Man of the House: Only in America
Pardon me for appearing so tuned in, which I’m not, but there is this feature now on Facebook that connects people who grew up in the same hometown.
“You know you’re from Terre Haute if ...” is the set up, and Facebook members take turns reminiscing about things only natives of Terre Haute would know — pizza joints, favorite teachers, malt shops, many of them long gone.
I’ve seen set-ups for my hometown in Illinois. I’ve seen them for Beverly Hills. Not only does the feature stir up fond memories, it’ll impress you with the little nostalgic threads that others remember as well.
On this weekend, more resonant than most, we’ll expand that to America as a whole. The setup: “You know you’re from America if ...”
As in:
You know you’re from America if you always “want fries with that.” Or steaks that drape over the edge of a plate, or apple pie warm as the August sun.
You know you’re from America if you ever wore a pair of PF Flyers, or laced up a new pair of Red Ball Jets.
You know you’re from America if you’ve ever taken a family road trip that lasted three days, and in the back seat you had an Etch A Sketch, or a book full of puzzles. A deck of cards and a Mad magazine.
You know you’re from America if you know what number Babe Ruth was (3) or how to grip a four-seam fastball, throw a spiral, pick up the 5-7 split.
You know you’re from America if Henry Mancini makes you mellow, Chuck Berry makes you wiggle, the Beach Boys make you crank up the volume.
You know you’re from America if you ever paid 19 cents for a burger, a buck for a gallon of gas, 99 cents for a Vegas shrimp cocktail.
If you remember who played Doc on “Gunsmoke” (Milburn Stone), you’re probably from America, or that Who’s on first, What’s on second and I Don’t Know just took third.
You’re from America if you can instantly hum the theme song to “The Dick Van Dyke Show.”
If when I say “Charles Kuralt,” you instantly remember that voice the way you would a bass line from a great song, then you’re definitely from America.
If you remember exactly where you were when you heard that Elvis died, you’re almost certainly one of us as well.
You know you’re from America if you’ve ever rented a Winnebago, or hooked a walleyed pike on a foggy morning on a pristine lake.
You know you’re from America if you ever laughed yourself silly over a Smothers Brothers gag, or a Bill Cosby routine, or at the incredible-invincible Mel Brooks.
You know you’re from America if you can recite at least one Clint Eastwood line, or at the very least the Bill Murray monologue about Augusta.
“This crowd has gone deadly silent, a Cinderella story outta nowhere.... “
You know you’re from America if you ever saw the sun rise over Yosemite, or Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, or a stand of golden birch.
Or if just the sight of Dolly Parton makes you smile.
You know you’re from America if you know what stampede always takes place on that first Saturday in May, what Bobby Thomson did, or all the words to “American Pie.”
You know you’re from America if you can saddle a horse, tune up a Corvette, stage a great tailgate party.
You know you’re from America if you know what they manufacture in Battle Creek, Mich., or Lynchburg, Tenn.
If you’ve ever seen an alligator slip into a bayou, or heard Dave Brubeck seduce a piano, or tasted a Philly cheesesteak at 1 in the morning surrounded by a scrum of buddies, it’s a good bet you’re from America.
You know you’re from America if you remember the words to at least one Neil Diamond song, campy as they are, or who replaced Wayne Rogers on “MASH” or Coach on “Cheers” or Lombardi in Green Bay.
You know you’re from America if “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” never, ever gets old.
You know you’re from America if you’ve ever seen the Mississippi by moonlight, Vermont by firelight, Central Park socked in by snow.
What’s the big deal about America? Lots of countries have traditions. Lots of nations have wonderful places to see.
So what’s the big deal?
The big deal is that America isn’t a place, it’s a global ideal — prideful, vainglorious, larger than life — yet still mindful of the sanctity of the individual.
Our nation is as soulful as a gospel choir, as rousing as an opening day kickoff, as hopeful as a yearbook smile.
That’s America.
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