Writing Historical Fiction - Essay Example

?Historical Fiction When I reflect on my future I oftentimes think about the necessity of attending college, getting a job, and joining the modern workforce. Although I appreciate the opportunity I have living in as prosperous a nation as the United States, and having the opportunity for gainful education and gainful employment, I have felt that there is something drab and depressing about following this traditional path. For a time I had decided after high school I wanted to pursue something different rather than simply entering college. I had no idea what I would do – get a job, study in a Buddhist monastery, join a commune – whatever it was it would ensure that my life was unique. One night I expressed this desire to my father, Daniel. Rather than rejecting my idea as I had expected he would, he empathized with me and told me that when he turned eighteen he had similar feelings. Rather than pursuing anything similar to what I had proposed, however, he went on a summer long excursion throughout the western United States. My father was born and grew up in Montana. Growing up in a large family he never really had the opportunity to travel throughout the country. After high school, before deciding on his next course of action, he and two of his friends piled into a Cadillac and started towards the western part of United States with nothing but a map and backpack of clothes. “We didn’t really have a plan” he told me. “Really, all we knew is that we wanted to see California and take it from there.” They passed through Idaho and Oregon, heading straight for San Francisco. It was 1972 when my father and his friends drove over the Golden Gate Bridge into the city. Throughout the late 1960s San Francisco had become the center of hippie culture. Protests regularly occurred there, bands and artists frequented the area, and songs were even written about the city. While San Francisco had experienced this great idealism in the 1960s, the early 1970s were a time of growing cynicism. “We pulled into the city with a great sense of naivete, believing there would be young people with flowers and guitars all over the streets. In reality we were a few years late” he told me. They made it throughout many of the characteristic spots, “We went to Haight-Ashbury, saw Alcatraz, and rode the cable cars.” I had heard of San Francisco as the epicenter of 1960s culture, so I was very curious as to what had happened to the area’s optimism. “The month we pulled into the city was the same month men had been arrested for the Watergate scandal. A few years before Charles Manson had been arrested for leading the Tate-Labianca killings. It seemed like the collective culture of the area had grown tired of itself.” They explored throughout the city nonetheless. While San Francisco was the heart of the 1960s counter-culture movement, the city also has an illustrious history dating back to the 19th century gold rush. “What I remember the most is walking along the peer where the fishermen brought in their daily catch. Stands had been setup where you could buy fresh fish and chips. We sat along that peer each night looking out at Alcatraz.” After a couple days in the city they decided to explore the surrounding area. They ventured up a hill that overlooked the city. “The hill had actually been an old Northern Civil War army base” he told me. It really surprised me to discover that preparations for the Civil War had extended as far west as San Francisco. While the area was a designated no camping zone, they were traveling on a budget; they waited until night time and set up sleeping bags out of site of possible passersby. “We walked out to the top of the hill before right before the sunset and looked out across the Golden Gate Bridge and the city of San Francisco. I thought about all the people that had looked along here before and all the development the city had gone through. It was truly an American relic” he told me. He would go to sleep that night, but be woken up by cats clawing at his face. “Vicious cats. They must have been discarded by owner’s in the city and came up to live on the hill.” he told me. The next day they would leave the city. They drove south along the California border. “Driving throughout California was a completely different experience than driving through Montana and Idaho” he said. “I remember driving through luscious vineyards where wineries popped up every few miles.” They continued driving south deciding they would stop in Los Angeles. “Eventually we hit hills where the only thing between us and a steep fall into the ocean was a wrong turn or errant driver. It was equally beautiful and terrifying,” he said. The continued along the California coast arriving in Los Angeles the next day. Arriving in Los Angeles they would immediately find themselves drenched in the city’s characteristic traffic. “Years later I would return to Los Angeles and experience the gridlock traffic on the highways. I’d like to say that in the early 1970s things were different, but they weren’t,” my father said. They made their way through the traffic, finally locating a cheap youth hostel they could stay in for a few days. “We were transfixed by the Hollywood aura, we wanted to see some famous people and figure out what the city was really about.” They would venture throughout and see many of the seminal areas –the Hollywood sign, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. “Being from Montana I think the most startling aspect of the city was its expansive size,” he said. “Even so, I experienced a slight disillusionment with the Hollywood mystique.” The next day they would go to Rodeo Drive. He walked with his friends up and down the streets, looking in at the expensive clothing stores and out at the fancy cars. It was a different society entirely, replete with fur coats and little white dogs that didn’t even exist east of California. My father separated from his friends and walked up and down the city streets. He went through a number of emotions after the initial culture shock. It was not long before he began to feel a sense of emptiness and vapidity. The people were rich and glamorous, but there was something missing, something that had been lost on the road between Montana and Rodeo Drive. That evening my father met back up with his friends and they would talk about their experience. “I hated that place,” one of them said. They all agreed. Later that night they would go to Dodger Stadium and watch the Dodgers play the Yankees. That year the Yankees had slightly fallen off. No longer did they have Mickey Mantle, or any of the legends that carried them to so many World Series championships in the 1960s. Instead, the Dodgers had the better team with Steve Garvey on third base and Don Sutton pitching. “The game was a blowout,” he said, “But it was great – the whole experience, seeing this stadium on the hill that had been on television so many times.” After the game they would make their way back to the youth hostel and pass-out. The next morning they gathered together and agreed they’d had enough of Los Angeles and would be onto another state. They drove towards Arizona not knowing where else to go. On their way out of California they realized that they were relatively close to the Grand Canyon. Much like California, my father had never been to the Grand Canyon. He had seen it on television and saw pictures of it in books, but the chance to experience it first hand would surely be extraordinary. They drove through the night on their way to Arizona. They would reach the state late that night, pull over to the side of the road, and immediately pass out in the car. The next day they would wake up around noon and make their way towards the Grand Canyon. They entered the park and walked towards the viewing area. “I didn’t know what to expect. There was such a buildup to this one site. I mean you can see it in books or on television, but actually witnessing it in public would surely be an entirely different experience,” he told me. My father walked out towards the ledge and looked over at the expansive canyon. He thought about his life and the tremendous distance they had drove. He thought about time and how this geological formation had been created slowly over thousands of years. Still, even with this site he recognized that after a period it was just a canyon. A few moments later he step back and meet up with his friends. “Eh, overrated,” he told them. They would leave the park and spend the rest of the afternoon eating and looking for a place to sleep. The next day he talked with his friends and they agreed that they had to start driving back towards Montana or risk running out of money for food and gas. For the next few days they would drive north through the United States. After Arizona they would pass through Utah and then hit Wyoming – the heartland. Rather than the Pacific Ocean and illustrious vineyards, there was agriculture on top of agriculture. “The scenery was a lot less stunning than passing through California, but there was something tranquil and meditative about passing through this farmland after a long journey.” After Utah they would drive through Wyoming before finally returning home to Montana. “It was an eye opening experience, but not really for the reasons I expected,” he told me. When I consider that statement in terms of my own situation I feel both a tinge of disappointment, but also a slight relief. I believe what my father meant was that despite living in Montana and being sheltered from much of urban culture, there may not necessarily be a greater sense of reality and existence outside of our daily lives. When I consider my own life I recognize that it is not necessarily about doing something different or extraordinary, but living my life with purpose and meaning. Today I look forward to attending college after high school and joining the traditional path of society. My father’s story showed me that this path can be just as meaningful as any other. Read More