October 26
I had forgotten how much I loved Kansas.
It’s as though the people feel obligated to compensate for the state’s lack of tourist attractions. Kansas is flat. It has no mountains, no coastlines, no exotic wildlife, no large lakes, no cities of international import and no real history save that of Conestoga wagons trying to get someplace else. Even Wyatt Earp, after whom Dodge City’s “Wyatt Earp Boulevard” is named, earned his real fame from the OK Corral gunfight in Tombstone, Arizona. When one considers the United States, nothing catapults Kansas to prominence. Kansas produces some oil, but not as much as Texas. Kansas produces lots of corn, but not as much as Nebraska. Kansas has power-generating windmills, but not as many as North Dakota. Kansas’s only claim to national prominence was The Wizard of Oz, and, frankly, nobody likes Dorothy anymore.
But I love Kansas. I enjoy being here. The state produces character like the ocean’s surface produces waves.
It was in Kansas that I met Melford Rinkin, the retired pipeworker who came out in soiled overalls to meet me when I stopped to pitch a beer can into his pile of aluminum cans. He told me about the prices scrap aluminum was fetching in Amarillo since China was buying the metal “because the ‘Lympics are going to be there in four years.” He gave me kind but incomprehensible directions to where I might find prairie chickens, and he complimented me on Chap, saying “I didn’t know Brittanies had them squared-off noses. ‘Merican Brittany, you say?”
It was in Kansas that two girls, aged seventeen and eight, rode out on horses to greet me as I cooked my breakfast couscous (see photo). I had spent the night beside the dirt lane that passed their house. For an hour and a half they sat on their horses and told me all about their lives as I stood with a skillet in my hand, charmed, and asked them questions. Christy, the seventeen year old, was supposed to look after Chelsea while they were out riding. Chelsea had been riding since she could remember and seemed to regard her horse as a generally reliable tool that required occasional discipline. The horse was twice as tall as she was, but she rode bareback. “Mom told us to be back by nine thirty,” Christy said. “But we might be able to stay a little longer.” Chelsea slapped a horsefly on her horse’s neck and the insect tumbled to the dirt.
It was in Kansas that the waitress of El Leon Mexican Restaurant – “Best Mexican food in town and some American” – stopped and helped me translate my order for three enchiladas into Spanish. It was in Kansas that I found the downtown streets of Dodge City, Sublette and Ness City paved with brick. It was in Kansas that I watched two pickup trucks going in opposite directions on a dirt road stop, back up so that the drivers could chat, part so that a third pickup could pass, then come together again with such practiced precision that they might have been synchronized swimmers. It was in Kansas that, at five p.m. on a Monday, an AM radio deejay announced gleefully, “I hope you had a nice weekend. If you didn’t, it’s time to start drinking!” It was in Kansas that I found the yellow painted centerline replaced with rubber tabs glued to the asphalt that, when run over, sounded like cards being shuffled or a goat breaking wind, depending on your mindset.
Today Chap and I stopped at Cedar Bluff Reservoir for a bath (see photo). We drove up to the lake’s sandy shore, then I stripped down until the only article of clothing he and I had between us was his collar. We sprinted into the lake. Chap chased ducks while I bathed. After a game of aquatic fetch we raced up and down the beach to dry off. When we got back in the truck I drove barefoot so the sand could fall off my feet before I put shoes on again. The rubber of the pedals felt good under my toes. To the west the sun was setting. It produced that wide swath of western orange that you can see when the land is flat enough to make it visible.
It’s as though the people feel obligated to compensate for the state’s lack of tourist attractions. Kansas is flat. It has no mountains, no coastlines, no exotic wildlife, no large lakes, no cities of international import and no real history save that of Conestoga wagons trying to get someplace else. Even Wyatt Earp, after whom Dodge City’s “Wyatt Earp Boulevard” is named, earned his real fame from the OK Corral gunfight in Tombstone, Arizona. When one considers the United States, nothing catapults Kansas to prominence. Kansas produces some oil, but not as much as Texas. Kansas produces lots of corn, but not as much as Nebraska. Kansas has power-generating windmills, but not as many as North Dakota. Kansas’s only claim to national prominence was The Wizard of Oz, and, frankly, nobody likes Dorothy anymore.
But I love Kansas. I enjoy being here. The state produces character like the ocean’s surface produces waves.
It was in Kansas that I met Melford Rinkin, the retired pipeworker who came out in soiled overalls to meet me when I stopped to pitch a beer can into his pile of aluminum cans. He told me about the prices scrap aluminum was fetching in Amarillo since China was buying the metal “because the ‘Lympics are going to be there in four years.” He gave me kind but incomprehensible directions to where I might find prairie chickens, and he complimented me on Chap, saying “I didn’t know Brittanies had them squared-off noses. ‘Merican Brittany, you say?”
It was in Kansas that two girls, aged seventeen and eight, rode out on horses to greet me as I cooked my breakfast couscous (see photo). I had spent the night beside the dirt lane that passed their house. For an hour and a half they sat on their horses and told me all about their lives as I stood with a skillet in my hand, charmed, and asked them questions. Christy, the seventeen year old, was supposed to look after Chelsea while they were out riding. Chelsea had been riding since she could remember and seemed to regard her horse as a generally reliable tool that required occasional discipline. The horse was twice as tall as she was, but she rode bareback. “Mom told us to be back by nine thirty,” Christy said. “But we might be able to stay a little longer.” Chelsea slapped a horsefly on her horse’s neck and the insect tumbled to the dirt.
It was in Kansas that the waitress of El Leon Mexican Restaurant – “Best Mexican food in town and some American” – stopped and helped me translate my order for three enchiladas into Spanish. It was in Kansas that I found the downtown streets of Dodge City, Sublette and Ness City paved with brick. It was in Kansas that I watched two pickup trucks going in opposite directions on a dirt road stop, back up so that the drivers could chat, part so that a third pickup could pass, then come together again with such practiced precision that they might have been synchronized swimmers. It was in Kansas that, at five p.m. on a Monday, an AM radio deejay announced gleefully, “I hope you had a nice weekend. If you didn’t, it’s time to start drinking!” It was in Kansas that I found the yellow painted centerline replaced with rubber tabs glued to the asphalt that, when run over, sounded like cards being shuffled or a goat breaking wind, depending on your mindset.
Today Chap and I stopped at Cedar Bluff Reservoir for a bath (see photo). We drove up to the lake’s sandy shore, then I stripped down until the only article of clothing he and I had between us was his collar. We sprinted into the lake. Chap chased ducks while I bathed. After a game of aquatic fetch we raced up and down the beach to dry off. When we got back in the truck I drove barefoot so the sand could fall off my feet before I put shoes on again. The rubber of the pedals felt good under my toes. To the west the sun was setting. It produced that wide swath of western orange that you can see when the land is flat enough to make it visible.
posted by Jeb Butler at 2:42 PM
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