The popular song, “No Place Like Home For the Holidays” was published in 1954 and was made famous by singer Perry Como in 1959. The lyrics talk about our desire to be home for the holidays, especially at Christmas time:
I met a man who lives in Tennessee, and he was headin’ for
Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie.
From Pennsylvania folks are travelin’ down to Dixie’s sunny shore…
From Atlantic to Pacific…Gee, the traffic is terrific!
Oh there’s no place like home for the holidays,
‘Cause no matter how far away you roam,
If you want to be happy in a million ways,
For the holidays – you can’t beat home, sweet home…
I have been very remiss about writing over the past month. First there was Thanksgiving, then a solid two weeks of grading papers and exams and then I hopped into my trusty car and drove from San Francisco to Texas to Charleston, S.C. to Virginia Beach and am now in Massachusetts hoping that an approaching storm changes track and brings us snow instead of rain. If it happens, my friends and relatives may kill me, but I will die happy if we have a White Christmas.
I intended to chronicle my trip east on my blog, but problems with internet connections, some 12 hour days behind the wheel, and the chaos of the holidays has gotten the best of me. So I decided to send out this Christmas message to assure you I am still here and next week I will start to post the whole story of the trip. For now, a few glimpses of Christmas from across the USA on the route that I took.
See you all in the New Year… if not before!
Matt
Christmas Improvisation in Scottsdale, Arizona
Senor Christmas Tree
The main square in Meridien, Mississippi
December on the Isle of Palms, South Carolina
Yes, like a deranged polar bear I went wading in the 58 degree waters of Isle of Palms
Before my annual pilgrimage… pun intended… to New England for the Thanksgiving holiday, I made a stop in frenetic Manhattan and on a peaceful farm in upstate New York near the town of Coxsackie.
I’ve always loved fall in those places where there’s a definite change in the seasons, and there’s probably no better place to be than New England at that time of year. The cool, but sunny days and chilly nights, the explosion of a palette of colors that have always been my favorite hues, the reflections of what’s happening above that can be found in any still body of water, and the heady smell of wood fires, damp leaves, and hot cider donuts… These are the things that make me return to New England every October with the determination of a salmon swimming upstream to return home!
Before Winter sets in, let’s take a last, fond look at the Autumn. All of the photos below were taken in New England, mostly Massachusetts and Hew Hampshire.
One of my dearest friends in the world is Maggi, an 86-year old woman I met back in 1976 in my Freshman English class at college. A housewife and mother of two, Maggi was born in Belfast, Northern Island and moved to Massachusetts when she married an American in the 1950s. Maggi is a rather famous storyteller who shares traditional folk tales, sentimental and thought-provoking reminiscences of her childhood in Belfast, and traditional folk songs and rhymes. She has performed all across the U.S. and in Britain, has won many prestigious awards in the folk world and recently published a book of her stories, Belfast Girl.
My first visit to Scotland had been a brief trip with my dear friend Carol in 1986 during which we drove up from London to see Yorkshire and the Lake District of northern England, and then crossed Hadrian’s Wall to see a bit of southern Scotland. Though brief, that trip held memories of rolling green hills, rainbows, more sheep than you could shake a stick at, afternoon teas and a hospitable people with a wonderful sense of humor and irony.
I wish I could remember the exact quote and its source, but I recall reading a passage about someone who saw the Grand Canyon for the very first time and was of course overwhelmed by the sight of it, but couldn’t help but feel that something was missing about the experience. And then they realized that what was lacking was MUSIC. Prior to visiting the actual place, this person had seen many documentaries about the canyon and the images were backed by a swelling soundtrack that was missing at the canyon itself. I have always been amused by that story, because for me, music has always been something that enhances my travel experiences; however, for me it has to be just the RIGHT music for the place.
As soon as I hop in my Fiat 500 rental car and drive off from the airport in Rome or Venice, the only thing that I want to listen to is my favorite Italian music, either on Radio Italia, which plays only Italian music 24/7, or on one of the many CDs I pack in my luggage for such a trip. Music is an important part of any culture and it seems to me that listening to songs being sung in Italian and becoming familiar with some of the artists that are most popular gives me more insight into Italy and its people. Over many visits to Italy I have amassed an impressive collection of music and attended several concerts by Italian artists. So now, whether I’m driving the autostrada at breakneck speeds, fighting traffic on the clogged arteries of Rome or Milan, or ambling through the Tuscan countryside the familiar voices of artists like Eros Ramazzotti, Giorgia, Laura Pausini and Tiziano Ferro make me feel like I have an old friend in the car with me and give me that sense of familiarity and “home.”
I was born and raised in New Bedford, Massachusetts, about an hour south of Boston and a half an hour east of Providence, Rhode Island. Although I left New England in 1980 for graduate school in Virginia and subsequently southern California, it is still “home” to me, and I make visits back there several times a year, with a cross country road trip every summer and every Christmas. Because I have made the trip so many times, I begin to feel like I’m already on home turf by the time I reach Pennsylvania, but crossing the border from New York into Connecticut, one of the six New England states, means I’m “home”.
After my first visit south of the Mason-Dixon line some 40 years ago, I joked that now I understood the reason that the South lost the Civil War. They were obviously too full from all their amazing foods to be able to fight at full effectiveness. Despite the fact that I was born a Yankee, I lived in Virginia for a couple of years and I’ve traveled through the southern states often. From the Carolinas to Texas, I find the people to be among the warmest, most welcoming and polite I’ve ever encountered.
“Get Your Kicks on Route 66” is a popular refrain from the 1946 song that was made famous by Nat King Cole and subsequently was recorded by dozens of other artists including Chuck Berry, Asleep at the Wheel, and Michael Martin Murphy. While vestiges of the old highway that wound “from Chicago to L.A.” still remain (notably in the California desert and various parts of New Mexico and Oklahoma), much of it has been replaced by Interstate 40. But don’t despair, you can get your kicks on any number of highways that crisscross the U.S. You just have to take that long dreamed about road trip!
The Burr Trail, a scenic but rugged drive off Highway 12 near Boulder, Utah
MATT: AT HOME IN THE WORLD 