Our plane touched down, mid-afternoon. The flight attendant said, “Careful opening overhead compartments because shift happens.”
We deboarded, got our luggage from the carousel, leapt into our rental car, and we aimed the front bumper toward the wilds of Pennsylvania.
I like Pennsylvania. They’re nice here. They say “yous” and “yinz” and “soda pop.” They have Appalachian manners, a steelman’s work ethic, and potholes big enough to swallow Peterbilts.
Soon, we were driving back roads beneath an impossibly blue sky, dodging potholes like playing a video game. But after we got out of the congested areas, the landscape changed considerably.
The potholes disappeared. So did the billboards, warehouses, blast furnace smokestacks, along with all the Dick’s Sporting Goods, Outback Steakhouses, Ultas, Best Buys, Red Lobsters, and other American franchises that make each American town look just like every other American town.
Soon, we were weaving through the rearmost byways of Pennsylvania, past the hinterlands of Appalachia. Riding two-lanes without yellow lines, where motorists are nice enough to stay in their own lane using the honor system.
Our tires bumped over the occasional patch job on the antique pavement. We whipped past hundreds of unnamed offshot dirt roads, top dressed, leading heaven only knows where.
Gracious farmland, dotted hillsides. Scalped pastures of fescue and alfalfa, golden brown, peppered with little red barns, timber fences, and millions of parked RVs. Goodness, Pennsylvania seems to love their RVs.
We passed cattle, standing near fence rails, all huddled together, watching intermittent cars go by, moving their heads in unison to follow your vehicle as though they were watching a tennis match.
The roads were lined with heaps of residual snow, akin to giant tufts of dirty cotton. The faroff hillsides were blue, with Purple Mountains Majesty standing behind them.
Smoke rose from distant chimneys attached to imperfectly white farmhouses, two-stories, big porches, no frills, manicured yards.
We passed a young man driving a John Deere with a bucket/blade in front. He looked maybe 20, but wore the long beard of a married man. His Carhartt was beaten, his cap knit, his jeans soiled.
He gave us the two-fingered wave after pulling over into the ditch to let us pass. He smiled as we drove by. And you couldn’t help but smile back.
“What’s Pennsylvania like?” I once asked one of my friends, who grew up here.
My friend wore a wistful look and said, “We are the most misunderstood state in the US. But in actuality, we are a state with Pittsburgh on one side, Philadelphia on the other, and Alabama in the middle.”
Sign me up.