Picket fences and picture frames.

In classic Americana tradition, no one image has more concisely defined the American dream than the white picket fence.  That may seem a bit odd these days, especially in the area where I currently live.  White picket fences have been replaced by tan/brown/desert colored concrete block fences here.  But if we look back over the past few decades, the notion of the picket fence was a sign of arrival.  It meant you had succeeded, and was a goal for millions of Americans.

In addition to the picket fence, picture frames took on a whole measure of importance themselves.  With the advent of film technology, the ability to snap pictures and have them printed, and eventually print them yourself, hallways and walls became adorned with images of family – vacations, sporting events, children’s achievements – all of these became entrenched into the design and fabric of the home.  If you’ve ever been in a small group setting and the icebreaker question was, “Your house is on fire and you can only grab 10 things – what do you grab?“, you have probably heard picture frames consistently among the responses.  The common thought was furniture can be purchased again and memories are forever, but pictures cannot be replaced.

I’ve been thinking a lot about picket fences and picture frames lately.  I’ve been consumed with the challenge in my own life of attempting to measure what it means to have “arrived.”  I had dinner last night with a great friend from Kentucky who is in Phoenix for a few days.  As we talked about a myriad of things, he asked what I thought my family’s future looked like.  He knows how much places like Honduras are on my mind, and wondered through his question if that was a real possibility for me and my family someday.  I told him I wasn’t sure, but that I felt pretty confident that we would not be in AZ forever.  As I uttered that statement, it felt weird…it felt good, but it was weird.  All my life I envisioned picket fences and picture frames.  I envisioned having one group of friends, who would grow up and have families, and would spend our adult years watching our kids play sports, act in school plays, and have barbecues every weekend.  When I was younger I thought that would signify that I had “arrived.”  Now that we have experienced packing up and moving 1800 miles, and have negotiated the twists and turns that come with such an event, I feel more and more a nomadic spirit rising within me.  I don’t know exactly what that means, or how it plays out in our lives…but it’s there.  No longer do I look at picket fences and picture frames as marks of making it…I think for me it’s becoming more along the lines of passports and pilgrimage.