Finding America the Beautiful

I spent days at the start of my summer vacation in what I thought was the most beautiful place on earth, and most certainly Switzerland is absolutely gorgeous, but in trying to complete my bucket list, I am presently traveling with a friend and writing colleague in Vermont and New Hampshire, the only states in the East I’d never toured before, and I actually may have found heaven on Earth, and it is in our own backyard—so to speak.

The green mountains of Vermont are truly magnificent. Carpeted with massive trees in every shade of green I’ve ever seen, they shelter rolling corn fields, are home to the Morgan, one of the earliest horse breeds developed in the Unites States, and support an American populace that proudly displays flags from 1776 all along Main Street.

Each of the small towns throughout our New England journey has oozed with pristine beauty and unequaled charm, the kind of charm, in fact, that you can only find in America.

In one town, the after-dinner attraction was a Marine Band that entertained the whole town from the gazebo in the town square. Listeners were curled up on picnic blankets or lounging in lawn chairs. Some of the youngsters were draped over the Veteran’s monument and brass canon that decorated the square or were gazing up wide-eyed from the grass that encircled the gazebo’s base. Old and young alike were enthralled by the young men in uniform who played their patriotic songs.

In another town, there was an outdoor recital and all the townspeople were in attendance not because the dancers were famous but because being featured were the tiny daughters, in tap shoes and tutus, of families who’d lived there for generations. Their ancestors, many generations of them, had carved their roads into the mountain sides, dug the gray stone from dangerous quarries for the homes and churches that still stood tall, and they had withstood the tough winters to bring in the harvest of farms still owned by these great, great grandchildren. These little girls were the town’s tiny daughters and that meant coming out in support, whether they were in your blood line or not.

We saw townspeople attending outdoor fish fries, walking the streets around at sunset with ice cream cones and candied apples, and docking boats after a day on crystal lakes and sparkling rivers.

They chatted on verandas that wrapped around their quaint Victorian homes painted in pastels and festooned with flowers of every sort—baby’s breath, huge holly hocks, yellow jonquil, and pink lilies. A cacophony of color, there was a profuse garden at every turn, whether of man’s design or nature’s.

It was a Norman Rockwell painting very much alive and well. Bubbling brooks and rushing falls graced every town, and the covered bridges carried you back to the days of America’s true pioneers.

My favorite was on the way to the historic home of our greatest American sculptor Augustus Saint-Gaudens. Carved into the arch of the bridge dating back to the 1800’s was the stern warning of being fined if one did not walk instead of ride their horse across.

America the beautiful is indeed that. Whether in the mountains of Vermont or on the emerald beaches of Florida or amid the red rocks in Arizona, there is no more versatile or gorgeous a place. Magnificent nature aside, though, the American people are just as beautiful—still strong, still resilient, still fighting to hold onto what has always made us so very special.