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My Wagon
Instead of an established home, my parents gave me something better：a gypsy wagon, so that I could make my home wherever I might be. My father built with boards of art, music, adventure, and deviation from the norms of society. My mother used boards of unfaltering support, philanthropy1), and appreciation of beauty. Between these supports were nailed planks from each generation of my ancestors2), allowing all of my history to mold me and stay with me. My Norwegian ancestors provided boards of great sturdiness, simplicity, and education；my ancestors from a mixture of European descent gave fanciful boards reflective of city society and grandeur.
The wagon is simplistic in style---no useless porticos, no shutters nailed to the outside. Its construction is expedient to all for which it is used；I am never weighed down with anything unwanted. The inner walls are painted a Norwegian blue, the outer with a chameleon3) sheen adaptable to its surroundings. The few choice furnishings have been acquired in my wanderings and there is still room for more―--always room for quality.
The mobility of my gypsy wagon is responsible for my adaptability. Though I might often caravan4), I am not afraid to go my way alone. I can sit around the fires of any group in society and because I am completely immersed in their environment, I am able to learn about them without preconceptions5) or prejudices. My understanding of them is then based on their environment and history；I don’t try to under stand them on my terms or make them fit to what I already know. I respect and admire that which is true unto itself, no matter how different it may appear. Because of this, I gravitate6) towards what is unique and unusual---be it a culture, an idea, a person, or a creation. I have often acted as a harbinger for my peers and even myself. I have laid tracks with something as simple as the clothes I wear, to my soy-rich diet, to the humanitarian, Taoist views I possess. Often what I discover on my own, about a year later, becomes an offbeat trend. I collect from different sources to construct my thoughts and actions；I don’t wait for someone else to do it for me.
Each summer my wagon returns to a square cottage in rural Minnesota：the spring of my youth. Without a television, or any modern conveniences added since the 1940’s, the secluded wooded lot on a small lake has retained its purity. The solace7) and free reign of my time has led me to find my creativity. I have been awed8) by nature by spending my days out in the woods and on the islands. At times I attempt to capture nature’s beauty on paper or old Ping-Pong paddles with paints and brushes. At other times I build dams in the stream or carve its course into the sandbar, but the stream always prevails and follows its natural course. On stormy days, I choose a musty book from the shelves and read it in my great-great aunt‘s rocking chair in front of the fireplace as I listen to a constant drip through the roof to the floor of the concrete stairwell. I reflect and contemplate at night as I lie in our hammock and watch the night sky turn, until familiar constellations are lost beneath the horizon. The repose of these days and nights fills my wagon with calmness.
My wagon often makes trips to the Black Hills of South Dakota to rest at the home of my father and stepmother. Together we hike the hills and partake in the events of the artist community. In my father’s shop, I learn the trade of fused glass；in the house, he often instructs me on the classical guitar. When the lessons are over, he plays for me his flamenco melodies and songs of Segovia. His music will fill the air of my gypsy wagon indeterminately.
Two summers ago I decided to come with my mother to Wisconsin, whereupon I set my wagon a top a wooded hill overlooking the city lights. In Eau Claire I have exposed myself to an array of9) new people and activities, and have begun to explore―in depth―the law, journalism, the Chinese language, and the interaction between community and youth. Faces contorted with pity always ask me how it was to“move”my junior year. For most, moving would be tearing up roots and trying to transplant them in new soil；I simply carved out another set of tracks to a new land.
My wagon, simple yet expedient, is the confluence of all my experience, knowledge, and ideas, and is therefore my home. I wasn’t just given a house that I could look back upon with fond memories, but a sturdy gypsy wagon that will house me wherever I choose to voyage.
by Andrea Johnson
