different blooms from the same southern tree

There’s a quote I love by Mark Twain:

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.”

There are a few reasons why I love this quote. Firstly, if you know anything about Mark Twain (or Samuel Langhorne Clemons), you’ll know how beloved he is and how he shaped what we know today as American literature. This is a man who was unconventional — radical, even — during his time. He went through many troubles, yet inspired so many with his stories, poems, and individualism. He had a deep yearning for knowledge that lasted his entire life. To put it poetically, Mark Twain was punk-rock before punk-rock existed.

Secondly, I love this quote because it’s true. Travel provides insight and helps us grow as humans, if we’re willing. Being in a new place will force us out of our comfort zone. The experience of each person’s travel is as unique as they are. It is humbling being able to remember how small we all are on this giant planet.

Lastly, I love this quote because it’s short, so I can use it on the fly, and it makes me sound smart.

Now that I’ve established my credibility, let’s talk about something really exciting! Steam boilers. In the early 90s, my dad inspected steam boilers for a large insurance company. Founded in 1866, the company began back when steam boiler explosions happened once every four days. Wow. If you’re not able to define or imagine what a steam boiler is, no judgment. I spent years pretending I knew what my dad did for a living. What I can tell you is that a steam boiler is a pressurized vessel used to convert water to steam. That steam is then used for a variety of reasons. The level of pressure has varied and evolved over the years, and so have the safety measures, thankfully. The 1865 tragedy of the Sultana Steamboat inspired a group of men to come together with the goal of standardizing safety for all steam-powered vessels. This code, known as the ‘BPVC’ (Boiler and Pressure Vessel Code), made its official entrance in America, year 1915. While Alabama’s neighboring states, Mississippi and Louisiana, had already begun to welcome an inspector into their factories and mills, my dad faced much resistance when inspecting mills in our home-state. It wouldn’t be until 2004 that Alabama would become the 49th state to adopt the code. Sorry, can we read that again? The 49th state. You have my full permission to roll your eyes now.

If you’re still with me, reading about steamboats and boilers, props to you. There’s nothing sexier than learning about industrial safety measures over your first cup of coffee in the morning. Cheers!

Now let’s keep going.

When I was growing up, my dad traveled a lot for work. As I approached the double digits of my youth, I realized he’d seen some pretty cool places. He went all over the US and other countries, including Australia, Germany, and Columbia. My young mind had its first ah-ha moment sometime around nine years old: he wasn’t just ‘my dad’; he was a traveler with passport stamps and memories of places I knew very little about. So, after he would return home, I would ask him questions. I had to learn to initiate conversations since he wasn’t the type of person to talk just to hear himself talk. What was true then is still true today; sometimes, interesting stories are just below the surface of a person and a good question is all you need to break to ice.

There were times I’d listen to him answering my questions and I’d get the feeling it was the first time he’s spoken about whatever it was he was sharing with me. It was as if he was able to exhale a little, to free his mind of what he didn’t know was occupying it. Sometimes we are stuck in our routines that we don’t realize how interesting we are until someone else is interested. It’s hard to remember all the details of the stories he’s shared with me, but what I do remember, is that he wasn’t able to take a lot of time to explore the places he visited due to his workload. I felt sad knowing this. I couldn’t comprehend not having the chance to explore places you may never get to visit again.

In my dad’s early years, he was thin but muscular, built like a runner. When his official “dad-bod” made its entrance, he was in his late-40s and still expected to crawl inside of a boiler to ensure it met code. He would tell me stories about how he’d have to crawl into a tight space, barely able to maneuver, sometimes struggling to breathe. Mind you, my dad is 6’1″ and not into yoga, so I’d imagine this was pretty difficult, both mentally and physically.

The other part of the job was deskwork: managing accounts (businesses his company insured). In 1991, he started working out of an office he built with his dad, my Pawpaw. The entire thing was made from wood. It looked like something you’d find on a hike in the Smokeys. I was too young to see him and my dad building together but I imagine the two, working in the hot sun, only turning in whenever the sun finally set. I looked at the two as if they could build anything. Nothing was too much or too hard.

As a little girl during the summer, I would sprint out of our house, down to the backyard, to visit him while he worked. It always had a certain smell that hit you as soon as you climbed the steps to the front door. The kind of smell you can think about and remember instantly. Something like cypress, juniper, coffee, and electronics. There were large windows on either side of the door that illuminated the entire space. It was beautiful and cozy and often messy. His desk was usually cluttered with expensive pens, books, and Columbian cigar boxes. The shelves that lined the wall behind his desk were stocky, made out of unfinished and splintered wood, and crowded with books — mostly American history. Two old shot guns were propped in the corner by the window. He didn’t have to tell me not to bother them. I never touched them and never wanted to. This space was his and I loved sharing it with him.

Like myself, my dad grew up in the same small town in Alabama. He calls the TV remote the “tuner” and the refrigerator the “ice box”. He introduced me to good music when I was young, so I could make it through life properly: Eric Clapton, Doobie Brothers, Led Zeppelin, The Allman Brothers, and CCR. He appreciates expensive clothes and cheap beer. He’s supported every single one of my wild goals, encouraged and supported me in times of weakness, and defended me when I couldn’t defend myself. He’s an American history whiz, a former drummer, a Pawpaw, and lucky for me, my dad.

Sometimes a new city or country holds wisdom for you. Sometimes we need to get out of town and away from everything we know. Travel isn’t the only way to explore new territory though. If you’re like most of us and acknowledge the depth of people too little of the time, here’s a reminder to pause. The people you love — the people you think you already know inside and out — hold a wealth of experiences, perspectives and insight. The next time you assume there’s nothing new to learn about your loved ones or yourself, think again, my friend. Be curious, ask a question, and be willing to learn.

– V