Maps and Legends

I picked this map up in an antique store with the idea of framing it in my office. If you grew up during the pre-internet years and weren't rich enough to have a vacation that involved taking an airplane to get there, then you most likely spent a week at your nearest beach or lake.

If, like my family, your parents were fueled by history, you'd set off for parts unknown, or rather parts only known from history books.  Gettysburg was the closest battlefield to where we lived. But for my dad and mom,  no state was too far when it came to the Civil War. While both were history buffs, my mom placed more of a romantic filter over it. She harbored a secret desire to have been born during the days of cowboys and petticoats, something I knew from an ill-fated attempt to write a western romance novel.

I say "ill-fated," not because she didn't complete it, but because it was lacking in the salacious aspects that would have made it a titillating beach read. Mom was a church-goer and fervent believer in Jesus. She might have written about ripping bodices, but body parts were off limits. And like every true writer, you start with crap before you evolve. The slew of rejection letters prevented her from taking another stab until decades later, a few years before she died, where she finally found her voice and a willing audience beyond her family.

I recall one such trip to Beaufort, South Carolina where we took in the Antebellum sights. Never much of a drinker, mom tried her first mint julep that trip. The combination of bourbon and hot southern summer sun acted like a soporific. She was out for the count and snoozed her way the hour long drive back to Hilton Head.

In those days, your Siri was either the spiral bound AAA booklets, or the map you bought at the local gas station. In those days, too, the sight of strangers with Yankee accents did not sit well with the local population. It's hard to believe now, but "Yankee go home," was something we heard whenever we got off at the wrong accent. I find it humorous now, considering I spent seven years in Atlanta. Back then it was Deliverance-level scary.

Menace aside, the maps were the best.  They always featured some cartoon, either something that represented the state, like the one above, or something car-related. Navigation wasn't left to devices with strangely unemotional voices. They were interactive by necessity.  I was in charge (or my dad kidded me into believing I was in charge) of helping him get from A to B, making sure we didn't miss an exit.

As a result, I still know those highways and winding back streets, just as my brother and mom and grandmother would have remembered the cow-dotted fields, procession of army jeeps, motels and roadside diners, always selling famous pie. I think it's what people really meant by the expression "getting there is half the fun."  The act of "getting there," was a shared experience.

Now I think about my daughter and how from her backseat enclave, our family trips don't always hold the same sense of wonder. Sure, we can play whatever music we want to at a moment's notice.  Siri now tells me where to go and even offers up a chance to take a shortcut to save eight minutes.

But if we've seen the view once we then ignore it a hundred times. Unless the view is breathtaking or something out of the ordinary happens, we act like nothing happens. We stare into the abyss of our screens while life passes us by. At least as a driver I have to focus on the road.  Being a passenger is pointless; you might as well stay home.

I suspect the real reason I left L.A. is because I wanted to get away from that. Not technology, but the parts of technology that have made life soulless and inhuman. It reminds me of that lyric from R.E.M.'s "Don't go back to Rockville," in which the singer laments his girlfriend leaving and going to a town where "Nobody says hello, they don't talk to anybody they don't know."

In one sense, that sums up L.A. The difference is they'll talk to you if they think you are famous or can get them an acting gig.

Looking at this map of The Golden State of California, 1985 edition, I wonder what the travelers were like back then. Obviously there was no North/South divide or Mason-Dixon line on the west coast. But I'll bet for kids back then they drive up and down PCH was filled with the same wonderment and joy of being free to explore. Like the kid's menu version of On The Road.  Many things have changed, since then, for a lot better and for a lot worse. But if push came to shove, I'm certain this map would get me where I needed to go.

And that's more than I can say for the iPhone 5 holed up somewhere in the recesses of my office filing cabinet.

Maybe he's caught in the legend
Maybe he's caught in the mood
Maybe these maps and legends
Have been misunderstood.