 Ed Garren, traveler, thinker, writer. By Ryan Gierach. |
Part of what I miss is the light, the actual daylight in the west. Friends who are trapped in the east ask me about the light, and what about it is different. I say, "Imagine two rooms, one has an oak hardwood floor, the other green carpet. How does the sunlight reflect in either?"
In most of the east, the light is dark.
I charted a course from Asheville. Under other circumstances, I would just get on I-40 (which runs through Asheville) and head west to Barstow. But I've seen Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma and points west many times. Also, driving through the heart of "Tornado Alley" in the spring did not charm me. I'm a little too old to play Dorothy, and Solomon is too big to play Toto. Neither of us would look cute flying through the air in our little home on wheels. With our luck, we'd land on some member of the Bush family. Instead of being praised by the locals for killing an evil tyrant, we'd end up spending the rest of our days in Guantanamo as suspected terrorists.
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So,we went north first, into the bosom of what my traveling companion describes as "Yankee land .” We are both pre air conditioning Floridians, a rare and interesting breed. In addition to growing up with hurricanes, tornadoes, sinkholes and more lightening strikes per square mile per year than any place on earth, we also endured the winter influx of frost bitten "yankees" who would spend all or part of the winter in our midst. It was an interesting equation. In the summer it was bugs that outnumbered us (about 1,000 to one). In the winter it was yankees, about three to one. Most of us were less offended by the bugs.
When I talk about this "yankee" thing, try to consider what your own collective group calls the folks who aren't you. For example, if you're Jewish, it's Gentiles. If you're Latino, it's Gringos. If you're a person of color, it's white people. It's the folks who are not from your culture, who often judge you harshly, and who you know would not trade places with you under any circumstances. It's not that southerners dislike or hate yankees, but experience has taught us that often they DO dislike and hate us, so we're a bit guarded about it. And in our case, we have a war that we lost to prove it. Even the majority of us whose families were not slave holders experience discrimination and derision the second we open our mouths.
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I suspect that one of the reasons I'm not all worked up about the so-called "Mexican Invasion" is that I endured the "Yankee Invasion" every fall of my youth. They would arrive, in big cars, dressed strangely, speaking a very peculiar and very nasal dialect of English. They had no use for us locals, except as objects of derision, or exploitation. If I had a dollar for every time I was told how "backward" we were during my youth, I'd be wealthy. On one hand they would chastise over race relations, and then in the next breath talk about how the ("N" word) had ruined the city they were fleeing. They were all Republicans. I was in my twenties before I met someone from the north who was a Democrat.
It was an interesting dance, they being the major "industry ,” so we had to keep them happy, not challenging their hypocrisy, or ever saying the obvious, "If it's so damn awful here, why don't you go the hell back?"
So we worked the cash crop, and were glad when the heat chased them north again in late April. Then some fool invented the air conditioner, and another fool (Ronald Reagan) shut down all the factories they made their living in, so they decided to move to Florida year round.
That's how Florida "went Republican .” My friend lives in the congressional district that Katherine Harris bought (I'm sure with Texas oil money). She's one yankee he really wishes would go home.
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I fled to California, deciding if I was going to be surrounded by outlanders, I might as well live among them, where the air was cooler and the pay was better. I woudn't need to run an air conditioner seven months a year in California.
So Bob and I joked a lot about motoring through enemy territory as we left left western North Carolina and headed north through Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin and then turned left (west) on I-90 into Minnesota.
To further enhance the experience, each vehicle our convoy sported new bumper stickers, "Support our Troops, Impeach Bush" (available at www.cafepress.com)
We spent one night on the western bank of the Mississippi in a lovely rest
stop, with an observation deck to watch the river boats go by. The maintenance man was told us that we were welcome to spend the night, and that he would keep an eye on us.
The next day, as we drove west out of the rising sun, another world unfolded under our tires.
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What really distinguishes southerners as a cultural group is our relationship to the earth. We are (or were) farmers. Until well after WWII, most of us, or at least our parents, lived off the land, or lived in small towns surrounded by people who worked the land.
We quickly realized that we were driving into a place of similar values. The most consistent thing about the Prairie is the depth of roots, both for the grass and people. The grass roots can run a foot deep, and most people have been here for generations. They take the good and the bad of life in stride. In contrast to their relations who flee south for the winter, they are persons of great integrity, little malice and deep generosity of spirit.
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The prairie is most beautiful in the spring. The roll of the land begins to feel like green ocean swells, our vehicles like ships going up and down across the hills. The grass is a deep emerald green, and is still fresh, so it is very easily moved by the wind. The wind dances across it, creating patterns and swirls on top of the green ocean.
We made a point to stop in local places whenever possible. We bought preserves at an Amish co-op at an interstate exit in Minnesota, had hearty breakfasts at small village restaurants, and constantly drove west, over the ocean of green we were crossing.
 By Ed Garren. |
My dog Solomon got sick and we stopped at an emergency vet on a Sunday night in Sioux Falls South Dakota. The staff was very kind and offered directions for a good place for supper.
The young doctor knew her stuff. Solomon was to spend the night at the hospital, with an IV to re-hydrate him. Bob and I went off in search of supper. We found a Chinese buffet place, and sat down to enjoy dinner. We heard more Spanish than English, soon realizing that we were in the "Barrio" of Sioux Falls. Conversations with other diners revealed that work was plentiful, housing affordable, cost of living cheap and winter's cold (except for this last one). No one seemed to mind.
Next day, we picked up a much perkier Solomon and continued west on I-90. South Dakota is a beautiful state, vast open skies, endless waves of grass, it is where "Little House on the Prairie" was set. Pictures rarely do it justice.
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We spent a night at Badlands National Monument just south of Wall. Sitting under a canopy of vivid stars, in the quiet magnificence of Badlands National Park, one could understand why people prefer to stay. The earth and sky are boundless here. The stars were so bright, one could almost pick them out of the sky. One feels the sense of unlimited opportunity and promise here, changeless as the grass, which seems to go on forever. The next morning, I snapped a photo of our convoy, with the park landscape in the background.
In the 1930s, the wife of a struggling young pharmacist suggested they could get some tourist traffic into their tiny drug store if they offered free ice water. Signs were put up along the highway, and soon the little store was brimming with tourists fleeing the dry summer heat. Decades later, Wall Drug Store has grown into a multi faceted retail emporium, rivaling West Hollywood's Gateway Center in variety and size. I bought a new pair of Western Boots from Violet in the leather goods department. Violet has worked at Wall Drug for decades.
We had lunch in the restaurant, Bob had a Bison Burger, I had fried chicken. I stopped briefly to offer thanks in the Traveler's Chapel, and then we resumed our journey westward towards mountains.
There are times when regular politics will not do, and this is one of those times - Molly Ivins.
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Edward "Ed" Garren, MFT, is a Family Therapist, justice activist, former West Hollywood City Council candidate, writer and sojourner. He is originally from the Tampa Bay area of central Florida. Ed has been published in the Los Angeles Times, Frontiers news magazine, and other books, including "Out of My Mind,” a pictorial memoir by Kris Nelson. He is currently working on a book about Addiction in America.
Ed Garren can be reached, even in the Red America’s wilds, at