A few things I love about America
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Sean of the South
Americans are arguing right now. And believe me, I get it. There is a lot going on. Everyone has differences of opinion.
But I wondered if we Americans couldn’t put aside our disagreements for a moment and agree on a few things we love.
I’ll start.
I love quilting. Quilting bees, quilting circles, quilting parties. Americans didn’t invent quilting, but it’s an American art form nonetheless.
I used to watch my mother quilt with dogged persistence. Day after day. Month after month. She used birch-wood quilting hoops and pieced recycled fabric together. She could take seemingly unrelated scraps and make art.
My mother always said, “When life gives you scraps, you make a quilt.”
Also, I love jazz. American fiddle tunes. And the way New Orleans smells on a summer morning, after tourists have spent all night urinating in the streets.
Stetson hats worn non-ironically. Case knives, butter yellow, dual blades. Moe Howard, Larry Fine, and Curly. Shemp is okay.
The old men in cafes who still drink coffee in groups. And the young men who still idolize them.
Boys who still ask Santa Claus for BB guns. And their little sisters, who steal their GI Joes because Barbie needs a viable love interest.
Kids who still ride bikes. Children who play tag in their backyards, screaming and laughing, without ever once checking their phones.
I love Waffle House. An American institution. Yes, I realize eggs are expensive right now, raising the cost of an ordinary omelette to about the same price as a Range Rover autograph.
But I will continue to eat Waffle House fare until my end. Namely, because I have eaten at Waffle House to benchmark the most important moments in my life.
I ate at Waffle House the morning after my own wedding. After the funerals of friends and family. God willing, I will eat at Waffle House the day after my own funeral.
I love baseball. Not just the game itself. I love the culture. I love how baseball terminology has crept into everyday vocabulary. “Just touching base.” “I’ll go to bat for you.” “He’s out in left field.” “You knocked it out of the park.”
I miss the grungy AAA ballparks of youth. The smells of flat beer, cigar smoke and meat-like rubber served on a hot dog bun. Back when the game was slow, and pitchers still batted.
Davy Crockett. Louis Armstrong. Helen Keller. Dorothea Lange. Aretha Franklin. Andy Griffith. Groucho Marx. Lucille Ball. Laura Ingalls Wilder. Dolly Parton.
Willie Hugh Nelson.
And I love you. Whoever you are. In fact you’re what I like most about America. You’re a great person. No matter how different we might be. No matter how we might disagree. No matter how dissimilar our backgrounds.
Maybe I am foolish enough to believe that, even though we appear differently, think differently, and believe differently, it is contrast that makes the scraps of a quilt truly beautiful.
