I've Been Everywhere

 

From Sea to Shining Sea: Been There

I’ve lived in nine states — and visited every state west of the Mississippi and most to the east. I’ve missed the Carolinas and a few corners of New England, but I’ve seen enough of America to know this: every place has its own personality. Some whisper, some shout, some surprise you, and some stay with you long after you’ve moved on.

What follows isn’t a travel guide. It’s a memory map — the things that stuck, the things that shaped me, and the things I still see when I close my eyes.

South Dakota — Where The Story Begins

Born and raised there, and later returning for a decade to run the Alexandria Herald and Emery Enterprise, South Dakota is the state that built me.

East River is rolling hills, rich cropland, and horizons that stretch farther than your worries. And home to the World's Only Corn Palace! West River is rangeland, the haunting moonscape of the Badlands, and the Black Hills rising like a promise out of the prairie. It's Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Memorial.

It’s a place of honest seasons, steady people, and land that teaches you patience, resilience, and respect.

Washington — The Evergreen Cathedral

Tacoma and Fort Lewis introduced me to the Pacific Northwest:

• Pine forests

• Mild temperatures

• Rain that seems to fall more days than not

• Flowers that bloom like they’re showing off

And the rain — that deserves its own explanation. In the Pacific Northwest, you can see it raining without actually feeling it. It’s so light it becomes a fine mist, almost like the sky is exhaling.

There's Seattle and the Space Needle, and then there’s Mt. Rainier — invisible most days, but when the clouds finally part, it appears like a revelation. A mountain that doesn’t just sit on the horizon but owns it.

Minnesota — Familiar Ground

Minnesota felt like South Dakota with:

• More lakes

• More trees

• More towns

• And winters that take themselves seriously

• More mosquitoes

For a time, I drilled with my National Guard unit in St. Paul, and that gave me a front‑row seat to one of Minnesota’s great cultural truths: if the Vikings were playing at home, you planned your day around it. You either beat the rush before the game ended or you braced yourself for traffic filled with thousands of fans — some upbeat, some downcast, all of them determined to get home at the same time.

Minnesota was familiar, comfortable, and steady — a northern neighbor with a similar soul.

Colorado — The Rockies as Neighbors

Colorado Springs and Fort Carson gave me:

• Cheyenne Mountain, a massive, steep-sided block of granite that casts long shadows across the post in the late afternoon.

• Hailstorms that arrived like uninvited guests.

• The memory of climbing Pike’s Peak with my friend Lauryn (“Goat”), who lived up to his nickname.

Colorado is a place where the mountains aren’t scenery — they’re part of your daily life.

Texas — Sun, Sand, and the Borderlands

Fort Bliss gave me a different kind of beauty.

El Paso is one of the sunniest cities in America — the kind of place where you expect blue sky every morning and usually get it. It sits right across the border from Juárez, Mexico, close enough to see the lights at night. And yet El Paso itself is remarkably safe, year after year one of the safest large cities in the country.

What I remember most:

• Sand, sand, and more sand

• Mesquite bushes that look older than time

• Sandstorms that turn the sky brown

• Tarantulas crawling out after heavy rains like desert inspectors

A stark, sun‑baked landscape — rugged, honest, unforgettable.

Tennessee — The First Taste of the South

Tennessee was my introduction to southern living — Millington, just outside Memphis, where the humidity hits you like a warm, wet blanket the moment you step outside.

Fields of cotton. Kudzu covering everything. That southern drawl. "Bless your heart." Armadillos -- deceased, roadside warriors. Memphis' Beale Street. Flowers blooming in November. Baptist churches or Waffle Houses on every other corner.

In the South, it seems every river's name is at least four syllables -- like "Loosahatchie, " near Memphis, or "Tallahatchie" in Mississippi. But my all-time favorite was located near Biloxi, Mississippi -- the Tchoutacabouffa River -- pronounced “CHOO-tah-kah-buf," from the Biloxi tribe's word for "broken pot."

Mississippi — The Gulf Coast Years

My second‑longest home was the Mississippi Gulf Coast — a world of its own.

Trees everywhere. Spanish moss hanging like nature’s lace. Crepe myrtles blooming in colors that look painted on. Azaleas. Winters so mild you can sit outside in December in shorts. Summers so brutal the air conditioner never stops running, even at night.

And the rain — not gentle, not polite, but sheets of water.

One night I drove to pick up Barbara from class at the community college. The ditches were overflowing. A pickup was already swallowed by water. Our Toyota Sienna pushed through a parking lot with water up to the radiator. Somehow — and only by the grace of God — we made it home.

And hurricanes. The day I reported to the shipyard in Pascagoula to inprocess for my new job, Hurricane Isaac was bearing down on the coast, so I was sent home mid-morning, only to return a week later with luckily little damage. But we learned that time for Mississippians is measured as being "before (Hurricane) Katrina or after Katrina." And when we arrived there in 2012 the effects of the 2005 hurricane could still be seen. Ironically, in our almost six years on the Coast, we never experienced a hurricane.

And on clear days, the drive along Highway 90 from Pascagoula to Biloxi gave you postcard views of the Gulf. The sun shimmering on the peaceful water, gulls and pelicans flying overhead. Trawlers heading out to find the day's catch.

And in nearly six years there, I never saw a single snake. Alligators, yes. Snakes, no. A small miracle.

What we did have were the little green lizards — fast, harmless, and apparently convinced they were part of the family. They’d sun themselves on the patio, cling to the siding, and every so often dart inside like they were checking on us.

Then came the crawfish feeds — a Gulf Coast tradition I never quite embraced. Those tiny orange creatures get dumped on long tables by the pound, steaming hot and seasoned. You pick them apart to get the “delicious” innards, and my boss -- a seasoned Southerner -- once told me, with a straight face, that you have to “suck the head” to get the full taste experience. That alone was enough to make me question my life choices.

And nothing compares to Mardi Gras season on the Gulf Coast. Parades up and down the shoreline, floats rolling by as riders throw beads, candy, cups, doubloons, and trinkets. Some parade organizers spend the entire year planning their routes, costumes, and throws. And the brightly colored king cakes — purple, green, and gold — are a staple of the season. We enjoyed those parades immensely.

Before we even visited Mississippi on that job interview, we watched Ray Stevens' "The Great Mississippi Squirrel Revival." That set the tone for our years in Mississippi.

Mississippi was beautiful, unpredictable, and unforgettable.

Missouri — The Ozarks and Branson’s Hills

Southern Missouri is all hills, curves, and stone. It's the Ozark Mountains.

In Branson, you can’t drive anywhere in a straight line without driving around a hill. The road from Springfield to Branson rises and falls like a roller coaster. Rock formations appear around bends like natural sculptures.

It’s rugged, wooded, and full of character.

Nebraska — The Cornhusker Heartland

Nebraska feels like South Dakota’s cousin:

• Crops, especially corn

• Small towns and wide fields

• A rhythm of life tied to agriculture and weather

And if you live in Nebraska, you are automatically a Cornhusker fan. The big red “N” is everywhere: on flags, lawns, garages, mailboxes, barns, and homes.

We’ve attended four games at Memorial Stadium, each time joining nearly 90,000 Nebraska fans — all of them pumped up, loud, loyal, and dressed in Husker red. The experience is like nothing else I’ve ever been part of. Ninety thousand people cheering in unison, the stadium shaking with energy. What a blast. And the most polite fans I've known, even when I was wearing South Dakota State blue/yellow when we played Big Red.

Nebraska doesn’t brag, but it doesn’t need to. It knows who it is.

Nine states -- all unique. All memorable.