A Canadian Remembers America

I Remember America,

Joseph Shore

I remember America. Her roads were not always paved and the creeks ran through them.

I remember gravel roads and busted knees, broken new bicycles and Grandmother’s house for “dinner.”  That was the midday meal. No “lunch” for us. Only city folk ate “lunch.”  Workin’ folks ate breakfast, dinner and supper. I remember America.

Route 66 was quite a highway and later got its own TV show. I remember the dust of her country roads, her apple cobbler and peach preserves. I remember goodness and simple manners, and after all, who didn’t like Ike?

I remember cool afternoons and hot Baptist churches. I remember choir lofts filled with ordinary folk who couldn’t sing, but they made a noise, and just before the preacher got up to preach, the choir emptied out into the congregation from which they had come. I remember sweet hymns sung by sincere open-hearted people with sour voices.

I remember love. I remember walnut trees pelting their fruit on top of young heads, strawberry picking and bean snapping. I remember ole brown dogs named “Ginger” and “Laddy,” and cows called “Daisy.” I remember pigs that got raised and got eaten, but we cared for them. I remember baby chickens and the chicken yard, mimosa trees and precious humming birds. I remember the garden and all living things…I remember America. Her streets were more narrow then, her schools smaller, her children happier. I remember America.

Her tree-lined main streets paraded their colors in autumn, dropped snow on young heads in winter and shaded us in summer. I remember home-made lemonade 5 cents a glass and kind neighbors who made us rich. I remember penny candies at the neighborhood store and sweet red licorice fit for the

kings we were. I remember America. I remember Little League games and bad umpires. I remember Mickey Mantle and the 454 foot center field fence at Carthage baseball stadium.

I remember America. She looks different now. Her roads are bigger. Nobody travels route 66 anymore. Dogs are now named Beethoven. Churches don’t need the little hand fans we used in the summer to keep the sweat from running in our eyes, and the choir stays in the loft. Are things better?  I guess some think they are. But inside, where hearts live and breathe, hope and die, how is America? I love America. I am so proud to be her son, and it is a good pride, not the kind that God resists. It feels good to bless home. I come from this America. It is deep inside of me and I will not let it go. It is more me than my Ozark accent, and I won’t let that go either. Gooseberries and blackberries, catfish and cornbread, the luxuries of life.  There was evil there too. But America used to know right from wrong. Or did she really? We thought so, but what about the racism? What about the lynchings?  Sadly, America shut her eyes and sometimes walked out into fields with bed sheets over rascist heads. Sadly, we just didn’t want to confront that part of ourselves. We thought America used to walk her streets, wade her creeks, and look into her tomorrows and see goodness there, even if it was only for white people. America is better than that. Today we still struggle to show it.

I remember America. I have raked her leaves and caught her fish.

I have dreamed her dreams and lived in her gracefulness. I am an American. How I love America. I see her less now. A veil covers her. Hurry, have, get and worry goes the day, and America sits and waits for the busy eye to catch her noble truths. I miss her. I miss her so. And I wonder if she will ever come back to herself again. She has let her country slip away from her. Corporations own the government. Other countries own our land, and people are gripped by fear.

My greatest fear is that she lives now only in my memories. The America that lives now has passed her by, forgotten her noble truths, and sold out her dreams. And worse yet, has forgotten all.

I remember America and I am sad. I wish it were a good sadness that would not stay. I love the America  with her noble truths and high hopes. She could still be the land that dreams made and could make again, if only, if only, her people rise up and call her blessed. If only her people can just remember right from wrong. It’s not so hard to tell. Your grandmother could have told you. If only…

I remember America.