I woke up Saturday morning to hear the sound of snow shovels grating across pavement. That sound—the hollow, rough, rhythmic clatter of a shovel being worked across a sidewalk—is one that instantly brings me back to a childhood of many heavy winters. A sound like this pulls at a connective thread between my heart and mind. The pinprick of instant recognition and the tug of deep emotion combined create a sentimental resonance that’s difficult to dampen.
I spent most of last week in Alabama, where it was almost balmy. As I was riding to Birmingham to catch a flight, I was struck by how much Alabama in December resembles the Midwest in September with its burnished leaves and drying grass (but then, in the Midwest, the hammer drops and we suffer for a few months). Driving southwest along highway 20/59, you pass through hills covered with tall pines and shadow that pools in valleys between sun-drenched slopes. Occasionally, you spot shacks or trailers backed into the trees, silent as animals hiding. The air is thick with pine, red dirt and in the summer, pure heat.
Alabama is beautiful. Birmingham, specifically, is a city of rolling hills and trees. The city also has an appealing eccentricity. Twice during my many trips to Alabama, I have encountered men dressed head to toe as Jesus Christ walking downtown streets at night, preaching. The first time I saw such a character, I expressed surprise to a co-worker. She said, “Oh those people? They do that all the time. Sometimes they carry crosses, too.” Her nonchalance didn’t lessen the chill I felt upon seeing a barefooted man dragging behind him diaphanous white robes in the middle of a city street at midnight. I might have felt better if we’d been able to see stains on the edge of his robes, or maybe a tattoo—a relic of his pre-saved life. But from a distance, his untainted etherealness and steady gait were upsetting. I wanted him to be a crazy vagrant, but instead he was something else entirely.
I like what I’ve seen of the South and I never thought I would. But sometimes when traveling there, I almost feel as though I like it because it is foreign to me. It is not a land of snow shovels and wool sweaters, that’s for sure. I guess I’d like to know if I enjoy Alabama because of what it is, or if I enjoy it because it challenges my handle on normalcy. I feel that if I could successfully answer this question I would subsequently be able to navigate so many other thickets of indecision I scurry between on regular rotation.
I spent most of last week in Alabama, where it was almost balmy. As I was riding to Birmingham to catch a flight, I was struck by how much Alabama in December resembles the Midwest in September with its burnished leaves and drying grass (but then, in the Midwest, the hammer drops and we suffer for a few months). Driving southwest along highway 20/59, you pass through hills covered with tall pines and shadow that pools in valleys between sun-drenched slopes. Occasionally, you spot shacks or trailers backed into the trees, silent as animals hiding. The air is thick with pine, red dirt and in the summer, pure heat.
Alabama is beautiful. Birmingham, specifically, is a city of rolling hills and trees. The city also has an appealing eccentricity. Twice during my many trips to Alabama, I have encountered men dressed head to toe as Jesus Christ walking downtown streets at night, preaching. The first time I saw such a character, I expressed surprise to a co-worker. She said, “Oh those people? They do that all the time. Sometimes they carry crosses, too.” Her nonchalance didn’t lessen the chill I felt upon seeing a barefooted man dragging behind him diaphanous white robes in the middle of a city street at midnight. I might have felt better if we’d been able to see stains on the edge of his robes, or maybe a tattoo—a relic of his pre-saved life. But from a distance, his untainted etherealness and steady gait were upsetting. I wanted him to be a crazy vagrant, but instead he was something else entirely.
I like what I’ve seen of the South and I never thought I would. But sometimes when traveling there, I almost feel as though I like it because it is foreign to me. It is not a land of snow shovels and wool sweaters, that’s for sure. I guess I’d like to know if I enjoy Alabama because of what it is, or if I enjoy it because it challenges my handle on normalcy. I feel that if I could successfully answer this question I would subsequently be able to navigate so many other thickets of indecision I scurry between on regular rotation.
posted by Erin at 9:05 PM
1 Comments:
Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. Read it. Disregard if you already have. Unless it's been a while, in which case, read it again. You'd have things to say to Agee.
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