On my way south, my
airline ticket offered a convoluted route via the windy city. Once aboard the
plane, having escaped the unnecessary frisking of the TSA, I started perusing
the in-flight magazine – they’ve never disappointed me, bursting with colorful
ads, magnificent stories of faraway romantic places that look so much more
fascinating in glossy photographs than in reality, and the usual environmental
propaganda. This time it was all about “green” coffee, sustainability,
community gardens, and U.S. Airways’ one
world alliance (part of the merger with American Airlines) that is supposed
to compete with Delta Sky Team’s. The name “one world alliance,” meant to help “international
travelers better connect with their world locations,“ gave me shivers.
An elderly gentleman
seated next to me, a physician, was bemoaning the state of medicine today and
how it was Mitt Romney’s fault (he said it at least three times during our incipient
conversation) and how people in Chuck Grassley’s office wrote the Affordable
Care Act. Not one time did he call the bill Obamacare or blamed those who
passed it in the middle of the night. I was irritated and ready to do verbal battle.
I don’t know how, but I am always finding myself seated on airplanes next to
liberals. I can tell by the way they dress, they behave, the way they hog the arm
rest, and how they invade the floor space with their bulky carry-ons and
computers. Normally there is no conversation with such people but he started
it.
He confirmed my suspicion
that he was a Democrat. He told me that he had to stop accepting diabetic
patients with Medicare because the reimbursement was under $9,000 per year and
he felt like a criminal having to justify to Medicare every penny spent on
diabetic supplies. As much as he wanted to help patients, he was fed up with
Medicare. And of course, it was Mitt Romney’s fault.
I explained to his
seemingly deaf ears that Medicare was stripped of $619 billion over a ten year
period precisely to fund Obamacare. He was appalled that insurance plans were
so expensive now, could not understand why, but thank God for subsidies, and
was hoping that we will soon have a one payer system just like in the UK
because it works so well there. He had no problem with the rest of the working
country subsidizing insurance for those on welfare, illegal aliens, and Muslims
or other religious groups that find insurance abhorrent but demand free
healthcare.
I was listening perplexed
- I did not want to insult this person I just met. I chose my words carefully, I
had to bite my tongue several times, and it was very hard to listen to his
outrageously ignorant claims. He became increasingly uncomfortable and, had the
plane not been full, he would have changed seats gladly to get away from my
logical descriptions and explanations of the disastrous Affordable Care Act
that is going to destroy our stellar healthcare. We parted ways hurriedly, and
I barely had enough time to hop on the next flight, the last leg of my journey.
After bumping my head
because I am taller than the overhead bins on a Canada jet, I happily deplaned on
the tarmac of my beloved South, crossing my fingers that my luggage had made it
as well. It was a gorgeous morning, cool and not humid, early enough to have
breakfast and grits.
I accepted the strange car
that the rental agency had reserved for me and whispered under my breath that I
hoped it won’t fall apart at the seams. Our secretary had bought a Kia years
ago and it had been a lemon from day one. This one was a stylish silver grey
and had Soul written all over the black interior. Peripheral visibility was
poor and it had lots of blind spots. I clutched my cross and said a silent
prayer before I drove off. The roads were not crowded at all, nothing like the
congested roads in Virginia with the motto – Welcome to northern Virginia,
there will be delays. At times, the highways were almost empty for miles. My
eyes were filled with the lush green vegetation, the colorful symphony of wild spring
flowers, the hilly landscape, and flocks of animals grazing peacefully in fenced
pastures.
The sky was liquid sunshine
blue, crisscrossed by what appeared to be airplane vapor trails that did not
dissipate for hours. It was so strange, I took a few pictures. I would not have
noticed them except the small airplanes making these trails were quite noisy
overhead. I don’t understand why some trails dissipate immediately and others
take hours.
I stopped in my former
hometown to visit the house I owned for 24 years. The street was lush with
blooming fuchsia and white azaleas, bathed in sunshine and happy bees. The back
of my former home looked like a solid green jungle with vines completely covering
the brick steps and strangling the remaining trees. Renters never take good
care of someone else’s property. I could no longer see Tiger’s grave; it looked
entombed in tons of overgrown weeds, unpruned bushes, and kudzu. The azaleas
and rose bushes, narcissus bulbs, tulips, and daffodils had long been obstructed
and covered by a green mass.
A weak meow brought a furry
surprise from a bush, the black and white kitty I had rescued years ago and named Princess. She followed me down
the driveway, into the street, trying to hop inside my car as I was getting
ready to leave. My neighbor promised to
take care of her six years ago when we moved, and he had kept his promise. She remembered
me and allowed me to pick her up and shower her with hugs.
The old high school
building was empty and up for sale. The local furniture store that has been in business
for 50 years was closing its doors. The street I took to work every day for 20
years was the same. It took me five minutes to get to the university. The expertly-manicured
lawns were green already and the old trees bursting with flowers. The giant
magnolia remained untouched by violent storms. Everything was deserted, save
for the gate guard. Even the cafeteria was closed. I was disappointed that I
would not get to see Mama Dee, every student’s cafeteria confidant and advisor.
She greeted them for breakfast and lunch every day with the same words, “How
you doing boo?.” Chef Fidel’s miniature garden had been replaced by bushes and
flowers.
The Tombigbee waters
seemed placid. I wondered if the resident gators were still hiding in the fishing
holes along the banks.
Driving to Tupelo, Elvis’
birthplace, was like putting my mind on cruise control – I knew every road,
pasture, home, farm, and gas station along the way. Nothing seemed changed,
time stood still. Towns lost mom and pop businesses, national chains moved in, some
homes were abandoned and shuttered, but churches were full on this glorious
Easter Sunday. I was back in God’s country - everything was closed except for
the chain bookstore. Liberals need their place to drink coffee and read free
magazines.
Okolona seemed deserted. A
few cars drove by slowly. Life seemed so calm and gentle, a welcome simplicity
punctuated by the buzzing of bees. I almost expected to see the roads rolled up
for the day.
The Turners welcomed me into
their home with open arms and hugs – I had not seen them in a year. Lois had
prepared her wonderful Easter meal. Life has not slowed her down much. She is
just as lively as I remember her the first day we met in 1978. Harold, our WWII
hero and veteran of the Battle of the Bulge is 92 years young. He stands tall,
moves with purpose and energy, and still drives his truck to the store. He
helps with occasional repairs at the flower shop, getting down on his knees better
than most young people.
Harold delighted us with one
of his war stories. His troops were returning exhausted from overseas and
stopped for the night in the Civil War Cemetery in Fredericksburg where they rolled
mats and slept on the ground between graves. As a treat for dinner, Harold had prepared
them five sweet potato pies with potatoes he had bought from a local farmer.
Some of the soldiers were not familiar with the tasty southern dessert but enjoyed
it nevertheless. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drive to Fredericksburg
without thinking of Harold’s soldiers bunking for the night in the cemetery.
Time flew by and I had to
say good-bye once more. I don’t see my adopted family often anymore but they
are always in my heart and prayers. Without their advice, guidance, and loving
acceptance, I would have never been able to adapt to this country when I first
arrived. With their loving encouragement, I became a proud American by choice.
I stopped in Tupelo for a
fill-up at the same gas station on top of the hill, not far from Baskin Robbins.
A young man with a toothless grin said, “You ain’t from around here.” Yes and
no but I miss it dearly. It is the free and patriotic America I discovered and
loved when I first arrived. It has not changed that much in this charming
southern town. I did not want to tell this smiling and welcoming man that I live
in a place where America has changed irreversibly - nobody speaks English that
much among the tower of Babel of unassimilated immigrants. People speak a
language that admires primitive third world cultures and promote Spanish and
global citizenship in schools. Children learn at an early age to hate
themselves for being Americans. This man would not understand why progressive
Americans speak the language of socialism and communism. This world I see every
day is so far removed from the South, it is an alien and anti-American world
ruled by crony capitalists and progressives.
The sun was setting behind
me in glorious pink, purple, and orange hues. As I drove east, I took in the
landscape with the eyes of a child who discovers something cherished and I breathed
the fresh air of temporary freedom before returning to the stifling and suffocating
alien world of the northeast that crushes the American spirit for financial
gain, power, and glory.
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