Had I mounted my camera on the dash and put on a timer to take a shot every minute as we crossed Minnesota, I think that at least 200 of the 250 or so shots would have looked exactly like the one below --
scenery in Minnesota is bo-o-oring. It is a forested country broken only occasionally by a lake . . . and we never did find that one called "Wobegon." At least in the SouthWest, where it's all desert – brown sand – you can be surprised and excited by an occasional green cactus . . . with a pink flower sometimes . . .
Sunday evening in Ashland, WI was an adventure of a different sort. Shortly after we arrived and selected a spot, loud music began blaring from the other side of the trees on the edge of the campground. I wandered over to see about it, and encountered a young man who was obviously about 60% short of a full deck. He was very apologetic about disturbing anyone
and turned it off. On the way back to our site, I spoke briefly with another camper who said that he had learned the day before that the young man had just been released from jail, brought to the campground by Social Services, set up with a tent and other equipment, and encouraged to go out and "get a job." We have Billions, with a B, more than 500 of them, to throw away in Iraq and give to Halliburton et al, but nothing other than jail and a tent for our mentally ill. What has happened to America? Does it take a black man to remind us? (See poetic essay below, which is highly relevant to today in so many other ways!)
On Monday Terry and I felt a need to get on-line and went looking in Crystal Falls where we found that O'Malley's Pub had free wire-less -- but was not open on Mondays. No problem, we simply ensconced ourselves on the front stoop . . .
Tuesday as we traversed from Crystal Falls to St Ignace we found many adventures -- Terry found a museum with an immense old engine, Vicky found a quilt shop in Norway, both Clara and Vicky discovered "Yooper Soul Food" in the form of "Pasties" -- a meat and vegetable meal/pie in a crust that was incredibly bland even with catsup, salt and pepper -- evidently we've forgotten what typical MidWestern food is like! Then Vicky alerted Clara to the SandPoint Lighthouse and the afternoon was lost . . . it was nearly dark when we finally joined up at the Straits State Park almost literally in the shadow of the Mackinac Bridge, the longest suspension bridge in the world, some 2000 feet longer than the Golden Gate! I've attached two pict
ures of the bridge, both taken from spots within the campground -- the first one a sid
e view showing the immense length of the suspension, the second from the spot alleged to be the beginning point for the survey and design of the bridge -- it gives a straight thru shot!
Today the three wanderers (without me) took the ferry over to Mackinac Island for wonders to behold while I stayed firmly on dry ground to catch up on mail and telephone calls and other such stuff. The Island has a long and curious history -- a U.S. military outpost captured by the British in the War of 1812, then retaken by the U.S. in a bloody battle. Post WWI it became a summer home area for the rich, and still consists of many million dollar homes yet there are no autos or trucks on the island. Freight moves around on Clydesdale-drawn wagons and people on horse-drawn carriages or bicycles, except on the golf course where there are golf carts.
There are re-enactments of the military encounters with a combination of mannequins and video screen images, presentations of medical care of the wounded from those encounters with similar figures with doctors from that era detailing their care of the wounded and modern doctors commenting on how current-day care would be the same or different.
Perhaps the most curious thing is "The Grand Hotel," a magnificient structure which charges $12 just for entry to the grounds to look around and more than $350 a night to actually stay there.
We spent a pleasant evening by the fire at Cheboygan State Park with a glass of wine and some chocolate.
*******************
Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes. Used with permission.
Sunday evening in Ashland, WI was an adventure of a different sort. Shortly after we arrived and selected a spot, loud music began blaring from the other side of the trees on the edge of the campground. I wandered over to see about it, and encountered a young man who was obviously about 60% short of a full deck. He was very apologetic about disturbing anyone
and turned it off. On the way back to our site, I spoke briefly with another camper who said that he had learned the day before that the young man had just been released from jail, brought to the campground by Social Services, set up with a tent and other equipment, and encouraged to go out and "get a job." We have Billions, with a B, more than 500 of them, to throw away in Iraq and give to Halliburton et al, but nothing other than jail and a tent for our mentally ill. What has happened to America? Does it take a black man to remind us? (See poetic essay below, which is highly relevant to today in so many other ways!)On Monday Terry and I felt a need to get on-line and went looking in Crystal Falls where we found that O'Malley's Pub had free wire-less -- but was not open on Mondays. No problem, we simply ensconced ourselves on the front stoop . . .
Tuesday as we traversed from Crystal Falls to St Ignace we found many adventures -- Terry found a museum with an immense old engine, Vicky found a quilt shop in Norway, both Clara and Vicky discovered "Yooper Soul Food" in the form of "Pasties" -- a meat and vegetable meal/pie in a crust that was incredibly bland even with catsup, salt and pepper -- evidently we've forgotten what typical MidWestern food is like! Then Vicky alerted Clara to the SandPoint Lighthouse and the afternoon was lost . . . it was nearly dark when we finally joined up at the Straits State Park almost literally in the shadow of the Mackinac Bridge, the longest suspension bridge in the world, some 2000 feet longer than the Golden Gate! I've attached two pict
ures of the bridge, both taken from spots within the campground -- the first one a sid
e view showing the immense length of the suspension, the second from the spot alleged to be the beginning point for the survey and design of the bridge -- it gives a straight thru shot!Today the three wanderers (without me) took the ferry over to Mackinac Island for wonders to behold while I stayed firmly on dry ground to catch up on mail and telephone calls and other such stuff. The Island has a long and curious history -- a U.S. military outpost captured by the British in the War of 1812, then retaken by the U.S. in a bloody battle. Post WWI it became a summer home area for the rich, and still consists of many million dollar homes yet there are no autos or trucks on the island. Freight moves around on Clydesdale-drawn wagons and people on horse-drawn carriages or bicycles, except on the golf course where there are golf carts.
There are re-enactments of the military encounters with a combination of mannequins and video screen images, presentations of medical care of the wounded from those encounters with similar figures with doctors from that era detailing their care of the wounded and modern doctors commenting on how current-day care would be the same or different.
Perhaps the most curious thing is "The Grand Hotel," a magnificient structure which charges $12 just for entry to the grounds to look around and more than $350 a night to actually stay there.
We spent a pleasant evening by the fire at Cheboygan State Park with a glass of wine and some chocolate.
*******************
Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes. Used with permission.
No comments:
Post a Comment