there's no place . like kansas

Kansas Full Moon Over Lake Wilson

Sunday, August 14

Celtic music was playing on the radio when I crossed over from Missouri into Kansas. It seemed a fitting background for my somewhat melancholy mood that morning. I was still musing on my inspirational sojourn in Missouri, when I realized that Route 70 was taking me past the actual place where I was born.

My father was stationed at Fort Riley back in 1956, and here it was, just off the highway, rows of light brown jeeps and the military hospital where I'd taken my first breath. I was tempted to stop, to photograph, to stand in that spot, but with an 8-hour trip ahead, it seemed enough to just feel that energy.

My parents had lived in Manhattan, a few miles away, and I'd visited the town on a prior cross country trip with my daughter. Then, it was a disappointment, a dreary place it seemed to me, where I could imagine the dust piling up on the windowsills, the constant threat of tornados, the unrelenting heat.

My mother had recently shared a memory of living in an upstairs apartment with no air conditioning, and having us both sit in the bathtub just to stay cool. There was something about the intimacy of that recollection that struck me now and my eyes teared as I passed by the exit to Manhattan. My father was dead now, my mother visiting her own homeland on the St. Lawrence River at the moment, and I was traveling back in time:  my infant self was just opening her eyes in Kansas.

Ancient. Majestic. Pristine. Poetic. I was born in the Flint Hills of eastern Kansas in the Tallgrass Prairie known as The Konza, now an 8,616-acre preserve of the last and largest stretch of native bluestem grasses. The Tallgrass grows up to 10 feet high, thanks to the fractured shelves of limestone just beneath the topsoil here and turns from blue to a cadmium red in the fall. To the early settlers, they were a mysterious, awe-inspiring, ever-moving canvas that once stretched across 170 million acres. All but 4% remain, now part of the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, but they are no less a splendor today. Like the Longleaf Pines in the Sandhills of North Carolina, they are burned each spring to promote new growth. This would be a sight to see, wouldn't it? Perhaps some other time.

Konza Tallgrass Natural Preserve

As I passed by the end-of-summer blue-green fields, impressed by the hand of the hot wind, I felt an old memory stir—the hushed sound of the air moving through the grass, being cooled as it passed, coming through the window and into my playpen where I felt it brush my cheeks. But, then, in an instant, I had passed the Tallgrass, along with the rest of the traffic, speeding by at 75 miles an hour.

* * *

I arrived in the town of Wilson after a few turnabouts, thanks to my GPS, which fortuitously resulted in my finding the only liquor store for miles around (praise be). For such a tiny town they had a surprising and rather respectable selection of California wines and I stocked up, not knowing what dry counties I might encounter hence. There was also a small grocery where I found some delicious-looking apricots and bought a few other staples before finally landing at Wilson State Park.

My Kansas Campsite

You don't often think of dry, dusty Kansas of being a land of water. At least I didn't. My campsite, overlooking Wilson Lake (actually a reservoir and the deepest and I believe largest lake in Kansas, at 9,000+ acres) was one of the most beautiful places I had ever witnessed. I situated my tent to look east over the water and just as I finished, the park hosts, Marylou and Steven Andrews, came by to say hello. They showed me a gentle path down to the water and I quickly changed and went down to a sandy beach. The water was crystal clear and warm and I swam for a good half hour as the sun went down, making the red limestone cliffs glow in a spectrum of hues.

The West Swim Cove

Totally refreshed and feeling pretty darn lucky to be in such a good place, I sat by the fire for a bit with Marylou and Steven. Steven spun tales about his truck-driving days (he's an expert storyteller) and Marylou let on that she was an artist, whose work was shown in the nearby town of Lucas. I vowed to visit there later in the week. It was such a pleasant evening that I decided then and there to stay a few extra days in Kansas.

Monday, August 15

I had rested well with a cool, slow breeze wafting through the tent, lulling me to sleep. In the morning, I took a short hike on a nice trail that went high above the lake, affording an amazing view. For breakfast, I made a spinach, sundried tomato and egg white omelet, which became my go-to morning creation. There was, of course, coffee, rich and dark and so delicious as I sat in the soft morning light, watching the sun dance over the grasses and the water beyond. I was time traveling again, back to my childhood, when the future simply did not exist—when laying in the gold grass and watching the clouds for what seemed like forever was always a part of summer. How I appreciated having had that kind of time now!

Something began to slowly take shape in this present gift of unstructured time. I began to daydream about a book called "Redfield Place" with poems and drawings about my childhood. There have been so many resonances in that direction since I started traveling. I am continually seeing and feeling things that were somehow until now unseen or buried or perhaps just waiting to emerge.

It was mid-morning now and warming up quickly. There was another trail just in front of my tent. I followed it down to yet another cove as quiet and peaceful as might be wished for. The clear water awaited. I kicked off my shoes and dove in. Here, the shore dropped off quickly and the water became very deep. Fairly large fish leaped here and there and a turtle kept curious tabs on me, sticking its head out of the water a safe distance away. I must have floated and paddled about for several hours, discovering that this is also a birder's paradise. Doves, what I think was a Kestrel, and a bird I've never seen, a Baltimore Oriole, with its striking bright orange body and black head, all came down to the water to drink.

Kansas Baltimore Oriole

I swam back to the beach and ate another apricot. What a treat and how unexpected to find them in the middle of Kansas! The sun was overhead now and the cicadas began to sing as they were to do each day at this time. I went back to camp and made a sauce of fresh tomatoes, garlic, freshly-grated Reggiano, then cooked some pasta for lunch. Scrumptious! I let the dishes sit while I went back to the water, this time to the cove I visited the night before and swam another hour.

Before long it was cocktail hour. I did some planning for the days ahead in Colorado. I found it quite complicated to (a.) find an open campsite in an area that had water, (b.) find places within a 6-hour drive. It took a few hours to finally make a reservation at my next stop in Pueblo, Colorado, which would then put me in striking distance of Pagosa, whose hot springs had been calling me since I first thought of my trip.

Sunset was approaching. I went back down to the water to witness a holy full moon rise while the crickets chanted . . .

Tuesday, August 16

I had gotten quite a bit of sun, so I swam for a few hours a bit earlier in the day. The heat was already becoming oppressive, it had been in the upper 90s since I'd arrived, so a little before noon, I drove into Lucas, which turned out to be a very artful town with many wonders.

My first stop was "Aunt Gertie's," a shop where I knew Marylou Andrews' work was shown, and which was a treasure trove of antiques, with baskets of sprockets and jars of old buttons and all kinds of useful and fun things. Michaela Pate, the shop owner, directed me to Marylou's pieces, constructed of wood and barbed wire and quite fanciful. I couldn't help but purchase one as a memento of my time in Kansas, a figure in wire, aptly titled "Lucas."

Work by Marylou Andrews

All that browsing had given me an appetite. Michaela recommended the Backstreet Bakery as the best place to get a piece of pie. Sounded good to me! When I walked in, two women were sitting at the counter finishing their lunch. The waitress, Andrea Turnbull, turned out to be an artist who used repurposed materials as well and we had a lively conversation about the challenges of being creative women. Stephanie Errebo, who owned a ranch and a feedlot, was good enough to give me directions to my next stop in Pueblo, Colorado. "The scenic route," she assured me. Something about her friendly, easy manner made me trust her completely and I was so grateful for her help.

Artist and Expert Pie Deliverer Andrea Turnbull

at the Backstreet Baker in Lucas

It had a light lunch, knowing that it would soon be time for dessert, and I was not disappointed. An enormous piece of cherry-berry pie was brought forth. I called for the pastry chef and out she came. Sue Ellen Wenthe was the owner of Backstreet Bakery and she was a pie wizard indeed! Hands down it was the best pie I'd had in a long, long time!

Sue Ellen Wenthe
and Her Amazing Cherry Berry Pie!

Andrea and the rest of the ladies were so sweet to me. They made me feel right at home, which felt so soothing to someone who had been on the road as long as I had. Andrea even helped me fill my water container and carried it to the van for me. Above and beyond the call of duty and much appreciated, for sure!

The ladies suggested that I visit the Grassroots Art Center across the street. Now fortified by pie and ice cream, I ventured in and Jean Stramel, one of the docents and an artist herself, took me on a tour of the self-taught, recycled, outsider art that they collect. Fascinating! I loved seeing the uninhibited works made of wood, metal, fabric, pulltabs and chewing gum—all made by self-taught artists. The tour included a visit to a house where the late Florence Deeble created postcard scenes in her garden of her travels using colored concrete. So unusual!

Some of the Work of Artist mri-Pilar

The interior of her house is now filled floor-to-ceiling with the highly original and idiosyncratic works of mri-Pilar. I loved reading her artist's statement:

Grassroots is a handy nest for a self-taught artist who doesn't buy into the don't-grow-don't-change-don't-make-people-feel-insecure decaying art world. If those who spout "post-modernism" lived it, we'd be in the company of sages.

She also adds:  "This statement is subject to change in an hour, in a day, every day . . ."

There was so much more to see in Lucas, but the afternoon was scorching hot. I headed to the public library, the coolest place in town. Now, you have to know that I love libraries. This one had two rooms and 5,592 books at last count. I found a cozy table in the children's corner and did a bit of work while I waited for temperature to drop a bit.

As I sat there, I couldn't help but overhear the conversations the librarian was having with the local people who wandered in to share the news of the day or a tidbit of gossip. "You're the town psychologist," I kidded her. She laughed. "Well, I guess I am!" she replied, somewhat delighted I think to find that someone understood her exalted place in the pecking order.

I finally ambled back to the lake where I had a nice conversation with some new neighbors at the next campsite. Emerson and his wife Sheryl, and their son Hunter and his fiancee, Cecilie, were just delightful. They invited me back in the evening, but I was too tired from my tourist activities and my daily regime of a sunset swim. The wind came up strong in the middle of the night and kept me awake for quite some time, but in the morning I headed back to Lucas to continue my tour of its wonders.

On the way, I stopped at the K-18 Cafe and order the Burger Special. I must have been hungry and craving protein for it came with onion rings, french fries and a salad, all for $7.95. I added a slab of rhubarb pie that had just come out of the oven (with ice cream). My eyes were definitely bigger than my stomach, but I muscled through . . . everything was so down-home good.

Just for the Record -- Not My Usual Lunch!

The 'Definitely-Not-Bland' 
Bland Family
Greg and Frankie

I struck up a conversation with the couple next to me, Greg and Frankie Bland. They were very interesting people and we chatted for a good half hour about farming. Greg is an agronomist who specializes in wheat and sorghum seed development. (I had to take notes, it was so fascinating.) Frankie is a para-educator and I enjoyed talking with her about her work. Somehow the conversation drifted over to alternative healing and later I continued that discussion with Greg when I ran into him outside the liquor store. (No snickering, I was just getting ice!)

We sat for a minute near the public restroom in Lucas. Now, I guarantee you have never seen a latrine anything like this!

A Visit to the "Bowl Plaza"

The "Bowl Plaza" was a compilation of mosaic art made of repurposed glass bottles, travel plates, quotations, broken pottery, toys and mirrors—you name it. Both the men's and women's rooms are covered inside and out with items embedded in the mortar as was the entrance (representing an enormous toilet bowl). The whole installation is really very artful and amazing and amusing. I could have stayed all day in there looking at all the individual mosaics.

The "Birthday Club" Ladies from Nebraska

Earlier that day, when I had toured the interior, there was a group of women from Nebraska, "The Birthday Club" who were there marveling at the mosaics and I couldn't help but take their picture, they were so adorable and fun! I followed them over to Brant's Meat Market, another Lucas high point, and sampled his handcrafted bologna. The owner, Doug Brant, was known as a local personality and it was great fun hearing him talk with the Nebraska ladies. One might say he was a little full of bologna himself!

Doug Brant of Brant's Meat Market

Next stop was the "Garden of Eden." Although I didn't take the public tour, I wandered around looking at the sculptures, which had been constructed by Samuel Perry Dinsmoor, a retired schoolteacher, Civil War Veteran, farmer and populist politician who began building the site in 1907 at the age of 64. Using 113 tons of cement and limestone, he created a unique personal statement of philosophy and politics with the 150 sculptures that surround the property. Very strange, very thought-provoking. I might add that after being widowed, he married again at age 84 and fathered two children. One of the people I met in Lucas was related to him.

Sculpture at The Garden of Eden 

If that wasn't enough, from there I moved on to "The World's Largest Collection of the Worlds Smallest Versions of the World's Largest Things" -- parts of which reminded me of the snake oil wagon in the Wizard of Oz, remembering, of course, that this is the Land of Oz, and I am right smack in the middle of it! As I am looking rather witchy from being on the road for so long. I keep waiting for a house to drop out of the sky.

From the "The World's Largest Collection
of the Worlds Smallest Versions
of the World's Largest Things" 

I was overwhelmed with all of the incredible sights in Lucas. I headed back to the lake for my last sunset swim, wondering how this amazing town came to be in the midst of the plains. I wondered, too, what it would be like to live in such a place, where everyone knew everyone and everyone felt free to express themselves completely. There's not many places like that on this planet, that is for sure.

Just before nightfall, the Baltimore Oriole came and sat in the tree just above my tent and sang the sweetest song to me. It had a plaintive, winsome sound and it made me both deliriously happy and at the same time, terribly sad to be leaving Kansas. I knew there were more adventures ahead, but here I had been fed, rested, nurtured and filled with friendship and wonder.

They say you can't go home again, but, in truth, I felt I had. I had truly been blessed.

May Your Own Yellow Brick Road

Continually Open Before You,

Karen