There is something about a road trip that reveals the deepest truths about this country, as wandering minstrels, poets, and ordinary folks have been saying for as long as we've been here.
Here is my best friend trying to copy a cactus that is probably twice as old as she is, because this particular species doesn't develop "arms" until it's been around for at least 75 years, according to my big sister.
America is a huge country. Once you hit the road, you can drive forever, it seems. You'll encounter all sorts of options along the way, one of which, in the West, includes Indian reservations.
On this trip, I've been reading Antonio D'Ambrosio's intriguing book, "A Heartbeat and a Guitar: Johnny Cash and the Making of Bitter Tears. This is the story of Cash's passionate attempt to illuminate the plight of American Indians; an attempt that was suppressed by the music industry.
We European settlers don't really like to be reminded of what our predecessors did to the native people who were here when they arrived. We also would prefer to forget what was done to non-white immigrants -- Asians and Latinos -- who came here for the same reasons we did. A generation ago, the lovely person sitting next to me in our car would have been sent to a concentration camp.
The only way to interpret the great folk song, "This Land is Your Land" is that it was meant for all of us, not a privileged few. The indigenous cultures that existed here for millenia before the invaders arrived don't believe in the concept of individual ownership of land anyway. You cannot own Mother Earth.
But you can be good custodian, preserving what you find for future generations.
The only items we bought on this trip were from Native American stores, where the proceeds go to natives. As we move along the great highways in the West, we know we are cutting through sacred ground.
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