September is a time when journeys begin.
Journeys for students. Journeys for teachers. Journeys for political
office-seekers entering the serious home stretch toward November�s
judgment day. Journeys of the spirit, tallying and toting up personal
aspirations achieved and yet to be done, as the calendar and the days
grow short.
And then there are the literal journeys begun in
September. One of my favorite books is John Steinbeck�s Travels
with Charley in Search of America, in which he recounts a
cross-country journey begun in September 1960 accompanied only by his
poodle Charley. He traveled in a pick-up truck with a large camper in
its bed, generally avoiding the new interstate highways in favor of back
roads and small towns. And a few cities. His stated goal was �to
learn about my own country. I�ve lost the flavor and taste and sound of
it. It�s been years since I have seen it ... I just want to look and
listen.�
Yet he was disturbed by much of what he saw and
heard, from the rootlessness of mobile, modern Americans, to the
consequent loss of regional and local variations in speech and customs,
to the growing consumerism fed by the media empires that were beginning to
pervade and affect every aspect of life in the rosy afterglow of World War
II. After the journey, he wrote to his editor that, �In all my
travels, I saw very little real poverty. I mean the grinding, terrifying
poorness of the Thirties. That at least was real and tangible. No,
(what I saw) was a sickness, a kind of wasting disease. There were wishes
but no wants � Over and over I thought we lack the pressures that
make men strong and the anguish that makes men great.�
Steinbeck � the Nobel Prize-winning author who
articulated the struggles and the tattered nobility of the working class
in such landmark novels as Of Mice and Men, The Grapes of Wrath, and East
of Eden � also spun some magical prose in Travels with Charley,
especially about the virtues of rural people and small-town folks, and the
startling beauty of autumn across America. �The roadside stands were
piled with golden pumpkins and russet squashes and baskets of red apples
so crisp and sweet that they seemed to explode with juice when I bit into
them,� he wrote of September in New England, adding, �The climate
changed quickly to cold and the trees burst into color, the reds and
yellows you can�t believe. It isn�t only color but a glowing, as
though the leaves gobbled the light of the autumn sun and then released it
slowly. There�s a quality of fire in these colors.�
Later in the account, he wonders how a Floridian
�sitting on a nylon-and-aluminum chair out on a changelessly green lawn
slapping mosquitoes� can possibly appreciate the soul-stirring benefits
of the changing seasons. �And in the humid ever-summer, I dare his
picturing mind not to go back to the shout of color, to the clean rasp of
frosty air, to the smell of pine wood burning and the caressing warmth of
kitchens. For how can one know color in perpetual green, and what good is
warmth without cold to give it sweetness?�
There�s an object lesson for 2003 in
Steinbeck�s prose from 1960. For all the adversity we�re facing
now � worldwide terrorism, a sluggish economy, talk of record deficits
� the fact is, it�s just such troubles that build resolve and set
the stage for later success, success that will come through will and
sacrifice and persistence. And cooperation. The rural folks that
Steinbeck extolled 43 years ago, whom he felt embodied the essence of
American virtues, are the very ones who formed electric cooperatives
and lighted up the countryside in the 1930s and �40s. Americans have
found a way for every problem to breed creativity, every crisis to broker
self-confidence.
As 2003 is proving virtually every week, if you
haven�t known drought, how can you appreciate the blessing of rain? And
if you haven�t known hardship, how can you savor the bounty of plenty? Such
realizations are the stuff learned on life�s journeys, whether
across America, or into a new school year.
