Pink Houses

My ipod is full of old music. Really, really old music. And 80s music. And 90s music. And even a tune or two from this decade. In the midst of all my really old music, lie several John Cougar Mellencamp tracks. Pink Houses is one of my favorites. I listen to it quite frequently. As a life-long Indiana boy, Mellencamp captured so many of my youthful feelings into his songs. I guess country people are good at that. Simple and unaffected by the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. Must be all the corn and beef we ate and the fact that we had nothing better to do but sit and visit with people while we shucked corn, snapped peas, and fried okra. My point? Oh yeah, I am getting to that.



Whenever I hear Pink Houses, I drift into a nostalgic state and reminisce about what America means to me. America means so many things to me that it is quite difficult to effectively put into words what I feel in my heart.

America is my youth spent in Kokomo, Indiana. It was Hoosier ball and childhood heroes, opening day parades, stained softball uniforms, cheerleading at the armory, and spending summer evenings in the park watching my dad play double headers. It was gatherings of friends at hospital picnics, sharing popcorn at outdoor cinemas, visits with Fred and Gina during weekly bookmobile excursions, and Friday night feuds over pinball machines at Mike's. America was making a new friend everywhere I went, learning that everyone was my neighbor, and that Granny's love was always in the form of a new handmade dress. My America was summer adventure...hog roasts at Coleman's farm, catching fireflies with my sisters, Mississinewa sunburns and swimming (toe-biting fish included), chasing neighborhood lava monsters, enduring painful mammoth-sized mosquito bites, and dreamily counting summer stars. America was my family and feeling a sense of pride every time someone asked me if I was "Skip's girl". My America was a youth free from worry and devastation. It was Sundays at church, visits with kin, and really big parties every Fourth of July.

America is my hope. It is my vision for the future, my gratitude for soldiers defending my country, my longing for redemption, my prayer for everlasting grace, and my struggle for enduring peace.

America is my laughter. It is the squeal of my little boy every time he eyes a horse or hugs his daddy after a long day at work.

America is my color. It is red, white, and blue...and ivory, olive, yellow, pink, tan, brown, and black.

America is my symphony. It is my philharmonic, my barbershop quartet, my musical, my dueling banjo, my gospel choir.

America is my history. It is my Mayflower voyage, my Abraham's speech, my German hands, my Azorean eyes, my Bing Crosby melodies, my mother's calming voice, my father's undeniable humor.

America is my home. It is my island of a symbol, my carvings of Mount Rushmore, my hollow of the Redwoods, my benches of the Rockies, my plateaus of the Badlands, my fields of golden yellow, my lighthouses of the north, my salty beaches of the south.

America is my place of healing. As I was waiting in the pediatric exam room of Mountain View Hospital this morning, I held my little Xavier while softly singing a lullaby in hopes to calm his fearful cries. I peered out the full-length exam windows onto the green horse pastures positioned directly across the street from the life light pad. A realization occurred to me. No matter what detour creeps up in my path, there are always caring people to help me find my way. If I am sick, sad, or just plain weary, there is always someone who tries to make life a little less scary and a tad bit sweeter. America is my place of healing because her shoulders are broad, her arms are wide, and her strength makes my burdens feel light...

...Oh, but ain't that America, for you and me
Ain't that America, we're something to see baby
Ain't that America, home of the free
Little pink houses for you and me