Beauty, Tragedy, and Weed

“In Kansas, the sky is the landscape”, Dr. Christine Fisher, Hays, Ks

So I had a crazy grandfather. Let’s just call him Old Peach. (Just wait—there’s actually a point to this story that ties into the nonsense I’m doing on my unicycle.) He was born and raised in Emporia, Kansas.

The serious guy on the right, that’s him

He learned to drive when he was 13, so he farmed himself out to wealthy people in town who owned cars but didn’t know how to drive them. His brothers went to college. Early in his career, he worked for an insurance company doing claims adjustment all over the state. He got to see almost every town in Kansas—and he loved them all.

Same man, different outfit

During the height of the Depression, he bought some small newspapers in western Kansas towns. It was a hard life for my grandmother, who was a Scottish immigrant. I don’t know where my uncle was born, but my mom was born in 1936 in Goodland, Kansas, about 100 miles west of where I sit now. She still remembers the dust.

My grandmother always hated this picture. Said it reminded her of hard times

Later in life, he ended up making some money and decided to spend his time racing cars and self-publishing a book with interesting overviews of every town in Kansas, which he distributed to family members. My mom still has a copy. I think it was called Kansas: Industry and Commerce. At the time he wrote it, he was also the oldest driver racing in the SCCA. He eventually quit when the SCCA instituted a rule that drivers had to wear a fireproof face mask or shave their mustache. Vanity triumphed over racing, and he left the sport.

Today I decided to channel my grandfather and visit every small town I passed through today, riding down each main street to see what was happening. It ended up being an incredible experience—if told by the right person, it could make a pretty great story.

I left my motel in Sharon Springs and headed toward Quinter, about 100 miles away. Since I wasn’t sure what the weather would do, I set a conservative mileage goal and made a reservation there. The morning was spent riding through beautiful green prairie under a cloudy sky. The sky was mesmerizing. Where I live, we don’t have thunderstorms or the towering cumulus clouds that are so common in the center of the country. To quote a wise friend, “Clouds are our landscape.” Especially with the vivid blue sky and the green pasture—it looked like a child’s crayon drawing, using only blue, green, and white.

Winter wheat under clouds

One of the last towns I passed before lunch was Monument, Kansas. To me, it epitomized the small, struggling towns of western Kansas. It had a rail frontage and an aging grain elevator at its core. There was a nice old school building and some great old houses—some occupied, some abandoned. I also saw people living hard lives in less-than-great conditions. Monument’s shuttered retail front looked like a Hollywood caricature of a struggling rural town. I later learned the schoolhouse had been closed. Down the road, I spoke with a man and his dog. He told me he went to that school—it was a nice little building. The dog was actually with the man, and I’m fairly confident he didn’t attend that school, although he had a very intelligent gaze.

A man and his dog. The man talked the dog did not. I was told it had a hurt jaw. (really)

I realized I’d seen squalor in some of these small towns that rivals anything in the toughest inner cities. But these people can’t just hop on the subway to work somewhere else. They have no daily exposure to opportunity. It made me wonder: who is worrying about these kids? Who is their voice? What happens if we keep ignoring them? What do they think when they watch the news?

After leaving Monument, I had a short ride to Oakley, Kansas. Oakley looks like it’s doing just fine. There are big Case and John Deere dealerships with shiny new inventory, a pretty park, and a golf course. I went looking for lunch and headed into the central business district. I saw a Pizza Hut with an almost empty parking lot, and across the street, an older building with a sign for the Bluff Bar and Grill. Its parking lot was packed. I rolled up on my unicycle like a spaceman riding a Roomba and asked if I could charge while I ate. The answer, of course, was yes.

I sat next to a pair of oil field service workers, and we got into the usual conversation about my questionable transportation decisions. Then, out of the blue, the guy next to me said he lost his house last week to a tornado. His friends nodded: “Yes, he did.” He lived in Grinnell, Kansas. The tornado hit at night, and the warning sirens didn’t work. If not for a local fireman who drove up and down the street honking his horn and yelling, it could have been much worse. He showed me pictures of the swath the tornado cut—it looked like a giant bulldozer had driven straight through the town. “I lost everything,” he said. “These clothes, these boots—I borrowed them from someone. I’m living at my parents’ house now. It’s amazing no one died. That fireman was a real hero.”

You can bring your pliers to the Bluff restaurant and Bar.

Later, more workers came in, and they all seemed to know each other. Everyone had a pair of pliers on his belt. A loose nut wouldn't stand a chance with this crew.

After they left, I sat for about an hour with the owner and the waitress. They’d been working together for a long time and sat down like an old married couple to eat lunch after the rush. Midway through the conversation, B.J., the owner, told me he was selling the business. It had been his parents’ place, but they’d passed away, and he was moving to Salina, where his wife had gotten a good job. He’s planning to study to become a financial planner. I asked Jamie if she planned to stay, and she said she’s going to buy 15 spin cycles and open a spin studio in Oakley. I asked if she’d let people chew and spin. Her answer: “Why not?”

A great team and a guy that needs a shave

I don’t think he’d open another restaurant unless it was with her. It reminded me of a woman I once worked with—Carol Brovelli. She was the best person I ever worked with. More than any of my partners, her only concern was the practice and its people. She worked more hours and poured more heart into that job than anyone. When she decided to leave, I stepped down from my leadership role—because I knew who the real leader was.

As I plotted my route to Quinter, I realized I’d be passing through Grinnell. I took video while I was there. I’m sorry about the bad camera work toward the end—I forgot I was still filming. But please, have patience and listen to the people I talk to, and stare into that beautiful Kansas sky. These people are special. They’ve gone through so much, and I doubt it even made the national news.

I passed through a few more towns, exploring their streets before heading east each time. I followed Old Highway 40, which runs parallel to I-70. It was a damp dirt road with muddy patches, which isn’t great for a self-balancing unicycle, but I was able to maintain a good pace using the side tracks.

I recognized the names of many of these towns from childhood road trips to visit relatives in eastern Kansas. My dad would be flying down the highway at 90 mph in our lime green Buick Electra. My sister would be passed out in a Dramamine-induced coma, my mother would be reading Little House on the Prairie aloud, and I would stare out the window.

When I rode into Quinter, I cruised up and down the streets. It was the most well-manicured town I’d seen in western Kansas. The houses were nicely kept, the lawns freshly mowed. They had more retail options than other towns, with charming storefronts—no recognizable brands except Dollar General.

I saw a group of kids sitting on a pile of rocks in front of a church with an adult. They all made noise as I passed, so I swung around to chat. They were with a church group, pulling weeds with the pastor. They’d finished about a third of the job and had dirty hands but great attitudes. They looked so happy. We chatted, and the pastor, of course, invited me to dinner. I have a real gluten problem, so I didn’t want to confirm anyone’s biases that Californians are weird pains in the ass—especially when they show up wearing a space suit on a Roomba. I declined, and before I left, the pastor said a nice prayer. Once again, I forgot I was filming, but I love hearing those kids and the pastor. Enjoy the Kansas sky—it's their landscape.