Wyoming out the front window
For the last few days we've been driving through parts of the country I'm realizing I've been longing to see.
Before Michael Landon reduced them to tv, I read all Laura Ingalls Wilder's books. Many others too, their titles long forgotten. Wagon trains, Indian wars and hostages who stayed, the boy in the small prairie school whose young teacher was scalped, the families in the dug-out homes, sod houses with whitewashed walls. Crossing the Platte river in the wagons. Furniture, sewing machines, china left on the long trail. Nevermind the dead of families of all nations. We all know the story. As a child and young adult, I spent as much time in that story as I could. Now for days, I've been in the territory rich with these stories.
I often criticize myself for just driving through the country. Driving and looking. As if the experience doesn't count unless I'm itchy with bugs and sharp grasses, threatened by small or gigantic animals—and above all, on foot.
When we were kids on vacation in Colorado and New Mexico, we sat in the back seat while Mom responded to the majestic beauty around us with endless exclamations. We thought it was beautiful too. But we wanted to get out, wade in the streams, climb the red rocks. And we did—some.
Even now, I'm still overwhelmed by—and grateful to—Mom and Dad. All that planning, saving and work. Packing enough for 6 people to wear for days, to play with, to eat. Preparing sandwiches by the road, apples and oranges to eat as we drove, endless stops for peeing. As we traveled so many miles, they endured the complaining and restless energy from the back seat, sometimes joined our games, urged us to look outside the windows, urged us to stop arguing or he'd stop the car and do you-know-what. We enyoyed singing in harmony, something our family always did on the road. Songs that in themselves took us away to other places and other times in America.
They, too, took hundreds of pictures. But the pictures weren't necessary. So many images of that trip remain inside me. One of many gifts from Mom and Dad that lasts a lifetime.
Here I am gifted with another chance to move across a changing landscape. Looking. Taking pictures. Eating. The bonus of peeing without stopping, without the search for that gas station or rest stop.
I can't seem to do justice to any of it with pictures or words. Watching the land roll and fold and smooth itself with soft grasses, or suddenly erupt with sharp pyramids, or texture its bristling grasses with pompoms of faded bluegreen leafed plants, or suddenly glow brilliant with irrigated green, or shade itself with trees, or thrust sudden columns of rock through what was only prairie for miles...
Before Michael Landon reduced them to tv, I read all Laura Ingalls Wilder's books. Many others too, their titles long forgotten. Wagon trains, Indian wars and hostages who stayed, the boy in the small prairie school whose young teacher was scalped, the families in the dug-out homes, sod houses with whitewashed walls. Crossing the Platte river in the wagons. Furniture, sewing machines, china left on the long trail. Nevermind the dead of families of all nations. We all know the story. As a child and young adult, I spent as much time in that story as I could. Now for days, I've been in the territory rich with these stories.
I often criticize myself for just driving through the country. Driving and looking. As if the experience doesn't count unless I'm itchy with bugs and sharp grasses, threatened by small or gigantic animals—and above all, on foot.
When we were kids on vacation in Colorado and New Mexico, we sat in the back seat while Mom responded to the majestic beauty around us with endless exclamations. We thought it was beautiful too. But we wanted to get out, wade in the streams, climb the red rocks. And we did—some.
Even now, I'm still overwhelmed by—and grateful to—Mom and Dad. All that planning, saving and work. Packing enough for 6 people to wear for days, to play with, to eat. Preparing sandwiches by the road, apples and oranges to eat as we drove, endless stops for peeing. As we traveled so many miles, they endured the complaining and restless energy from the back seat, sometimes joined our games, urged us to look outside the windows, urged us to stop arguing or he'd stop the car and do you-know-what. We enyoyed singing in harmony, something our family always did on the road. Songs that in themselves took us away to other places and other times in America.
They, too, took hundreds of pictures. But the pictures weren't necessary. So many images of that trip remain inside me. One of many gifts from Mom and Dad that lasts a lifetime.
Here I am gifted with another chance to move across a changing landscape. Looking. Taking pictures. Eating. The bonus of peeing without stopping, without the search for that gas station or rest stop.
I can't seem to do justice to any of it with pictures or words. Watching the land roll and fold and smooth itself with soft grasses, or suddenly erupt with sharp pyramids, or texture its bristling grasses with pompoms of faded bluegreen leafed plants, or suddenly glow brilliant with irrigated green, or shade itself with trees, or thrust sudden columns of rock through what was only prairie for miles...
posted by Susan at 12:02 AM
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