Disappearing America

I was up a couple hours before sunrise this morning, taking a look at Mercury. A fast, elusive planet if there ever was one. Mercury has never been photographed by the Hubble Sky Telescope. Not because it’s fast. Because of its proximity to the sun. The folks in Baltimore who control the Hubble wisely don’t want to point the scope in the direction of Mercury, fearing even the slightest miscalculation would cause the sun’s rays to whack the delicate instrument.
Today, however, Mercury was at it’s widest elongation from the sun, about the width of two fists from an Earthling’s perspective. 100 minutes before sunrise, looking southeast, eye level, was the perfect time to view the planet. You missed it.
It got me to thinking about the effort we expend to see distant planets, while at the same time hide the Earth. Well, our small spec of Earth called America.
We make our land disappear by covering it with housing developments and shopping malls, while we search outer space for more land. What is also being lost as the land disappears, is the wildlife. And as the wildlife disappears, so do our hopes and promises for a better future.
To close the wound and hide the scars, we erect cement walls. These allegedly prevent the sounds of the highway from reaching people stupid enough to buy houses hard by the freeway. Then these folks stay inside their air conditioned homes (televisions spewing shows about NASCAR races and wild animals) sending e-mail to politicians demanding something be done about that noise from the highway. Or, skunks under the deck.
The sound barriers, paid for with our tax dollars, are like politician’s promises, never intended to be kept. They’re just to make people feel good.
If the sound barriers (Why not call them prison walls? Oh, prison walls are made of wire so prisoners can look out and be irritated by what they’re missing. I get it.) are not enough to block your view, we have plenty of billboards—litter on a stick. Or, signs declaring you’re crossing a river that’s been designated scenic, wild and beautiful. Of course, you never get to see that river. We create high walls of concrete to prevent people from driving over the edge of the bridge while attempting to get a better view of the scene. Don’t look, just read the sign at 70 miles per hour. That’s all you really need.
Have you noticed how many tire marks are on those barriers? Obviously, people are longing for a better look at what they’re missing.
All of this hiding of America is okay. It no longer matters. Kids have DVD players in the car to distract them from getting curious about those big birds sitting on a branch, or those animals grazing in the field. Adults have cell phones. When I was a kid, on our annual family vacation trip to my dad’s home in Indiana, I’d hang out of the car window like a dog for eight hours and hit the ground running as soon as I smelled the lake. Probably not safe. Too much fresh air might even account for my attitude fifty-some years later.
Well, trust me, America is still out there—someplace. Get off the highway, out of the car and onto your feet or a bicycle. Go to a park and just sit on a stump and see, smell and hear what the rest of America is missing.