Traveling through Virginia
April 30, 2005
We usually watch the local news wherever we are, and – no surprise – we’ve found that it has become so homogenized across the U.S. that it’s difficult to tell what part of the country you’re in, based on the content of the news or the regional accents. Typically, every local newscast has a story about a missing or murdered child or young woman – if not a current story, an update from a previous story. There’s usually also some “ consumer watch” on identity theft, computer spam or someone who got ripped off by a local car dealer, and often a piece on a local soldier in (or recently home from) Iraq. The anchors all have the same look (although interestingly, in the South, the male weather and sports casters seem to be allowed to age and grow a paunch) and have sanitized their speech so there’s no trace of an accent. If you removed the names of the cities or states, you would be hard pressed to identify the source of the broadcast.
We are driving north on Interstate 81 through Virginia. We had planned to take the Blue Ridge Parkway, a scenic two-lane road with breathtaking views of mountains and valleys from Maine to Tennessee. Unfortunately, when we take the turnoff (20 miles out of our way) to the parkway, we discover that vehicles over 8 tons are not allowed. At 23,000 GVW, our motorhome falls into the prohibited category. So we turn around and head back to the freeway. The good thing is that the panorama from the freeway is equally spectacular – with rolling hills straight out of a picture book landscaped in every shade of green – bright, dark, kelly, forest, lime, loden, sage, fluorescent, - and dotted with cows grazing, old wood barns and neat clapboard houses. Sunshine yellow and lacy white wildflowers splash color across the expanse of green, and along the crest of the hills, trees not yet dense with foliage create a lacy fretwork against the sky.
We see old wooden barns everywhere in North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia. They’re often in tumble-down condition, the grizzled gray beams and boards sagging with age and lack of attention. Sometimes, despite the decrepit state of the building, the barn is still in use for storage of equipment or occasionally hay rolls. Seldom do I see a barn that has been well maintained with paint and other needed upkeep. No matter how sad the ruins, it seems the owners are loathe to tear down this reminder of the past, preferring to let time and nature gradually wear down the structure.
We usually watch the local news wherever we are, and – no surprise – we’ve found that it has become so homogenized across the U.S. that it’s difficult to tell what part of the country you’re in, based on the content of the news or the regional accents. Typically, every local newscast has a story about a missing or murdered child or young woman – if not a current story, an update from a previous story. There’s usually also some “ consumer watch” on identity theft, computer spam or someone who got ripped off by a local car dealer, and often a piece on a local soldier in (or recently home from) Iraq. The anchors all have the same look (although interestingly, in the South, the male weather and sports casters seem to be allowed to age and grow a paunch) and have sanitized their speech so there’s no trace of an accent. If you removed the names of the cities or states, you would be hard pressed to identify the source of the broadcast.
We are driving north on Interstate 81 through Virginia. We had planned to take the Blue Ridge Parkway, a scenic two-lane road with breathtaking views of mountains and valleys from Maine to Tennessee. Unfortunately, when we take the turnoff (20 miles out of our way) to the parkway, we discover that vehicles over 8 tons are not allowed. At 23,000 GVW, our motorhome falls into the prohibited category. So we turn around and head back to the freeway. The good thing is that the panorama from the freeway is equally spectacular – with rolling hills straight out of a picture book landscaped in every shade of green – bright, dark, kelly, forest, lime, loden, sage, fluorescent, - and dotted with cows grazing, old wood barns and neat clapboard houses. Sunshine yellow and lacy white wildflowers splash color across the expanse of green, and along the crest of the hills, trees not yet dense with foliage create a lacy fretwork against the sky.
We see old wooden barns everywhere in North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia. They’re often in tumble-down condition, the grizzled gray beams and boards sagging with age and lack of attention. Sometimes, despite the decrepit state of the building, the barn is still in use for storage of equipment or occasionally hay rolls. Seldom do I see a barn that has been well maintained with paint and other needed upkeep. No matter how sad the ruins, it seems the owners are loathe to tear down this reminder of the past, preferring to let time and nature gradually wear down the structure.
posted by Anne-Marie | 7:30 AM
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