(Long Live) Americana

According to Wikipedia, “Americana refers to artifacts of the culture of the United States, the history and folklore resultant from its westward expansion."

Last week, Sheryl and I got cable, and part of our package includes music channels. I have quickly found a handful of these channels that I enjoy, but one of the most intriguing is the Americana channel.

For some reason, I am strongly attracted to this channel. I am attracted by the stories in these songs, although I usually am attracted to a song by the music and beat long before I ever pay attention to the lyrics.

Nonetheless, the stories of the America I have never known, make me sad, in a way. I know that I will likely traverse the storied roads of Americana, and sit at the cross roads that changed peoples lives, but today’s America – today’s world – is much different than the Americana that lives in my mind.

Years ago, I drove from Michigan to Roswell, New Mexico to visit my buddy Murf and his family. The route I took was not dictated by signposts, rather, by locations, places and things.

I traveled portions of Route 66 on my own quest for Americana. It was an amazing trip, but it wasn’t long enough – mileage-wise and time-wise.

In my life, I lived approximately 37 years in Michigan. I spent nearly 4 years in Texas, and 4 months in Germany. I am well traveled, having been to 42 of the 50 American states, and 7 countries. Nonetheless, I feel like I am missing something by not knowing or truly experiencing Americana.

The political, environmental and geographical climates in the United States are changing so rapidly, that I feel that I may never get to know the true Americana. And neither will future generations. That makes me sad.

On the other hand, I have to ask myself if the Americana mystique is larger than Americana itself. I mean, during my trip to Roswell, did I actually experience all there was to Americana? Is there truly more to it, or did I experience everything that there was? Am I simply sad because I truly enjoyed the trip (except for Texas, which I couldn’t get through fast enough – and have the ticket to prove it!)?

I dunno. Maybe it’s a little of everything. Maybe I’ll never feel like I’ve experienced true Americana until I stand in a phonebooth in Winslow, Arizona, or hang out down on Alvarado street by the Pioneer Chicken stand.

Until then, VIVA AMERICANA!