Not long ago I was driving across West Texas. It had a long time since Interstate 20 had been repaved and the tires hitting the sundried cracks in the asphalt produced a rhythmic thump like a cat in a clothes dryer. It pains me to admit it, but the scenery isn’t much to look at either. If you have seen one pumping station, the next few thousand aren’t much to look at.
That’s a straight and flat road, so either the monotony of the drive, or the constant thump-thump-thumping of the wheels lulled me into thinking about what this country must have been like a hundred years before. There I was, driving my wife’s SUV just outside of Abilene, my iPod playing through the car's stereo, and the trip was being tracked on the car’s GPS, picking up signals from multiple satellites orbiting the earth in space.
Fairly fancy technology when you consider that this is pretty much the same ground my grandfather traveled in a covered wagon. Has it really been so little time?
Recently, I told a student that my grandfather had been born in the nineteenth century; she looked at me as if I had just admitted to having personally participated in the Battle of Troy. In her eyes, I must have been the very personification of old age. Yet it is true--a little over a hundred years ago, my grandfather decided to move the family from West Texas east to Arkansas. The family possessions were loaded into an old mule-drawn wagon and he drove the team the long trail to the rail station in Abilene. There, the wagon was loaded and tied onto a flat car along with a wagon belonging to another family. The fare to Arkansas cost each family $21.
The family did not do well in Arkansas, and in just a few years, the same trip was done in reverse, and the Milliorn family returned to West Texas. I have no idea what happened, but it could very well be that my grandfather couldn’t adjust to the idea of farming with both good soil and adequate rainfall. Within a few years after their return, my father was born. So, my grandfather had traversed by covered wagon the area that I was driving through--twice. I guess I was traveling about twenty times faster, and my version of a covered wagon had air conditioning and a few other amenities.
Somewhere along the line, all the high-tech gadgetry we all possess today fades into the background and we cease to actually see it. At what point can I pick up my iPhone and not automatically think, “Gee Whiz!” in marvel at this impossibly clever device? Arthur C. Clarke said, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” But when does the magic wear off? How many times do we have to see the trick before we stop being in awe of the magician?
I know it is a generational thing. Of course we take for granted the technology that was around when we were born, no matter how revolutionary. I can remember when my nephews visited and looked in puzzlement at a rotary dial phone; they kept stabbing their fingers into the holes trying to push some non-existent buttons. My sons cannot remember a life without cell phones and the internet. But I can. When did I stop being amazed?
That’s a straight and flat road, so either the monotony of the drive, or the constant thump-thump-thumping of the wheels lulled me into thinking about what this country must have been like a hundred years before. There I was, driving my wife’s SUV just outside of Abilene, my iPod playing through the car's stereo, and the trip was being tracked on the car’s GPS, picking up signals from multiple satellites orbiting the earth in space.
Fairly fancy technology when you consider that this is pretty much the same ground my grandfather traveled in a covered wagon. Has it really been so little time?
Recently, I told a student that my grandfather had been born in the nineteenth century; she looked at me as if I had just admitted to having personally participated in the Battle of Troy. In her eyes, I must have been the very personification of old age. Yet it is true--a little over a hundred years ago, my grandfather decided to move the family from West Texas east to Arkansas. The family possessions were loaded into an old mule-drawn wagon and he drove the team the long trail to the rail station in Abilene. There, the wagon was loaded and tied onto a flat car along with a wagon belonging to another family. The fare to Arkansas cost each family $21.
The family did not do well in Arkansas, and in just a few years, the same trip was done in reverse, and the Milliorn family returned to West Texas. I have no idea what happened, but it could very well be that my grandfather couldn’t adjust to the idea of farming with both good soil and adequate rainfall. Within a few years after their return, my father was born. So, my grandfather had traversed by covered wagon the area that I was driving through--twice. I guess I was traveling about twenty times faster, and my version of a covered wagon had air conditioning and a few other amenities.
Somewhere along the line, all the high-tech gadgetry we all possess today fades into the background and we cease to actually see it. At what point can I pick up my iPhone and not automatically think, “Gee Whiz!” in marvel at this impossibly clever device? Arthur C. Clarke said, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” But when does the magic wear off? How many times do we have to see the trick before we stop being in awe of the magician?
I know it is a generational thing. Of course we take for granted the technology that was around when we were born, no matter how revolutionary. I can remember when my nephews visited and looked in puzzlement at a rotary dial phone; they kept stabbing their fingers into the holes trying to push some non-existent buttons. My sons cannot remember a life without cell phones and the internet. But I can. When did I stop being amazed?
It was at this point that I realized I had missed my exit by the same distance my grandfather could have covered in about a day with his covered wagon. I really should pay more attention to my driving. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. So does a fall down a flight of stairs.
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