This weekend Bill and I will fly to Seattle to begin an Alaskan cruise. I love the anticipation of a vacation. I have fun visualizing our destination, planning the excursions, imagining the people we will meet. But this vacation is different for a couple of reasons.
First, it is difficult to plan a vacation that requires you to shop for sweaters, scarves, hats, and gloves when the current temperature is over 100 degrees.
Second, I’m mad at Alaska, not the Alaskan people, but the state of Alaska—every square mile of it—and I’ve been mad for fifty-one years. Yes, it’s a long time to be angry; especially if you don’t realize you are angry. But I’m here to tell you I’ve never forgiven Alaska for making Texas the second largest state.
I was ten when Alaska became a state; immediately, I knew something was wrong. How could Alaska replace Texas? Texas had dirt and rocks, hills and valleys, lakes and rivers. It had presence. After all, Texas had been an independent country. Six flags had flown over the land and we had a giant amusement park to prove it. Texas was home to the Alamo. Big Tex stood guard over the State Fair. Pump jacks dotted the landscape. Wealthy and powerful men surveyed their “kingdoms” from behind the wheel of their white Cadillac convertibles. Texas was the land of polished boots and Stetson hats.
Alaska was an interloper. It was Seward’s folly—a giant ice cube. What if it was all ice and snow? What if it had no dirt, no rocks, no substance? In a heat wave, Alaska might melt and once again we could sing the state song—
Texas, our Texas! All hail the mighty State!
Texas, our Texas! So wonderful so great!
Largest and grandest, Withstanding ev'ry test;
O Empire wide and glorious, You stand supremely blest.
After all, that’s way it should be sung.
