The summer of 1965 was a big travel year for my family. We drove first to Albuquerque then Houston to visit relatives, and I quickly discovered that Texans were a lot like Wyomingites, just with a Southern accent. My cousins said “y’all” while we said “you guys,” but beneath the differences in language, we shared the same independent spirit. There was a pioneer and cowboy heritage that connected us, even though all of us were growing up in cities rather than on ranches.
Our next stop was New Orleans. My grandmother took us on a tour of the French Quarter, and afterward we had lunch with more cousins. After spending a week in Houston and Galveston, I had become accustomed to Southern accents, but my Louisiana relatives spoke with what my grandmother called a patois, a rich blend of languages and traditions that was beautiful to hear but sometimes difficult for me to understand. Even so, I felt the same sense of kinship with my relatives in New Orleans and Shreveport that I had felt with my Texas cousins.
Our time in New York City was different. There, we were tourists rather than visiting family. I had my first real bagel and lox from the deli on the main floor of my grandmother’s apartment building, a taste unlike anything I had ever experienced in Wyoming. We visited the famous landmarks, rode crowded elevators, and looked up at skyscrapers that seemed to touch the clouds. New York felt exciting, sophisticated, and a world away from the wide-open spaces of home.
Our time in Boston was my first experience feeling like an outsider. We were swimming at my aunt’s country club with some local girls around my age when they noticed I was new and asked where I was from. When I told them Wyoming, they were incredulous. They asked if we had cars or if we still rode around in covered wagons. Did we even have electricity?
I was shocked and offended that they could be so rude and ignorant. Looking back, though, that moment was also when I first realized how proud I was of my home state. Wyoming may have been far away from Boston, but it was my home, and I loved it.
Despite that experience, I loved walking Boston’s Freedom Trail. I still remember seeing places like Paul Revere’s house and Old North Church. Learning about the Patriots and the Revolutionary War deepened my appreciation for our nation’s history and strengthened my love for this country.
The month we spent at my aunt’s summer house in Biddeford Pool, Maine, was a breath of fresh air. Everyone we met was kind, interesting, and welcoming. Maine felt like a beautiful postcard of America, with bonfires on cool evenings and clambakes on pristine beaches. After a day of sailing, we would stop at the lobster pound to pick up dinner, a tradition that felt quintessentially New England.
During that summer, I discovered that every place we visited had its own character and charm. From the wide-open spaces of Wyoming to the historic streets of Boston and the rugged coastline of Maine, each place offered something unique. Even as a young girl, I began to understand how vast and diverse America truly is.
I am grateful that those travels allowed me to experience different corners of our country and to appreciate both their differences and their shared spirit. Watching the National Anthem beautifully performed by Dan + Shay before the World Cup the other day brought those memories flooding back. It reminded me how fortunate I am to call this remarkable country home and how proud I am to be an American.
As different as Houston, New Orleans, and New York City were from one another, the trip taught me that family connections could bridge geography, accents, and cultures. Whether gathered around a table in Texas, strolling through the French Quarter, or sharing breakfast in Manhattan, I found pieces of myself reflected in relatives who lived hundreds or even thousands of miles away.
