When I was growing up I sometimes hated the trips we'd take as a family. Partly because the trips themselves never sounded that exciting...like road trips to Nebraska for a family reunion (I remember all the other kids in my class were going to Cancun or Hawaii) But I think I also dreaded what we'd do once we got anywhere. My dad was the type that would drag us all around town. We visited historical districts, monuments and museums til it all blurred together..information was simply information..presidents, wars, first ladies, art, Indians...it all seemed the same.
But as my dad and I drove up the east coast I have found a whole new appreciation for all that history stuff. Yes 5 hours of continual museums is still too much for me. But I now actually enjoy a casual stroll around a historic district, peering through windows, reading up on a building or structure or statue. I think I didn't care for history because it seemed so irrelevent from the world I live in today; yes, far away...but totally seperate, like we jumped from then to now. But as I sat on the steps of the house that Flannery O'Connor once lived (one of my favorite authors) I was reminded of how fluid life is. I was sitting, walking, thinking in the areas that she once did the same. I felt the breeze she felt, smelled the smells...sounds corny and romantic, but its true.
We are where we are now via a long, winding journey, not a sudden jump. In that sense those times are important because they are just as much a part of me as today is. I don't know, it all made more sense in my head. I guess I was feeling overwhelmed with the conviction that what we do MATTERS (now and in the future) because someday we'll be someone else's history; someone's starting mark. boggles my mind.
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