Tuesday, August 18, 2009 7:07pm
On the 35-North towards Des Moines, Iowa
The shadows are growing long and reaching across the freeway as the rolling hills of lush green dip and rise again. As Martina remarked, Iowa is just “more interesting” than Kansas as landscapes go. There is less homogeneity all around: here a wire fence, there a mish-mash of wild flowers and a cluster of trees, and more evidence of human inhabitants. Of course, there are also similarities: the yellow flowers with brown centers that grow along the road, the large hay rolls sitting in the fields, the tall radio towers (is that what they’re for?) with blinking lights at the top. The fields of corn and wheat, and the ability to drive for several miles without seeing a single house.
I felt a bit guilty for categorizing Kansas road signs as either “trite,” “provincial,” or simply corporate chain businesses. Martina and I discussed that this morning as we took off early from Hays under a gray sky. When you come from a big city—especially a cosmopolitan place like San Francisco—you do tend to presume some sort of stature over the other places you go. That is, you feel that you know more and have a larger basis for comparison than the inhabitants of these landlocked, rural towns where most residents have remained all their lives, where they are born and where they will die, where most people seem to look and sound about the same and the richest cultural outlet within 100 (or 200, or 500) miles is the world’s largest ball of twine, or the biggest “Czech egg” (a sign we saw this morning), or—another size thing—the most fearsome prairie dog ever to roam the Kansas plains. Yet there is history here: Wild Bill Hickock and Billy the Kid roamed the streets of Hays, and they have a restored 19th-century German immigrant home that I would have liked to see. There is a history museum that just exhibited a Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton, and as we drove toward Topeka I saw ads for historic Lecompton attractions that might have been quite interesting—or terribly hoky. Still, this is the state that re-ignited the simmering sectional strife of the antebellum period, where John Brown ruthlessly murdered an entire family at Pottawatomie Creek and where the term “red light district” was apparently coined in Dodge City, after a certain brothel with a red glass door. There is history here, and the people we encountered were very kind. Although Martina also pointed out that Westborough Baptist Church is also based in Kansas; the group that treated an English documentary filmmaker (Louis Theroux) with such startling kindness whilst simultaneously holding signs reading “GOD HATES FAGS” and steadfastly believing that they were doing the right thing. Which leaves one with a certain sense of uneasiness about it all; hospitality only goes so far if that sort of bigotry can exist beneath the surface—not among everyone, of course, but the multiple road signs we encounter do lead one to conclude that there are a great many zealots in these parts. And maybe some very conflicted segments of Kansas society, too, since we also passed a porn emporium in front of which was positioned another billboard declaring that all pornography is a sin. A black sign with glaring white letters proclaimed that “JESUS IS LORD” from the midst of a wheat field; it just seemed so incongruous, as if such doctrinal assertions had any place whatsoever in the midst of quiet pastures and little if any apparent divergence from that sort of conviction. This also reminds me of Martina’s canny observation that most religious rhetoric consists of dangling participles and unmodified verbs (“Jesus is Lord!” “…Lord of what?”)
In the midst of 88% humidity, we reached Topeka and both noticed a roadside sign for the Brown v. Board of Education National Historic Site. We wanted to see it (and Martina had to pee—her bladder has such an incredible sense of timing!), so we pulled off the freeway and drove a couple of blocks down a very quiet street in sight of the state capital dome, where the red brick buildings and one-level houses looked as if they had been essentially the same structures since the day in 1954 when Earl Warren wrote for the majority to overturn Plessy v. Ferguson and declare segregation unconstitutional. And we pulled up across from a schoolhouse that definitely looked untouched (and in fact was perfectly restored, at least from what I could tell from the black-and-white postcard photo of the building that I purchased at the book shop inside). The first thing visitors see when you enter are two white signs with large, simple black lettering: “WHITE” and “COLORED.” It is a small but well-done site, with a room that traces the history of segregation in a brief film and a couple of exhibits on the case itself, its predecessors, and its legacy today. We would have liked to learn more about the building itself: did Mr. Brown’s daughter (and the children of the other twenty plaintiffs in the case) ever get to attend this school in desegregated classes? Can they interview students who were here before (and just after) it was desegregated? It would be a nice addition. Still, it was a worthwhile stop, and one I’d rather make than the Eisenhower library, since Eisenhower was very reluctant to enforce that particular decision and seemed to share some of the racial prejudices of his age.
Another great song came on the radio today: “One Piece At a Time,” by Johnny Cash. It prompted me to finally christen my car: “Psycho Billy Corolla,” instead of the Psycho Billy Cadillac that Cash sings about. Martina knew almost all the lyrics, which I think is so fantastic about her: she knows the words to songs ranging from Johnny Cash to Blondie (“Rapture”) to Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dogg. I love that characteristic in her, and the fact that she appreciates good food like barbecue! And speaking of which, last night she suggested that we get some Kansas City barbecue for lunch, so we checked the Road Food guide—which is fast becoming my Bible, I just wish it had more entries—and hightailed it to Oklahoma Joe’s. The place has won just about every kind of barbecue competition out there, and when we arrived, the parking lot was totally full—that’s always a good sign. Inside was a gift shop where they sold steak seasoning and BBQ sauce, each of which I got for Aunt Diane and for Kevin Adams. Along a metal corrugated wall (classic South, to me) was hanging a neon Barbecue sign, several championship ribbons, and photos of the Joe’s team holding their trophies and prize checks. A crowd of eager eaters occupied the booths and tables, most of them moderate-to-large in size. I got the pulled pork and Martina got “Hog Heaven”—sausage and pulled pork. It was so good. SO good. The BBQ beans were equally incredible: black and regular beans with onions, bits of bacon and brisket thrown in. That was at 2pm and we’re both still full, 5 hours later.
Then we drove over the state line to Missouri to visit Harry Truman’s home and Presidential Library. Martina was amused to discover that Kansas City actually straddles both states; it is hilarious that there is a Kansas City, Missouri. We finally got to the Truman visitor center, which is strangely separate from the house itself (I guess because the house is in a historic district of protected private residences). But they had booked up all tours until 4:30! So we just settled for a 12-min. video about the Trumans and their home on Delaware Street, which included photos of each room. We drove back to the house to take pictures, with the help of a very kind couple from Indiana who had been driving longer than us—6,000 miles to our 1,800!—and who were very excited to learn that we were historians. Most people we’ve met, especially middle aged people and older ones, seem very excited about this; their eyes get very bright when we answer their queries about what we do or why we’re traveling to Maine.
Neither of us had ever been to a Presidential Library before, this despite the fact that I spent the summer of 1998 interning for the head Office of Presidential Libraries in D.C. So we headed over to the Truman Library, reportedly one of the very best, and told each other we’d just do a quick visit. A couple of hours later, we finally emerged. There was so much! WWII, the atom bomb, McCarthyism! A room full of Life magazine covers, piping in popular music from the 1950s; I wish I could use this in my women’s history class. I took a picture beside an engraved Truman quote, “The truth is all I want for history,” on a wall facing his and Bess and Margaret’s gravesites. And then we stood for a portrait beside a life-size statue of the surprisingly short president, like the tourist dorks that we are.
The sun is almost set and that Rusted Root song just came on the radio—the one mom loves to dance to. It makes me miss her already. “Send me on my way…send me on my way…”
We’re on our way to Chicago; let’s see how far we get tonight. I wanted to stop in Davenport, Iowa for a minor league baseball game (the Quad Cities River Bandits), but we won’t have time now. Martina has been driving for 3 hours and has been a total trooper throughout this journey. I’m so lucky to have her with me!
Postscript: we pushed on through some heavy Illinois fog and arrived in Chicago around 1:30. We LOVE the hotel, Club Quarters at 75 E. Wacker Drive. Downtown Chicago lights up the sky right outside our 14th-floor room, and the Wabash Avenue bridge is directly beneath us. We are exhausted but so happy to be able to stay in the same place for 2 nights (and not to have to battle rush hour traffic into the city)! There is a bakery on the corner, aptly named the Corner Bakery, which must be doing some late night / early morning prep because it smells HEAVENLY on this block. They list the menu on the windows: everything from danishes to bagels to challah to scones and so on. Hmmmm….
p.p.s.: just a funny tidbit from this morning, I had almost forgotten. Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” came on the radio and we both sighed; it’s the musical equivalent of a chick flick. And as we were talking about how we still loved this song even though we could hear the boys we know making fun of us, we both had a pregnant pause in the car and said, exactly at the same time and in the same tone, “They can suck it.” Scary osmosis effect of some 1,800 miles worth of car co-habitation…or just brilliant minds and wits, thinking alike. ;)
What happened, I thought this was Adventures in MOOSELAND- you actually get to Maine and no entry??? I guess you're pretty busy.
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