New Tricks by Martha Holmes I returned last night from a four-thousand-mile drive that began on Dec 19. The trip was devised to deliver my late mother’s possessions to her granddaughter, my niece, now living in the Florida panhandle, and to return with furniture my mother-in-law wanted moved from her home in Florida to her second home in Massachusetts. But I also wanted to reacquaint myself with my fellow Americans along the way, to be reminded who the hell we are, now that we’ve been so politically polarized that I can’t stand half of us and half of us can’t stand me. I don’t even understand our nation’s purposes anymore. But that’s politics, not people. And it had been a long time since I set out to meet the people. I’ve passed through 15 states since I last looked out this window at this snowy valley, or sat with this computer at this desk to write this column. From the Hudson Valley I took the fast road south to the cobblestone streets of Savannah, further to the family get-together on Florida’s East Coast, then north and west about a thousand miles to New Orleans. I then turned toward home and drove through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, New Jersey to New York. My brother joined me on the way south and my friend Melissa flew to New Orleans for the drive north. But the only other traveler for all four thousand of those American miles was an old dachshund named Sophie, who inspired my title for this column. We all know what you can’t teach an old dog, but I was hopeful that the adage would not also apply to me. All of my journey is in my rear view mirror now, already sifted and sorted into parts to remember and parts to forget. I’d like to forget our ugly American sprawl that insults each dying town with its Pizza Hut, its Wal-Mart and Days Inn. They are not in fact a hut or a mart or an inn. They are the Britney Spears of American architecture, there to marry you for fifteen minutes or so. Yet I needed them all at one time or another, there being no similar services left in the old towns. All because of the car, in which I had arrived. I’d like to forget that I couldn’t find a serious newsmagazine in eight stops in four states, though the National Enquirer or The Star were available nearly everywhere, spewing their anti-information. I’d like to forget the carelessly tossed trash, the neglected buildings from a distinguished past, the thoughts of what once grew where the car dealer now sprawls. But I recognize the above as being the arf of an old dog. So I move on, to the chosen memories: the beauty of the palms at sunset, the trees draped in Spanish moss, the white sand beaches of the "forgotten coast," the winding Mississippi, the mountains rising toward our spacious skies. Beauty triumphs in the memory, but the most precious keepsakes of my trip are my fellow Americans. Their names are Beverly and Audrey, Jane and Bill, Leon and Fredda, Becki and Eric, Cerise, Brynn, Gary and Paula, and so many more. They invited us into their homes, made us dinner, made us breakfast, showed us their motorcycles and their pictures of their children, and welcomed us to come back again. There was the magical night with Bill and Jerry and Barry and Linda and LeGran and EW and Bobby ("shut up, Bobby") and their darling friends Clayton and Love (yes, Love) who arrived in that Under The Hill Saloon by the river with a potful of his homemade "deer chili" which he shared without cost or benefit. And when we left they thanked us for lifting their expectation of New Yorkers. They are my America, and they make me proud. What I now unpack says a lot for where I’ve been; the two grapefruits bring back the generosity of the woman who invited us to pick them from her tree; the bathing suit reminds me of the turquoise swimming pool nearby and the laughter of a reunited family; the jar of white sand will always put me back on the beach near Panama City where a mother cuddled her now-grown daughter in her arms once more; the new jacket and a hat recall the friendly faces in the shops of New Orleans; the brochure of the Rosewood Plantation north of New Orleans takes me back to its gardens, its porches, its past, now gone with the wind. And here in my wallet is a card that guarantees me lifetime membership in the Under The Hill Gang in that great saloon in Natchez, Mississippi, land that I now love. Sophie is barking. My brother is on the phone, inquiring about my return, and Melissa is home and trying to catch up with the work she couldn’t get to because she was keeping me from having to travel alone. I’m happy to be home, as my compatriots down south made clear I always was. ### Martha Holmes welcomes email