A recent trip to visit my sweetheart included a lousy surprise. I had been motoring along at an impressive rate of speed for more than seven hours when, to my dismay, the road ended.
The efficient conveyance of vehicles on the federal interstate, you see, had been interrupted by a sizable rockslide that closed the highway in Tennessee, just south of the Kentucky border.
A recent trip to visit my sweetheart included a lousy surprise. I had been motoring along at an impressive rate of speed for more than seven hours when, to my dismay, the road ended.
The efficient conveyance of vehicles on the federal interstate, you see, had been interrupted by a sizable rockslide that closed the highway in Tennessee, just south of the Kentucky border.
The southbound detour measured less than 24 miles. The narrow strip of blacktop meandered through the hills and hollows, playing tag with Elk Fork Creek and forcing 18-wheelers in our convoy to use both lanes on many of the sharper bends. Needless to say, we suffered a lot of stop and go, covering the detour’s distance in 90 minutes.
I resigned myself to not blow a gasket over this unexpected development, and did not kick myself for not researching my route more thoroughly before departure. Even if I had known about the rockslide road closure, there really wasn’t another way to get to my destination any quicker. Besides, the sun was out as we inched along, so I resolved to enjoy the scenery passing by.
Spring had just started returning to these hills; it was refreshing to spy shoots of new green peeking from the fields and forests. We slowly drove through a crossroads or two comprised of no more than a gas station/convenience store, diner, and a church.
More common were structures standing alone at the side of the road or halfway up a rolling knoll above it – some very modest, tumble down houses, tiny houses of worship, an auto repair shop, an honest-to-goodness roadhouse bar. A few chimneys spilled the scent of wood fires. I noted outhouses next to a number of buildings.
It occurred to me I knew next to nothing about the lives of the people whose communities I was driving through. Their way of life was almost completely foreign. Residing all my life in the decidedly urban Los Angeles and southeast Michigan areas, my life experiences were starkly different than theirs. We had walked profoundly different pathways.
I considered that while reading Super Tuesday election results. It’s easy to shake your head and judge some distant group of voters as “ignorant” or “out of their minds” because they support candidates that, for the life of me, I can’t find anything redeeming in.
But why should I be able to understand those folks who vote so differently than I do? The fact is, because I have not been down their path, it makes perfect sense that I can’t grasp why they believe what they do, politically or otherwise.
Their culture and life experiences have shaped their views in ways I don’t understand, but that doesn’t make their beliefs illegitimate. And just because we don’t see things the same way, that doesn’t mean their opinions are unfounded.
As the polarizing awfulness of national politics crescendos toward November, I hope I can keep that in mind. They are, after all, my fellow Americans, part of oure pluribus unum. I aim to hold them in some respect, because we are all in this together.
Pat Grimes, a former South Bay resident, writes from Ypsilanti, Mich. He can be reached at pgwriter@inbox.com
