Dear Marilyn, Thurmond, Virginia,
and Hilda Watts,
I haven’t found
anyone looking for a good store, but I thought I’d write anyway. Ever since I
left Nameless to pad along the back-roads of the Republic, I couldn’t get my
mind off of your stories and your store and the best goddam slice of buttermilk
pie I ever had. In fact, I included your stories and your picture in my book.
Yes, I wrote a book. It’s called Blue Highways.
I hope you don’t mind being in it. I’m sending you a copy, but it probably won’t
arrive for two-three weeks.
I wonder if you’ll
like it. I know traveling is a bit trifling for old-fashioned folk such as
yourselves. Frankly, it tuckered me out sometimes too. Maybe my book will give
you a taste of the America you never got to see for yourself. Maybe it won’t. I
reckon you’ll feel like you know some people, some towns like the back of your
hand. There were some men in Shelbyville refurbishing a log cabin. Ignore the
pop from the corner store. I’m sure the stuff you sell is better – real cane
sugar. Focus on the log cabin. Bob, Tony and Kirk are preserving a piece of
America that’s going endangered. Then there’s Walker and Davis from Selma.
Things haven’t changed too much since King marched all those people across the
Edmund Pettus Bridge. Racism: that’s an old piece of America that stinks like
an old sock. I don’t know how many blacks you see out in Nameless. I don’t even
think I mentioned to you that I’m Indian. You would have found out when you
read my book. But these were good boys, boys who liked basketball and the Air
Force and grape Nehi. Boys you would rely on in a pickle. It’s a shame how they’re
treated by the police. I hope you like them. Then there’s the Desert Den Bar
& Filling Station in Hachita, New Mexico. Somehow it reminded me a little
of your place. The proprietor’s name was even Virginia! Virginia Been. She’s
been there for a long time by now. And the town has a similar story, too.
Population exploded back when a copper company put a smelter right between them
and the border, so the smoke would blow over to Mexico. Eventually a town
popped up right by the smelter, and since it had better TV reception, everybody
picked up and moved. Now the Desert Den is like a dried-up watering hole. Not
that Virginia minds. She likes it that way, even if there isn’t much to do but work.
I don’t know why I
hit the road. I think I give a reason in the first couple of chapters, but I
forget what it was. You’ll have to write back and tell me. It might have had
something to do with my ex-wife. But I know why I wrote Blue Highways. It’s because of meeting you in Nameless; and Bob,
Tony and Kirk in Shelbyville; and Walker and Davis in Selma; and Virginia Been
in Hachita. I figured out It’s true what they say – that America is the world’s
melting pot, where all different sorts of folk have somehow hitched to one post.
We are different, but united some how. But that’s changing. All the interstates
getting built, all the chain restaurants, even all the legislation that claims
to be new but isn’t, you’d think they’d be connecting us, but it feels like
they’re driving us apart. Like they’re choking out backwoods America. In ten
years, folks will never know that Cajun chicken can taste different from one
side of the river to the other. The whole country is really starting to melt
together, and I don’t like it. It makes it easier to cross over to your side of
town, but what’s the point if it looks, feels, tastes just like my side?
These are the
things that worry me. I hope you enjoy the book. I hope you find someone who
wants to buy your store. But if you don’t, I hope that every time someone pulls
up in front and asks you how your town got its name, you tell them the story of
Nameless, because it’s America’s story, and a country should never forget its
own story.
Sincerely,
Bill
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