This is My America

Lisa and I spent the Fourth of July Week traveling home from Kentucky via Nashville and Chattanooga, TN, and Bryson City, NC.   

From the noise of Broadway, to the charm of Choo Choo City, to the small town celebration of the 250th anniversary of our nation, nothing compared to driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway from Cherokee to Asheville, NC.

In 1980, my mother packed her two sons - then 13 and 11 years old - into a maroon Oldsmobile Omega and drove cross country on a six week adventure. She relied on AAA Triptiks, Motel 6 accommodations, and sheer will. We saw Chicago, the Wisconsin Dells, the plains of Kansas, Mt. Rushmore, Lake Tahoe, six or seven National Parks, San Francisco, and LA. And that was just on the drive out.

Somewhere on that trip I became enamored with the wide open spaces of this country. Vast expanses where you could see rain pouring down miles away and never be touched by a drop yourself. Spaces where blue skies went unbroken by buildings or where the only noise was the roar of a river over falls or in a canyon.  

Maybe it was the idea that places could be visited, but would never really be tamed. It was also the knowledge (later in life) that these places are meant to be savored, slowly, like a good bourbon or a piece of cheesecake (or both).  

Driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway has been an idea of ours for several years. We were fortunate to have the time to enjoy the drive. By that I mean the kids were not with us to declare how boring the trip was. Over three hours we drove 75 miles, through 18 tunnels, up to 6,300 feet above sea level, with zero billboards, and dozens of scenic overlooks into miles and miles of pristine rolling green ridges turning into the bluest skies imaginable.  And almost no civilization.  

Another element of this drive, the Blue Ridge Parkway, was that while it was meant as a project to put men to work during the Great Depression, it was intentionally made to be beautiful. It was built for the journey, not the destination. There is an elegance about that, that cannot be put into words. It has to be experienced.   

This is my America. Where places like this exist.