May 30th
I spent a fairly sleepless night on the bus, even though the middle-aged woman sitting next to me was quiet and pleasant, with well-tamed hair, fake eyelashes, and a t-shirt stretched tight over her bosom that read “Look But Don’t Touch” (in the morning, she read a King James Bible borrowed from another passenger, which I thought was an interesting dichotomy). No, my reason for sleeplessness were long layers at regular intervals, most notably in Amarillo at 4:30 to 6:00am. Finally, I drifted off into a shallow but adequate sleep, and when I woke up and looked out the window to get my bearings, my heart sang for joy. I saw a field, and in that field was grass. It was green. It looked like it was healthy. And here’s the kicker: it was growing entirely on its own!
Only then did I realize that a mere week and a half in the southwest had left me starved for a landscape that looked like home. I was euphoric at the sight of grass, and even more as the scenery developed: winding streams, groves of deciduous trees, wide stretches of cultivated land that actually didn’t look like they were about to die. The sky was full of fluffy gray clouds, offering the possibility of rain, and the land gently rose and fell, without a hint of spectacular cliffs or unexpected canyons. I was getting back in range of home, and that made me immeasurably happy.
 |
| Who can resist taking photos with a paint-splattered bison? |
My Uncle Kerry and Cousin Rachel picked me up from the Greyhound station, and I fairly melted into the seat, feeling the comfort of lifelong friends wrap around me like a blanket— the Magruders aren’t actually related to me (except for a distant ancestor in the 1800s), but they’ve been some of the most supportive family I’ve ever had. Uncle Kerry first checked to be sure I wasn’t too tired to do some sightseeing, and I assured him I’d crash later. We were off to explore Oklahoma City.
We spent most of our time in Bricktown, a former ghetto that transformed into a charming historic district with a clear canal running through the middle. We walked along the water, and I exclaimed with delight when I saw two mallards and their ten fluffy little ducklings (I also exclaimed with delight every time I saw grass, and once when I took a breath and realized that air was humid). Uncle Kerry took us to Abuelo’s Mexican Restaurant for lunch, a building with three-story ceilings, waiters who dressed in all-black uniforms, and a delightful southwestern motif. The chicken and avocado enchiladas didn’t stand a chance against my appetite, and neither did the coconut-flavored frozen yogurt at the Peachwave we visited afterward.
Given a few options, I decided upon the Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum. Uncle Kerry used his membership pass to get us in for free, and then we set off to make sense of the massive winding halls. He directed us to the art gallery, and for at least an hour we explored it, savoring each piece of western-inspired art, both old and new.
My favorite painting was a one-by-two foot canvas of the Grand Canyon, created by a modern artist. A common compliment for a realistic painting is “It looks just like a photograph!”, but I have never liked that one— it’s like saying, “This homemade cake tastes just like it came out of a box!” This painting looked nothing like a photograph, even though it was unquestionably realistic. A photo can never capture the essence of the Grand Canyon, but this painting did. Arrested by the transcendence of the image, which put me back on the South Rim staring out at the majesty of stone and time, I stared at the painting and felt my eyes brimming with tears. I had been there. I had actually been there, and perhaps for the first time, that fact came home to me.
The museum contained a lot more than art: one of the sections was the set of an old west town, complete with a school, barber shop/doctor’s office, church, blacksmith, telegraph office, and a few more buildings fully furnished with 1800s supplies. The town was lit up as if at night, and recordings of noises and conversations drifted through the air. The uneven floorboards even creaked under our feet as we walked.
The final exhibit we saw were five triptych panels in a massive conference room. When Uncle Kerry and Rachel talked about “the murals,” I imagined a typical wall covered in images. Instead, I stared up at the triptychs whose side panels were 10 by 16 feet, and whose center panels were 16 feet square. Each of the murals was a landscape painting of a southwestern state, huge and bold and stunning in a twofold way: first for the image itself, and then for the transcendent painting style. I wandered the room with my mouth wide open, seeing an image from each of the states I had visited: Utah, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona (I appreciated the one for California as well, even though I didn’t visit there on this trip). Here, near the end of my trip, I was presented with massive postcards to remind me of where I had been and what I had seen. Though my journey has a couple days left, I’ve already accomplished the main thing I set out to do: see the west.
~Lisa Shafter
Money spent: $0
Deficit: $143.31
No comments:
Post a Comment