I have a thing for buffalo. Growing up, my mom would take my sister and me to a swimming pool at a park about 15 minutes from our house. That 15-minute drive always seemed like the longest drive ever, sitting in our bathing suits in the backseat, anticipating the smell of chlorine, zinc oxide, and the snack shop burgers and fries . . . the burn of the white concrete on our feet before jumping into the shallow end . . . the peaceful, magical feeling of being underwater, surrounded by people and yet oddly alone. About two minutes from the pool, we'd round a long curve in the road and pass a farm where buffalo lived. If we were lucky, there'd be one or two hanging out, grazing, standing on their inordinately small legs on the side of the hill. We'd gaze in awe at their girth, and at some point we started celebrating seeing them by singing a little two-word tune: "Buff-a-lo roooooaaaam!"
Years later, when it was time for me to go to college, I chose to head two hours north on the main interstate between Alabama and Tennessee. As I drove my old Ford Taurus up that interstate for college orientation, I noticed a farm on the side of the road about 45 minutes away from the city. Arranged on the grassy hills were a classic two-story farmhouse, a barn, a silo, some fences, and... buffalo. Four or five buffalo! I couldn't help but sing quietly, "Buff-a-lo roooooaaaam . . ." Those giant frizzy beasts had no way of knowing it, but they were reminding me that I was on the right road. Headed toward something good and exciting. I might come away a little tired and sunburned, but I'd have some great memories to look back on.
To this day, when I see buffalo in person or in one of these big photos or paintings, I can't help but sing in my head, "Buff-a-lo rooooaaam!" and smile.
