up? It was familiar, kind, and reassuring no matter where we went.
Why do I keep traveling? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just into change. I want new experiences and new sensations. I’m the queen of beginnings. I love the start of everything. Opening a hardcover book and smelling that new book smell. Hearing the opening strains to my favorite song as it comes on the iPod at just the right time. I love the nip in the air of the first day of cool weather in the fall when the temperature dips below 70. The feel of getting into a bed made with fresh, crisp, newly washed sheets. The excitement of buying a new notebook, full of clean blank pages to fill.
No matter where I travel, I realize that there's always someplace else more glamorous, with more nightspots to visit, more dollars to grab, more glittery names to drop. Part of me hankers to try new places or to light out for new Territory, head for the mountains or the metropolis. I guess if there weren't wanderlust in our whole species, all of humanity would still be camped in our aboriginal valley in Africa. Motion comes naturally to me but I don’t look with suspicion or scorn at people who stay put.
When I travel, I am reminded how much of a transient I am in this world. I realize the impermanence of life and am very much a tourist within my life. I try to make the most of everything, taking pictures, writing down thoughts and impressions so that I might weave myself into each place I have traveled.
In all of these trips we visited as many kitschy places along the way that we could find. We visited the Uncle Remus Museum in Eatonton, Georgia and the World’s Largest Chair in Anniston, Alabama. We toured the Jack Daniel Distillery in Lynchburg (my mom agreed only because the county where the facility is located is dry). We went to Booger Hollow (pronounced “holler”), Arkansas, the Tick Museum in Statesboro, and Bedrock City (home of the Flintstones). Don’t be jealous…. We were there and all the while singing the tunes of my dad’s favorite country or bluegrass singers. My parents would always stop and eat “where the locals” ate. My dad believes that life is measured in greasy spoons. I loved how the sun streamed through the filmy glass walls, the surly or “sweet as pie” waitresses, and the home cooked meals. No matter where we ate my parents look on the waitresses as family. I loved how they talked in a kind of short hand. Coffee? Can I freshen that up? It was familiar, kind, and reassuring no matter where we went.
Why do I keep traveling? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just into change. I want new experiences and new sensations. I’m the queen of beginnings. I love the start of everything. Opening a hardcover book and smelling that new book smell. Hearing the opening strains to my favorite song as it comes on the iPod at just the right time. I love the nip in the air of the first day of cool weather in the fall when the temperature dips below 70. The feel of getting into a bed made with fresh, crisp, newly washed sheets. The excitement of buying a new notebook, full of clean blank pages to fill.
No matter where I travel, I realize that there's always someplace else more glamorous, with more nightspots to visit, more dollars to grab, more glittery names to drop. Part of me hankers to try new places or to light out for new Territory, head for the mountains or the metropolis. I guess if there weren't wanderlust in our whole species, all of humanity would still be camped in our aboriginal valley in Africa. Motion comes naturally to me but I don’t look with suspicion or scorn at people who stay put.
When I travel, I am reminded how much of a transient I am in this world. I realize the impermanence of life and am very much a tourist within my life. I try to make the most of everything, taking pictures, writing down thoughts and impressions so that I might weave myself into each place I have traveled.
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