The Voice of Treason

“Some day I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemondrops
Away above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me…”

Some people are gypsies. Spontaneous, interesting people who can pick up and move to a new place at the drop of a house. I’m not one of those people. I’ve tried to analyze this and all I can figure is that my mother was quick to relocate when we were kids. I recall that she would pack and relocate her things, but ours weren’t always included in the move. Is that why I’ve been where I am, longer than I’ve been anywhere else, in the same house since 1995, surrounded by stuff? That’s what T calls it. It’s “just stuff.” True. Intellectually I know that, but it’s my stuff. And I know that it’s stuff I’d have to part with if we moved.

Could I do it? Sure. Do I want to do it? If I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that a move would be something better…yes. Yes, I think I could do this. It’s the “better” part I’m wrestling with right now.

We had a quiet day yesterday. Todd’s kids came over in the morning and mowed Tom’s lawn. Then Todd said there was a lot of leftover food from the night before and that we should come by for lunch to help finish it off. The rest of the day was spent watching Tiger Woods play golf, and then we grilled up some KC strips.

One reason to live in the Midwest is food. People here have access to food variety and quality and they show their appreciation by eating. They’re not into over-analysis or deprivation. This is attractive.

We now have to return home…to a place where produce often looks like it has fallen off the back of a truck. We decided to take a different route and I noticed that the stretch between Manhattan and Abilene looks strangely familiar. It reminds me of Humboldt County in California. In fact, Abilene is really a lovely place. It’s like the first time I saw Eureka and all the trees and Victorians - including the Carson Mansion - when that little voice whispered: “You’re going to live here one day.” I whispered back: “No way - the smell of wet wood’s turning my stomach. How the hell do people live here?” Years passed and five of them were spent there inhaling that air.

Abilene - like Eureka, Arcata, and Ferndale - has Victorians. I was in love with the Carson house for years and Abilene has its version: the Lebold Mansion on North Vine Street. Not only is Abilene home to the Lebold house, but it’s also the home of the Greyhound Hall of Fame. Yes, there is such a place and it’s on 407 South Buckeye. I wanted to go inside and meet the canine greeters, but time was limited so we walked around the Eisenhower Home instead. Looks like Ike had something in common with my mother - there are several Eisenhower homes across the country, but this one comes with a Presidential Library, museum, military gallery, and place of meditation. Didn’t see those - I just walked around the exterior of the modest white house and thought how cool it was to be there. The boyhood home of Dwight D. Eisenhower.

It appears that there are a lot of noteworthy boyhood homes in Kansas. Drive down the highway and there’s sign after sign advertising someone’s boyhood home. Walter P. Chrysler. Bob Dole. Arlen Specter. Several astronauts. I imagine these were little boys who looked at the sky over Kansas and said: “Someday, I wanna live up there.”

No girlhood homes, as far as I could tell. But I’ve learned that Wilson, Kansas - not Prague - is the Czech capital of the world. I turned to T:

“Hey! You wanna go to Czech Fest?”

“I’d Czech it out.”

They have a few adult superstores around here. Locals have posted large anti-pornography signs in the vicinity — next to the American Holocaust and the “Jesus-is-watching-you-and-doesn’t-like-
what-he-sees” signs. And it looks like they have a serious root worm problem in Salina, but there are products available to control it.

I see a sign that says “Fick Museum” and am surprised that it still says “Fick.” Just as I’m telling T that anywhere else it would have been altered, I see another sign. It’s Jesus and the caption: “I trust in you!” I guess no one wants to vandalize the Fick sign with Jesus so close by.

I see buffalo. And there’s a sign: “See the largest prairie dog in the world!” It is big: 8000 pounds of prairie dog. As tempting as that is, we keep driving. The “largest barn in America” is just up the road.

“If you drive a truck, throw horseshoes, and drink V.O. and Mountain Dew, you might just be a redneck.”

Just as Raytown is very black, there are little towns in the Kansas City area that are very white. These towns were small, sleepy places until subdivisions started appearing on the rolling green hills. We were at Todd’s house for an impromptu barbeque last night and half the neighborhood showed up.

“Is this normal?”

“It is now. Wasn’t that way when we moved here. Back then no one really knew anybody. I used to stand in front of the house and say hello to people. Probably freaked ‘em out a little, but in time everybody got to know everybody.”

Property lines in these neighborhoods are a mystery. There are no concrete block retaining walls separating the lots and only a handful of people have constructed fences. They’re usually dog owners who put up a boundary just to keep their pets from wandering.

“So everybody just shows up when you say you’re having a get-together?”

“Pretty much. It’s kinda what we do. People just show up, bring stuff. The kids and the dogs play, we throw some horseshoes, have a few beers, eat burgers, talk.”

“You do this often?”

“Often enough. People know each other now. They know the parents of the kids their kids are playing with. Guess that’s the way it used to be when houses had front porches. When they stopped building houses with front porches, everybody started hiding out in their backyards. People stopped knowing their neighbors. Hell, they never even saw ‘em. They probably thought I was nuts, standing out in front of the house getting to know everybody.”

Asked if we were going to move there, we said: “Dunno yet. What brought you here?”

Stories were interesting; people had come from many different areas and situations. A lot of people said they wanted a nice quiet place to raise their kids - and they like the school district. I’d noticed that several of the real estate books were quick to note that many of the properties had a Kansas City street address, but that the homes were in a different - and much more desirable - school district.

“So how bad are the Kansas City schools exactly?”

It seemed that everyone groaned simultaneously.

“A lot of people are moving out here just so their kids can go to better schools.”

Everyone was offering their opinions when someone just blurted it out .

“I guess you could call it ‘white flight.’”

Ah. And that opened the discussion of which areas in Kansas City are the least desirable.

“If you’re thinking about moving to Kansas City, you definitely don’t want to live in Kansas City, Kansas.”

“Why not?”

“They have sort of a problem with crime there.”

One parent, whose father had taught in Milwaukee public schools, was quick to be diplomatic about the people who lived in the neighborhoods they didn’t want their own kids to live in.

“Our kids’ team played the kids over on 43rd and Cleveland and it was really moving. I mean, these kids are out there playing ball - and they’re playing their hearts out - and you look in the stands and all you see is mothers, aunts, grandmothers. Where are the dads? You just don’t see the dads.”

To be fair, how can one dad be at twenty-two ballgames at one time?

Yeah, yeah, call me a racist. Take the easy shot. But let me take the bruthas’ side for a minute. Here’s someone lamenting the fact that these inner city kids have no fathers. Well, hell, T and I were both raised by single mothers so we know a little something about that.

The observation was that all a person could see was mothers, aunts, and grandmothers. Is he talking about all those women who were held down, raped, and impregnated at gunpoint? Excuse me, but at some point these women made a decision to have children and raise them without fathers. Why do we continue to point our fingers at black men, blame them, and label them irresponsible?

I looked at my mother and made the decision when I was four that I never wanted to raise children alone. One would think these mothers, aunts, and grandmothers - the women, incidentally, who are raising these young men we’re so quick to condemn - could take the time to tell the young women in their lives to think long and hard before they make the decision to do the same thing they did.

Where are the dads? That night they were sitting in that backyard watching their kids and their dogs chasing a ball across the grass.

Ramshackle: So poorly constructed or kept up that disintegration is likely; rickety.

Podunk: A small isolated town, region, or place that is regarded as unimportant.

T coined a couple terms on this trip to describe specific buildings and even entire areas: “ramshackle” and “Podunk.” This was not meant to be condescending, and it’s not our intention to sully the inhabitants of such places. This is no insult. It just seemed like a quick and dirty way to categorize the spots along the way - from NM to MO. Ramshackles are places that are showing their age and are in need of some TLC. Podunks are generally in better shape and somewhat understated. Small towns - and there are plenty of them - that display signs touting the local high school football team’s stats. “State champions! 1990, 1991, 1992, 1993…”

Podunks are fine places and certainly not “unimportant” to the people who live and work there. Ramshackles are often lone barns in fields that have been abandoned or empty stores or bungalows that have been beaten down by life. Sometimes ramshackles are also Podunks - but they’re Podunks that have something that makes you think that there was a life there once, a history so rich that it would be nice to capture and restore a little bit of it. Town after town of Victorians, brick buildings and streets, antique street lamps - but oddly quiet now and in need of a little attention.

It’s interesting to fantasize about moving to such a place and putting an old building back together or opening a small business. So many towns on this journey and so many that some people have never heard of or have thought of visiting.

But our intention was not to see Small Town, America - we wanted urban on this trip. Tall buildings, hustle and bustle, city noise. It’s the weekend and we need to go to KC, MO and experience some city life. We planned the day around the River Market. We looked at table after table filled with locally grown produce and chatted with people. It’s precisely the mix I like - people and food items of all shapes, sizes, and colors. There’s an Asian market, an Italian deli, a Middle Eastern shop that sells spices by the scoop. Muslims peruse the tables where little Amish girls are selling fruits and vegetables.

“I could get used to this. I wouldn’t mind coming down here on weekends to pick up our produce. Run into the Italian shop there…pick up some fresh fish over there…I know I’d buy all my spices right here. Just smell them.”

Sell the house in the high desert and buy a small loft in Kansas City. Go to the River Market and fill a bag with bell peppers. Pick up fresh sausage at the deli. Stop for a loaf of bread and some wine or beer. Then home again.

Home again. Back in the Midwest. I’m remembering what it was like to ride my Huffy bicycle to Davidson’s Bakery in Chicago to pick up a cheesecake or box of cheese flakies. To live in a place where you can ask someone ‘where’s the best spot for Jew food?’ and that someone doesn’t ask ‘what’s joofood?’ A place where you can walk down a city street and run your fingers along hundred year-old brick walls. Buildings that have faces that look down at you and watch as you go by. Gargoyles.

It’s tempting to relocate to KC - especially for that beer part. Cheap domestic beer is…well, cheap here. Sure, there are odd rules about where and when you can buy it (you can buy beer in supermarkets in MO but not in KS), but the prices are good. Liquor laws are fascinating and they’re something I’d never really thought about until we moved to New Mexico and discovered some rather quirky things. I urge people to look at their own state’s rules, then check out other states. Can you buy booze on Sunday where you live? Can you buy it on Election Day when it’s most needed? Hmmmm?

No, I’m not a lush, but I could certainly afford to be one if I moved to Missouri.

Having spent my formative years in the great Midwest, I have both a fascination and deadly fear of tornadoes. I can’t remember how many times I’ve seen The Wizard of Oz, but the tornado scene still terrifies me. And those damned winged-monkey things are pretty scary, too.

T, on the other hand, dreams of experiencing a twister. He was raised in Berkeley; obviously earthquakes aren’t thrilling enough for him. There were plenty of impressive cloud formations on the trip east and every few minutes he’d ask: “Think that’s a funnel cloud?”

Last night we had a storm; Tom keeps his special radio tuned to weather updates. Tornado warnings. Impressive thunder and lightning, but no cyclone. Today there’s no cable TV or Internet, and the people in nearby Plattsburg have been told to boil their water.

Says Tom nonchalantly: “Oh, yeah. We do that here, too, sometimes.”

“Boil your water?”

“Yup.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Swell.”

“Boiling water’s not so bad. But I do miss my cable.”

Today, I thought, would be a good day to tour the 435 Loop - a piece of Interstate highway that winds through ten cities in two states, covers eighty-three miles, and crosses three rivers. An acquaintance who had thought it odd I was thinking of moving to Kansas City said her family was considering a trip to the area. I guess it was two years ago when they came back to the desert, put their house on the market, packed their things, and moved to Shawnee, Kansas. Like Scottsdale, Arizona, the area around Kansas City - on the Kansas side - is more like a movie set than a real place where real people live.

New Mexico prides itself on its scenic beauty and outdoor activities. That’s fine. One would think, then, that New Mexico would be the perfect spot for a Cabela’s. The fact that there isn’t one is an indication that something’s rotten in the state of New Mexico.

Tom and Todd had mentioned that I might like to see “the big catfish” at Cabela’s, so T and I stopped in to sneak a peek. I admit I don’t describe myself as an outdoorsy type, but once I got into Cabela’s 180,000 square-foot showroom, I was seriously considering giving up everything I own to live in a log cabin over the river and through the woods.

“We should start thinking about heading towards Lenexa.”

“I like it here.”

“And Olathe.”

“I really like it here.”

“Check out Shawnee and Overland Park. Leawood…”

“It’s just so nice here.”

“I thought you’d like to see the Sprint Campus and Hallmark.”

“I like this.”

“But there’s more to see.”

“This is plenty.”

“I’ve seen the area before, but you haven’t. It’s kind of why we’re here, right?”

“Here is good.”

“Snap out of it. We’ve seen the big fish and now it’s time to leave. Peel yourself off the Coleman stove and let’s go.”

Cabela’s sells everything an outdoorsy person could need. And they have the cleanest restrooms in America. And that foaming soap in their dispensers. The aquarium there was spectacular - my sister would have loved to see it. But the animal displays were just amazing. Museum-quality…there are even stuffed elephants in that store. When I was a little kid and went to the museums in Chicago, the animal displays always depressed me a little. There was something sad about seeing lifeless animals posing for the public.

But Cabela’s has turned taxidermy into art. I could have easily spent the entire day in that store. But T is correct. There is much more to see and our time is limited.

“Omigod! Is that a Dean & DeLuca?”

“A what?”

“Omigod! It is a Dean & DeLuca! They have a Dean & DeLuca here!”

“We can go in.”

“No. No, it’s okay. I don’t need to actually go inside. To go inside and fulfill every fantasy I’ve ever had about crostini toppings.”

“Enough. I’m parking. Get out.”

Call it a yuppie flashback, but I can look at cheeses, truffles, Italian cookies, spatulas, oils, and ceramic mixing bowls for days.

“Okay. I can live here. Not that I’d ever be able to afford to shop here, but it would be comforting to know that this is nearby. Did you see the size of those olives?”

It’s Fantasyland. The whole area. It’s what they call “upper bracket” and some of the residential neighborhoods reminded me the suburbs of Chicago. Big Midwestern homes, rolling hills, green lawns, old growth trees. The difference? T and I played a game. Drive around and look for houses for sale, guess the price, then pull a flyer from the “Take One!” box and see how close we come.

Spoiled by the price of Western real estate, these prices in the Kansas City area are a breath of fresh air.

“This is what houses are supposed to look like. I remember houses like this.”

I suspect that some builder who grew up in the Midwest, then moved to the Left Coast, started having the same ideas. What if you built homes that looked like those Midwestern houses everybody knew when they were growing up, but built them with today’s materials and technology? Modern - but they look sort of old-fashioned. Why can’t someone do that?

Well, they can and they have. Subdivisions are appearing all over the area and these are houses that look like the houses I remember in Chicago. I’d forgotten that there were alleys behind the houses - that’s where they keep the garages. In New Mexico, they’re building custom homes a few blocks away from us - million dollar homes - and the garage doors are still in front of the house. Is it just me? Why do people insist on making the garage door the focal point of their home? It’s why these new “old” homes outside of Kansas City are so darned appealing. You just see house. Homes with character. Homes with basements.

There is something about the Midwest - other than the humid summers, the frigid winters, the mosquitoes the size of B-52 bombers, and the unpredictable weather patterns. There’s a wholesomeness. Something solid and normal and healthy and nice.

“Do you notice all the families here? Everywhere I look there are guys walking around with kids. Look. There’s another one with a kid on his shoulders. What is that?”

“I think they call those fathers.”

“Duh.”

“No, seriously. You’re right and I know what you’re saying. It’s an oddity. You don’t see fathers. Where we live we see pregnant teenagers pushing strollers and once in awhile you might see their surly boyfriends nearby pretending they don’t know them. Geez, this is weird.”

But the other thing about Midwestern cities is the variety. The diversity. The mix of neighborhoods and the ability to find foods from every corner of the earth.

“So what else would you like to see today?”

“Well, I liked that Longview area a lot. I wouldn’t mind seeing Lee’s Summit, Liberty, Independence - those areas.”

“You still need to see Kansas City. Downtown. Brick. Big buildings.”

There’s a lot to see in a big Midwestern city. When you grow up in a place like this you take the architecture, old theaters, parks, and museums for granted. It’s touristy stuff that you might see on a school field trip, but if you live in the city, you don’t visit these places very often. Like Union Station and The Liberty Memorial. And my favorite spot so far: the big statue of Lewis and Clark and their Newf, Seaman.

“There’s the Western Auto building!”

I can only imagine how Kansas City looked and felt before the revitalization project got underway. Moldy old brick buildings with dirty, shattered windows are being renovated and turned into trendy lofts. Some, like the Library Lofts, are unique and have real character. But I suspect that there’s a race to get as many of these dilapidated structures turned around and turned around quick for a quick profit, so a lot of these buildings don’t even have names yet. Just big signs: “LOFTS!”

“Where to next?”

“Swope Park. The Zoo. Raytown.”

I’m making a list of all the animals we’ve seen on the trip. Animals you’d see in old Disney films — like moles, opossums, and badgers. I actually saw a real live cardinal. It almost flew into the windshield, but it didn’t and it was a real cardinal. Bright red feathers - they’re just the coolest things. I also like to compare cockroaches from city to city, and I wasn’t disappointed on this trip. We saw a lone roach in an ashtray at the zoo. It’s a peculiar interest, I know, but I like to see what the bugs look like in different regions. This roach was small by Southwestern standards. (See, we grow ‘em big in the desert. You can saddle ‘em up and ride ‘em.)

I’m not sure why this is, but big city zoos are usually not in the most desirable sections of town. The zoo in Kansas City is no exception. We didn’t spend any time there, really; I just wanted to park and sneak a peek at the Starlight Theatre. I know so many people in theatre, yet so few seem to be familiar with the Starlight. It has such a history, too - I’m really surprised that it’s a mystery. Hidden treasures in our cities.

To start the day in Overland Park and end it with a drive through Raytown is somewhat sobering. And to say that we were especially conspicuous in Raytown is a understatement.

On paper, the place sounds charming. The Greater KC New Resident Guide describes it as:

“…a combination of all the good things about small town living: exciting high school sports with avid boosters, historical roots, good schools and friendly neighbors.”

People who live in Kansas and Missouri describe it as “the place you don’t need to be.” Real estate magazines and websites for the City of Raytown and its Chamber of Commerce won’t paint an accurate picture. But I’ve found a blog that might help. It’s called Raytown Progressive Action. Looks like the Democrat bruthas are in the streets, canvassing for “undiagnosed voters” and waging war against the GOP oppressors and the man they call W…oh, and the First Baptist Church, too.

It’s actually an interesting read, so I’m adding it to my favorites. Check it out.

We have been staying with a good friend who left New Mexico about a year ago. We like to think of Tom as a North Dakota farm boy with a heart the size of Montana. I’m especially fond of him because ten years ago we had several people over for a dinner party. My Boxer, Barbara, had been ailing - diagnosed with pituitary cancer - and was refusing to eat a slice of my Porterhouse. My philosophy is that as long as a dog is eating, we’re okay. The day the dog refuses food, however…

It was late on a Saturday evening and I was worried. Tom calmed me down and said that back on the farm sometimes the animals would get “blocked” and all they needed was a little loosening up. “Got some butter?”

He spent the rest of evening sitting with my dog, letting her lick unsalted butter off his fingers.

The next morning she refused to eat her daily hardboiled egg - something she was passionate about - so we immediately called the emergency vet’s cell number.

“Lemme throw on some clothes and I’ll meet you in front of the clinic in ten minutes.”

Exploratory surgery was performed: It was pancreatic, not pituitary cancer, and we asked that she not be brought out of the anesthesia. Whatever Tom does in the future won’t matter. For spending time with Barbara on her last evening on this planet, he will forever be my hero.

And he’s damned nice, too, for letting us and our current dog stay at his house. He agreed to keep her company while we made day trips around the Kansas City area to conduct our research. And there is much to see. Tom lives in a small Missouri town near a lake, so yesterday we drove the dog there to walk around. Ordinarily there’s a fee for parking, but the friendly folks there let us park and walk around the lake at no charge. Our girl saw a woodchuck.

But the excitement doesn’t end there. Today Tom’s friend Todd took us all out on his pontoon for a fishing expedition. Our dog had the opportunity to swim in the lake (something the vet has recommended since her third knee surgery) and she met catfish. Whisker to whisker, so to speak.

My feelings about fishing are mixed: I once had pet albino channel cats - Manny, Moe, and Jack - and when they had outgrown their tank, I released them in the pond on the Ohlone campus in Fremont, California. (I often returned to visit and monitor their growth. The boys always had impressive appetites.)

At the end of the day I was told that we couldn’t leave the lake until I’d caught my first fish. Nothing captured this day was kept - every resident was slipped back into the water. I did catch a fish - a bluegill, I think - and it was thanked and released.

In recent years, I’ve been on ferries in San Francisco, Seattle, Vancouver, Manhattan, and Nantucket - but it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a small boat on a lake. When was the last time? When I was a kid on Lynx Lake in Prescott? Or on Lake Geneva in Wisconsin? Long enough not to remember, obviously.

Never a big fan of boats (I’d always believed that in a past life I’d been on the Titanic that April night), but there is much to be said about being on a pontoon on a heron-spotted lake with friends and your dog, sipping cold beer and talking about fish and politics.

“Early in the last century a visiting journalist compared Kansas City to Paris…the ‘Paris of the Plains.’ It is also the City of Fountains, the City of Boulevards, the Heart of America.

– “Ten Things Every Newcomer Should Know About Greater Kansas City”

It’s a place that - when you tell someone you’re thinking of moving there - makes that person’s face go pale as if you’ve just said you’ve been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

“You’re moving to Kansas?”

“Well, maybe. Actually, maybe Missouri.”

“What?”

“Kansas City’s in Kansas and it’s in Missouri.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“One city. Two states. Sort of.”

“You’ve lost me. Why are you thinking about moving to Kansas?”

“Missouri.”

“What???”

It’s interesting how many people I’ve spoken to who have actually been to Kansas City. I always have to ask: “KS or MO?” Responses vary, but most of the people who have lived in Kansas lean towards Missouri. “There’s lots to do on the Missouri side - that’s for sure!”

Others suggest living in Kansas and shopping in Missouri. When I lived in California and my sisters were still in Chicago, I went back to visit one summer. I was twelve. My sister Linda planned a road trip with a girlfriend and I was invited. Destination St. Louis: I was trembling with excitement. The friend had the foulest mouth on the planet and I knew she’d talk non-stop about her sex life. This trip was going to be a hoot! But my other sister, fearing that if something happened to me my mother would kill her, vetoed the plan. I’ve held a grudge ever since. It was Linda who dreamed of one day settling in Rolla; it’s ironic to me to be considering a move to Missouri. Especially since it’s such a blue state.

Kansas, on the other hand, is considered the reddest in the union. As I pointed out to T before we left on this trip, we will be driving along America’s midsection, its Bible Belt. Eastern New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Missouri. Preachers on the radio, lots of churches, and - in Kansas in particular - an abundance of signs warning of the “American Holocaust.” I like to think of Christianity as benign, but these signs are a tad oppressive. Constant roadside admonitions of the evil of abortion and reminders that Jesus is watching you so don’t do anything to piss him off.

I have no problem with the philosophy that God has a short fuse, but I like to think that his Son is a little more laid-back. These signs carry a different message and it’s one that sort of rubs me the wrong way. It makes me question myself. How “red” am I exactly?

Probably not quite red enough for some parts of Kansas.

Auntie Em,

– Dorothy

Day 1 wasn’t complete without stops in Texas, Oklahoma, and Liberal, Kansas. Did you know that Dorothy’s house is in Liberal? A yellow brick road encircles the place. Utterly enchanting (after driving so many hours and still not stopping to pee), so we had to pause to take pictures of our dog in Oz.

We drove through little towns like Pratt and Kingman, Kansas - places with Victorians and brick streets - and kept driving until we got to Dodge City. We had decided to spend our first night in Dodge, and, frankly, it was enough to make the expression “let’s get the hell outta Dodge” exceedingly clear to us.

Not to besmirch the fine folks of Dodge City; in fact, as we were barreling out of there we noticed that the little downtown area looked quite charming. It’s just that Dodge City is currently experiencing a by-product of their agricultural community. Kansas has opened its doors to illegals and now the citizens of Dodge are seeing a sharp increase in gang activity.

We stopped at a light and a cattle trailer pulled up alongside us. We lowered the windows so the dog could see and smell the cattle that were just inches from us. Then…SPLAT! Windows up. Time to pull over and wipe cowsh*t off the vehicle.

Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go. And we were ready to hit the road. On a positive note, Dodge City was an opportunity for me to finally urinate on this first leg of this trip (I do pride myself on my amazing bladder control, knowing that it’s something I’ll really miss one day); an opportunity to catch the replay on C-SPAN of Mike Wallace’s interview with the Iranian brownsheet (I won’t even bother to comment on Mr. Wallace’s impressions of his new friend); and an opportunity to further evaluate our public school system. I watched the local news (always good to analyze crime in an area) and there was an obligatory “back-to-school” story. I saw a classroom filled with students, a teacher, and a message in cursive on the chalkboard behind her:

“Welcom, seniors!”

Wichita, Topeka, Lawrence, and Kansas City, KS and MO. Our dog is seeing her fifth state in two days. She’s been sampling grass at every stop and seems to be enjoying the trip. A big thumb’s up for the Kansas Turnpike. I generally dislike the idea of toll roads, but when you can see how the money is spent it certainly makes a difference. Nice. Where’s all the litter? (Answer: It blew southwest to New Mexico.)

I’m gonna pack my clothes
Leave at the break of dawn
I’m gonna pack my clothes
Everybody will be sleeping
Nobody will know where I’ve gone
Cause if I stay in town
I know I’m gonna die.
Gotta find a friendly city
And that’s the reason why,
Goin’ to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come…

We had decided it was time to start looking at moving to a different state about two years ago and somehow I came up with a plan to return to the Midwest. It’s sort of like the myth of elephant burial ground: elephants returning to the place they came from so they can go full circle and die. Actually, I was just hoping that if I could get back to the Midwest I could get a decent loaf of bread before I die. Similar, yet different.

Now you go through St. Louis
Joplin, Missouri,
and Oklahoma City looks mighty pretty.
You see Amarillo,
Gallup, New Mexico,
Flagstaff, Arizona.
Don’t forget Winona,
Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino.

Won’t you get hip to this timely tip
and take that California trip
Get your kicks on Route 66…

For some reason that I’ve never been able to understand, I’ve had a strange fascination with Route 66. What’s interesting about this state is that you can be almost anywhere in it and discover a sign that informs you that you are on a part of Historic Route 66. It makes one wonder, then, what the actual route looks like.

All I know is that it runs through Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California. I’ve lived in half these states; now I have to cruise through the remaining four to scratch some itch I have about being in every state on “the highway that’s the best.”

Our veterinarian, who went to school in the Kansas City area and spent a lot of time with his Kansan grandparents, recommended avoiding I-40 and taking Hwy. 54 instead. Fine. We’ll hit Oklahoma, Texas, Kansas, and Missouri and I will be able to say that I’ve been in all eight states. Something inauspicious to engrave on my…urn.

First stop: Tucumcari, New Mexico - the “Heart of the Mother Road.” I’ve lived in New Mexico for almost twelve years now and I was certain that there was more in Tucumcari than there actually is. I do not wish to besmirch the fine city of Tucumcari, so all I’ll say is this:

The first thing I saw when we entered the city was an AMC sign. Uh, that would be American Motors Corporation. Time had stood still: the heart of the mother road had apparently stopped ticking. As someone who admits to driving four AMC products in her lifetime, I can tell you that seeing that AMC sign was not especially encouraging.

Reports warned of severe weather. A tornado at this point would have been a highlight for all concerned.

The oddest part of the trip was seeing the high desert looking so green and lush. It reminded me of the year we departed California and even Bakersfield looked good. The rain was falling so hard that we missed the signs for our intended route and ended up in San Diego. I have a lovely story about how gracious the staff at the Holiday Inn there was to our old Boxer, Barbara Ayn. Um, another time, perhaps.

Anyway, as exciting as Tucumcari was, there was more to see ahead of us, so we bade our fair state adieu and headed to the great state of Texas and the little town of Dalhart. Which I suspect the locals refer to as “Dullhart.” But maybe I’m just jaded and mean. The town itself is really quite charming. It’s just that there’s this…smell.

To be fair, the first time I smelled the Pacific Northwest, I wondered how anyone could possibly live with the stench of the pulp mills. Years later, when I attended a university behind the Redwood Curtain, I learned to love that smell. Go figure.

This smell in Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas, though, isn’t one of wet wood. It’s cattle. And lots of it. Miles and miles, hills filled with cattle. That KC strip I’d been looking forward to seems slightly less appealing now. But I’m certain I’ll manage it. Onward ho!

“A rat is a pig is a dog is a boy.”

– Ingrid Newkirk

We’ve been considering a road trip. As much as I would like to experience a change of scenery, I have reservations. Will my mother in assisted living have issues? Will the house flood? If the rain stops, will my container plants in the front yard dry up and die?

I could stay here and further monitor the rabies outbreak in China. Someone contracts rabies and the Chinese government responds by killing every dog it can find - even if that means clubbing dogs to death in front of their owners.

China’s relationship with canines has been, traditionally, an odd one, so this reaction to a rabies outbreak is no surprise. Road trip it is! Slip the neighbor kids forty bucks to keep an eye on the flower pots, toss our dog in the backseat, and let’s blow this pop stand.

The natives are in a panic: It’s been raining in the desert. This is not as unusual as it sounds because it’s normal for this region to experience monsoon rains in the summer. What’s unusual is that we’ve been experiencing drought conditions for the last decade and now that there’s a normal weather pattern, people are freaked out.

A couple weeks ago I was driving, found that the road I was on had been closed by authorities, and had to find an alternate route home. I was listening to local talk radio and it sounded like…well, like Armageddon. One woman, almost hysterical, had the presence of mind to call our afternoon talk host to inform him that she couldn’t see through the rain well enough to pull off the road and she was afraid for the lives of her children who were cowering in the backseat.

The problem isn’t the rain. The rain is normal. The rain is good. What makes it unpleasant is that we live in an area where the infrastructure is unprepared for rainfall. In our yard, we are experiencing heavy erosion and there’s thick grass growing in sand. Animals are showing up in great numbers. A variety of birds including roadrunners. Lizards aplenty. Squirrels. To the dog’s utter delight, an occasional rabbit. Bugs. Lots of bugs. I walked into the yard and saw so many dragonflies that it looked like that scene in Apocalypse Now. (I swear I thought I heard Wagner.) And all these creatures are acting really strange.

Global warming? The end of the world? Not at all. Like fashion and politics, climate is cyclical. This cycle just happens to be normal. And we’ve become so used to abnormal that normal has us completely unnerved.