Category Archives: family

Correcting a Short, Pithy Statement

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(We hear them all the time. We say them all the time—verbal shorthand that eliminates the need to explore the nuances of what we say or even the truth of what we say.  They’re called “maxims,” and sometimes we need to question their truth.  Dr. Frank Crane suggests the real truth about one of our often-used maxims is just the opposite of what is said.)

REAL SORROW SEEKS SOLITUDE

One of the maxims that is not true is, “Misery loves company.” The fact is, it is happiness that loves company, while sorrow seeks solitude. We close the door to weep, and draw the blinds. We go to the theatre and crowded restaurants to laugh.

Misfortune isolates. Pensiveness is unsociable.

These lines are written on shipboard; we have been six days at sea and all the passengers have become acquainted; for an ocean liner a few days out resembles a country village; everybody knows everybody and everybody’s business.  Convention rules the decks and gossip guards the cozy corners as thoroughly as in a New England town.

Only one man keeps apart.  His wife is in a coffin in the hold. A month ago they went to Italy for a long lark; she died in Naples. This man speaks to no one. He keeps to his room. He may be seen of nights looking over the rail into the boiling dark of the sea, alone.

When an animal is wounded, he flees the pack and in some cave or under some bush, solitary, he licks the bleeding paw or torn shoulder. So when the human heart breaks, its cry is for solitude; it shuns light; fellowship is pain; lonesomeness becomes a luxury.

Joy is the centripetal; sorrow the centrifugal force of the world. Joy makes cities; disappointment makes emigration.

Honoring Those Left Behind

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A group of us has been working on building a special monument in Jefferson City. We’re working with a national foundation led by a World War II Medal of Honor winner (The Herschel Woody Williams Medal of Honor Foundation) to put up a memorial honoring Gold Star families. I have had a small role; others have done the real work. But it is an privilege to be part of their effort. I am not a veteran although, as I reminded the group at my first meeting with them, “I have fought many valiant skirmishes at Marine Corps League trivia contests.”

One thing that kind of surprised us is how few people know what a Gold Star Family is.  In some ways that is not surprising. Unfortunate, but not surprising.

We don’t see them often these days. During our World Wars and the Korean and Vietnam conflicts, they were more visible.  Families with members in the military during times of conflict could display a flag in the window of their home with a blue star for each family member in the service.  If a family member died or was killed during honorable service to their country during those times, the family would cover a blue star with a gold one, leaving the blue outline around the gold star.  Anyone going past a home with a flag in the window knew that somebody from that home was doing something special for the nation—or had died doing it.

In these times of limited conflicts with no massive calls to service, these symbols are seldom seen and a broad general public seldom touched by the human costs of defending our freedoms is not familiar with these flags.

But for each soldier killed in those prior wars or who dies in today’s long-ongoing conflcts, there are many broken hearts at home. Our memorial will honor those left behind to carry on in the spirit of their lost loved one.

You might have seen some of the numerous Blue Star Memorial Highway markers that have been erected since 1945 by state or local garden clubs that honor the military generally. This one is at the National Cemetery in Jefferson City.

There also is a small Gold Star Memorial sign at the west end of the Capitol, a tribute to “all Gold Star families.”

Our new monument to Gold Star Families will be built on city property adjacent to the Veterans Memorial at the Capitol, near the entrance to the Bicentennial Bridge being built to Adrian’s Island.

This is a computer simulation of our proposed monument against a different background than you’ll see when we dedicate it, hopefully in August.  The Capitol will be behind it then.

We want Gold Star Families throughout the state to know about the effort to put this memorial at the State Capitol. Although there has been a lot of publicity about the effort, most of it has been local.

If you are part of a group—veterans, civic, fraternal, church, or other—we would appreciate it if you would spread the word, and perhaps in doing so, learn of the special people in your neighborhood or among you friends who deserve to know there soon will be a monument at the Missouri Capitol honoring their sacrifice and their continued work in carrying on the spirit of those they lost.

(Photo credits: JC Parks, Missouri Capitol Commission, Gold Star Memorial Monument Committee)

A Study of Fear

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The uncertainties of political and economic life are leaving some of us fearful. A litany of the fears we might have would be a long one. Long before President Franklin Roosevelt warned us about fearing fear, Dr. Frank Crane defined it in terms of positive fear and negative far when he wrote about—-)

TWO KINDS OF FEAR

There are two kinds of fear: centripetal and centrifugal. One draws me to you; the other pushes me from you.

The noblest quality of love is accompanied by fear.

No man loves his wife duly unless he fears to do would bring upon him her contempt or aversion.

No woman loves her husband as she should unless there are pits and fear all around her love, things she is afraid to do.

You have noticed how, when a young fellow falls in love, he is full of tremblings and dreads. He is as frightened as a child in the dark. “Will she scorn me for this? And what will she think of me for doing that?”

A proper self-respect is not possible without self-fear. George Washington,  in the cherry tree episode, was afraid to tell a lie; afraid not of punishment, but of himself.

This is Tennyson’s meaning in the lines:

Dowered with the hate of hate; the scorn of scorn,

The love of love.

Many persons fall into grievous error by not understanding this. They think all fear is weakness, and timidity is ignoble. Hence they imagine they should be bold and fearless toward their own conscience, and have no timor of their own modesty.

It should be remembered that the very finest quality of courage, and the keen edge of true love, is pure fear. The bravest soldier is afraid to run, the noblest lover is afraid to be unworthy.

These two kinds of fear are brought out in the Bible. On the one hand “the fear of the Lord” is spoken of as a most commendable thing, the fountain of morals, “the beginning of wisdom.”  On the other hand, we are told that “perfect love casteth out fear,” and we are not to fear God but to “boldly approach.”

Which is easily understood if we perceive the two qualities of fear. That which is commended is that sensitive, trembling fear which is always the little sister to a great and pure love.

That which is condemned is the craven fear which has no advice for us but to urge us to flee.

Centipetal is the other side of love.

Centrifugal fear is the other side of hate or repugnance.

If I love you I am afraid of you. If I hate you I fear you. But they are two different feelings.

The love-fear is that of the lover toward his beloved, the child toward his mother, the soul toward God; the hate-fear is that of the criminal toward the policeman; of class against class; of feuds and grudges, of the life that loves evil toward the Lord of life.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS—-

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—-From two old people waiting for their shots…..

And their two furry companions, who got theirs at the veterinarian store a few weeks ago.

Minnie Mayhem and Maximus Decimus McCattimus have been good but occasionally mischievous company in these times of separation.  They’re not worth a hoot at Mexican Train Dominoes, Rumikub, Five Crowns, or other table games we used to get together with human friends to play but then, our human friends didn’t purr when we rubbed their tummies.

Nancy has gardened in the warm weather, and has continued her work with the church bell choir.  But her trombone in the city band hasn’t been touched for almost a year because the band can’t perform well in masks—except for the percussion section. Bob is trying to find acceptable compromises with the publisher of his book about the history of the Missouri Capitol. This year, his research uncovered the fact that Cole County was not named for the person it had been claiming to be named for, for at least 150 of its 200 years.

We are enjoying Christmas with family and friends as much as possible——in this era of church services on Facebook, and meetings and family gatherings at such strange places as Zoom, Webex, Skype, and GoToMeeting.

Our children and our grandchildren (two of the former, four of the latter) have adjusted, as have millions of others, to the “work from home” lifestyle that includes times of involuntary home-schooling when the public schools decide to do remote learning.

The virus has touched our family only lightly but we have lost some friends and acquaintances to this pandemic and will miss their faces when we emerge from this siege. We wish not to lose any more.

We are glad for several reasons to let go of 2020 and look forward to the return of spontaneity to our lives in 2021—and, perhaps, the opportunity to see friends and family we have dearly missed this year.  We wish the blessings of the season for all of you and only good news in 2021. We encourage you to do the things that will make it possible for us to be together again:

Wear a mask:

Socially distance:

And wash your paws.  Often. Max and Minnie do. You should, too.

Most of all:  Be safe.

Merry Christmas from:

Bob, Nancy, Max and Minnie.

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You’ve got to be carefully taught

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(The newest tell-all book about President Trump paints a distressing picture of family dysfunction. Dr. Frank Crane wrote a century ago about this kind of family culture, or—)

POISONING THE CHILD MIND

One of the recent discoveries in the art of healing is the therapeutic value of suggestion. That is to say, the physician, by suggesting to the patient, particularly the patient suffering from nervous disorder, sane and helpful thoughts about himself, can work a cure better oftentimes than by the use of drugs.

The force of mental suggestion is so great that many fads, and even new religions, have arisen which are based upon it.

If the influence of good suggestion be so great, the influence of bad suggestion is even greater.

I wish to call attention to one form of character poisoning of which parents are frequently guilty.

Perhaps the worst misfortune that can happen to a person is to be infested with the germs of fear, to lack decision and self-confidence, to be a pretty to the terrors of morbidity and doubt of self. Who can tell the mortal pain, shame, and self-torture of the innumerable victims of chronic fear?

Frequently, parents are responsible for this. A boy, for instance, develops some in-born trait of waywardness; he is untruthful, will not apply himself, is careless, disobedient, or persists in keeping bad company; the parent naturally tells him of his fault, and, as it seems to do no good, drops into a constant practice of scolding. Over and over the boy is reminded that he is “bad,” that he will never amount to anything, and so on. This finally filters in the child’s sub consciousness, and then the irretrievable damage; for when he comes to believe in his sub-mind that he is bad, he is bad.

Why not try to find the CAUSE of your child’s defects and remove it? When you KNOW that blame and reproof do no good, why go on?

We do not realize that it is a CRIME to say to any child under any circumstances, that he is bad, weak, or vicious. When you do that you are planting a seed of damage in his mind. Many a woman has been wrecked because her life was poisoned when she was a child by unceasing mental suggestions from her mother that she was naughty, wicked, unreliable, or untruthful.

Many a man is a weak failure in the struggles of mature life, simply because the cult of failure was carefully instilled into his childish mind by his thoughtless parents.

Dwell upon and encourage the good that is in your child. Ignore his defects as far as possible Learn how to shut your eyes. Above all, do not tell him he is wicked. Show him his faults, but never in public, but in sacred intimacy. Show him the consequences of wrongdoing; but enlist his aid in opposing his bad traits. Persistently suggest to him that he is good, brave, strong, and truthful. In after-life this belief of yours in him will tone up his self-respect and give him strength in his hours of crisis.

If one of your ancestors owned slaves—

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—should their name be erased from your family tree?

Should Jefferson City and Jefferson County change their names because Thomas Jefferson owned slaves?

Should towns named for the Five Civilized Tribes or their leaders change their names because the Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek (Muscogee), Chickasaw, and Seminole tribes sided with the Confederacy during the Civil War?

We began thinking of these questions a few days ago when we saw a Kansas City Star comment suggesting a fountain and a parkway named for J. C. Nichols be renamed because he was a racist whose real estate developments defined Kansas City’s history of racism that lingers in the minds of many citizens today, and upon hearing of a petition circulated by a University of Missouri student to remove a statue of slaveholder Thomas Jefferson from Francis Quadrangle (where the columns are in Columbia) and after seeing a news account that protestors in North Portland, Oregon had pulled down a statue of Jefferson at a high school named for him.

New to the discussion is that military bases should no longer be named for Confederate officers such as Braxton Bragg, John Bell Hood, Henry Benning Robert E. Lee, and others.

These are troubling issues and troubling questions in troubling times. Today, let’s consider Thomas Jefferson. The military bases will wait for a later posting.

Correcting the historical narrative is better than trying to erase it, for we learn nothing from erased history and we can learn everything from placing history’s people and events in context. Hasty action in emotional days might rob those in the future of needed guidance in shaping their eras.

University of Missouri Curators correctly decided to leave the Jefferson statue on Francis Quadrangle although the petitions had more than two-thousand signatures. University System President Mun Choi said, “We learn from history. We contextualize historical figures with complex legacies. We don’t remove history.”

To remove the statue of Jefferson because he owned slaves would also remove the statue of someone who was the main author of the Declaration of Independence, the creator of the Virginia Statute of Religious Freedom, the founder of the University of Virginia (three things he wanted on his original tombstone that also is at the University of Missouri-Columbia), and the president whose administration added most of the land west of the Mississippi River that made us a nation stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Dr. Choi and the curators had it right.

Here’s a more intimate dimension to this issue:

Several years ago when I was a guest lecturer at Kent State University, I met a sharp, earnest African-American student, Shannon Lanier, and this then-girlfriend (now his wife, Chandra, and mother of their three children). He told me he was the sixth-great grandson of Thomas Jefferson and his slave Sally Hemings, whom some identify as the half-sister of Jefferson’s wife. Martha Jefferson died at the age of 33 in 1782. Shannon already had co-authored a book about Jefferson’s black descendants. DNA studies indicate Tom and Sally had six children, four of them surviving to adulthood. Many white Jefferson descendants accept the Hemings descendants as part of the Jefferson heritage.

I wonder how those African-American Jefferson descendants would feel if they knew a proposal had been made at the University of Missouri to remove a statue of their most famous ancestor. Would the removal place them in the position of being branded as products of some kind of unforgivable Original Sin? Is their existence the result of some kind of unforgiveable disobedience of widely-accepted contemporary codes against sexual relations between different races (a code often ignored in plantation America, including here in Missouri)?

The censuring of Jefferson as a slave-owner could be seen as a disparagement of hundreds of his descendants, a continuation of the idea that any child born out of wedlock—let alone also born of an interracial relationship—should bear a mark of historic illegitimacy.

And what difference does it make in the long run? The importance of a life is not how it begins but how it is lived. That is why a rush to judgment in emotionally-charged times can be perilous.

As Shannon put it on CBS This Morning, on February 14, 2019, “Sometimes, I’m proud of his accomplishments and sometimes I hate him for not doing more…We can’t necessarily judge history with contemporary eyes but we can learn from history and the mistakes that our past leaders have made.” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTC_UFAhrvA)

The PBS Newshour ran an extended piece that featured other descendants of Sally and Tom commenting on a Monticello exhibit about Sally. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Gm3HtijrMQ)

The New York Times ran a Farah Stockman’s story on June 16, 2018 (https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/16/us/jefferson-sally-hemings-descendants.html) about the feelings of Hemings descendants about the exhibit. One of those descendants, former employee of the National Archives in Washington, D. C., Julius “Calvin” Jefferson, took pride in his slave ancestors: “They were there at the beginning of the country. When you are of African descent, you are told that we had nothing to do with that. I’ve realized that members of my family had a lot to do with that. The contributions that the slave community did at this one plantation afforded Thomas Jefferson the leisure to be the genius that he became.”

Additionally, how, if we are to follow the wishes of those advocating removing monuments of racists and slave-holders, should we treat the thirty-nine men who signed the United States Constitution in 1787? Or the 56 who signed the Declaration of Independence? Some of them were slave-holders yet they gave us the Declaration that declared we were a nation on equal standing with other nations and asserted the immortal line we are fond of quoting today despite the times in which it originated—All men are created equal—and then produced a Constitution that, with its Bill of Rights, defines our country as the republic that it is.

There is danger in applying a moral standard of our time to punish our ancestors for the values they held in morally different societies. To brand them for being part of an acceptable culture that would not be acceptable today runs the risk of diminishing our opportunities to learn from them. Failing to remember our past with its disgraceful as well as its noble moments is to risk an ignorance that could produce regrettable repetitions.

Thomas Jefferson, J. C. Nichols and all of those in our pasts whose flaws we recognize because of our contemporary values give us important context as we correct today’s shortcomings.

Tomorrow is more important than yesterday. But knowing about yesterday is vitally important in helping us shape that tomorrow. Ignorance of history is more dangerous than knowledge of it. Historic events and historical figures are products of their times. Placing people and events within the standards of their eras gives them a reality that we cannot ignore as we consider who we are today and who we will seem to be when we join them as history.

Our presence in these times is a history lesson for tomorrow whether we like it or not or whether those who come after like us or not.

Pulitzer Prize-winning historian Jon Meacham a few days ago on MSNBC discussed how he evaluates historical figures:

Was the person or the institution being memorialized ultimately devoted to the pursuit of a more perfect union or were they for ending the constitutional experiment altogether. And by that test, even the most flawed white Americans—Andrew Jackson, James Madison, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, could be memorialized and understood as imperfect people who nevertheless were about defending a system that ultimately gave us the 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments that ultimately gave us the Civil Rights Act, the Voting Rights Act, Woman Suffrage. From Seneca Falls to Selma to Stonewall, the story of the country has been one of all-too-gradual liberation and we should build our monuments; we should focus our collective commemorative memory around those moments.

Taken as a whole, was Jefferson’s life a quest for that “more perfect union?” Yes, it was and is the reason his statues should remain in Columbia and elsewhere, a representation of a man who—as is true of all of us—is greater than his shortcomings.

Us vs. It—part V, Remembering

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I enjoy Scott Simon’s thoughtful brief commentaries on National Public Radio’s Weekend Edition Saturday and last Saturday he had one that caught my interest at the beginning—because I disagreed with the opening concept. I understood his point at the end, however, and agreed with that. Here’s what he said about the world we live in today.

Our oldest daughter turned 17 yesterday. It’s quite a time for a young person to have a birthday.

I’ve covered wars where I got to know families with teenagers, and I’d ask parents, “What do you want your children to remember of these times?” The answer was almost always, “Nothing. I want my children to remember nothing of all this.”

This coronavirus is not a war. Yet as in war, there are long spells of tedium, interrupted by episodes of anxiety, and sometimes danger, loss, and grief. No parent wants their children to carry that load through their lives.

But, any parent learns how children rarely remember what we hope. You may want your child to remember when they saw the Eiffel Tower or met an athlete. What they really recall is the ice cream they had at the end of the day, or a man with the lizard tattoo they saw on the subway.

I hope that when both our daughters think back on this time, they’ll remember how many good people worked so hard to keep the world running, often at risk to themselves. They’re often people we can take for granted, and identify just by a job title, a nurse, a driver, a cop, a sanitation worker, or a clerk. I hope our daughters will know their names and remember how much we owe them.

I hope our daughters will remember, too, how they found their own ways to help people now: to walk the dogs of neighbors who can’t venture out, play with children whose parents have to work, and to write cards and make calls to make people smile.

I hope they’ll appreciate the ingenuity of their teachers, who’ve tried to devise new ways to fire their young minds. And I know they’ll remember how their mother has held, nourished, and cared for all of us in all ways.

In a way, these times may help our children appreciate the fortitude of their grandmothers, who are now gone. They lived through world wars and many hard times, but carried themselves with lightness, grace, and humor.

A few days ago, I came upon our daughters as they shared a joke. I asked, “What’s so funny?” and they said nothing—and traded smiles as I turned away. I imagine the joke was on me; and I was delighted. I hope they remember that joke, and their closeness. I hope they remember that when the world may seem cold or dark, they can turn to each other and feel the sun.

The part I disagreed with was, “What do you want your children to remember of these times?” The answer was almost always, ‘Nothing. I want my children to remember nothing of all this.’

“This coronavirus is not a war. Yet as in war, there are long spells of tedium, interrupted by episodes of anxiety, and sometimes danger, loss, and grief. No parent wants their children to carry that load through their lives.”

I WANT my children, or more appropriately my grandchildren, to remember everything: the danger, the tedium, the anxiety. I hope they don’t directly experience loss and grief. But I want them to remember because we might not have to wait another century for a pandemic such as this one to hit again. In fact, a lot of scientists and healthcare people already are saying chances are good this virus will come back with the cooler weather in the Fall.

It’s important for them to remember that one way this version of the coronavirus was limited in the danger, loss, and grief was the tedium of shelter-in-place, the anxiety of wondering if somehow the virus might find you, the feeling of loss with each day’s new death count even if no one we know is among those terrible numbers. In an impatient world of increasing self-centeredness, disciplined patience and respect for the harm we might cause others by flaunting our perceived independence when it is increasingly obvious we are INTERdendent in so many ways is what has, to use the phrase of the day, “flattened the curve” in many places.

I want my grandchildren to remember the good things Scott Simon mentions. But I do not want them to forget the things many people want their children to forget—because memory could be part of their salvation.

Dr. Crane on egoists

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Here we are, deep into the early days of a political campaign year. We will have to endure the preening, boasting, promising—and sometimes bullying—of those who want to attract our money and our votes. It’s a time for Egos on Parade, candidates from all parties promising that they can do magnificent things—as if there were no other parts of government or levels of government with a voice in doing things.   The phrase “reality check” didn’t come into use until thirty years after Dr. Crane died. But that’s what he offers. This entry might not matter to our big-time candidates but maybe it might help us little people (who are bigger if we vote) to look for someone with a tinge of—–

HUMANITY

What is my boasted independence? I am dependent upon everybody and everything. I go with the crowd. I am caught in the press of men. I must move with them.

All my ancestors have left me something. Not money or goods, but deeper potencies. What I call my character or nature is made up of infinite particles of inherited tendencies from those whose blood runs in my veins. A little seed of laziness from this grandfather and of prodigality from that. Some remote grandmother, perhaps, as stamped me with a fear of horses or a love of dogs. There may be in me a bit of outlawry from some forefather who was a pirate, and a dash of piety from one who was a saint.

So everything in me passes on through my children and flecks of my children’s children with a spot of strength or weakness. I am sewn in between ancestry and posterity. I am a drop of water in a flowing river. I am a molecule in a mountain. I am a cell in a great tree.

The words I think are not mine. They are humanity’s. Millions made them, as a coral reef into which my thoughts creep.

My gestures, ways, mannerisms, so-called peculiarities, I borrowed them all.

Religion is not a personal affair so much as it is a communal. You are a Jew because you were born a Jew; for the same reason you are a Catholic, you are a Presbyterian, you a Mahometan, you a Buddhist, you a Mormon. As we enter life we find these cells already made in the human beehive and crawl into them.

The Young lover imagines no one else ever felt his pangs and ecstasies; yet Nature is but repeating in him the motions she has made in a myriad others.

“Nothing human is alien to me,” said the philosopher.

Said Burke, “Society is a partnership not only between those who are living, but between those who are living and those who are dead—and those who are to be born.”

What I call my opinion—how much of it is but echo? Opinions are catching, like measles or smallpox. Our notions of art, letters, politics, morals, we have but secreted them from the mass.

Original ideas? Where will you find them? All the ideas there are exist now, floating in the human sea. I, an oyster, absorb a few and call them mine. Even the phrases of the Lord’s Prayer have been traced to Talmudic sources.

“The dewdrop slips into the shining sea.” The river of humanity emerges from the infinite and pours ever into the infinite again.

In passing how we perk ourselves up into strange egotisms! We strut, gesticulate, contend, and talk of me and mine, only to go down at last in the cataract that, unceasing as Niagara, empties into the unknown.

Let us, therefore, put away the coarse egotisms and the partisan passions that infest us, and learn to love humanity, to think and feel in terms of humanity.

A face of Missouri

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What do we read in the face that is a symbol of our state?   What would she say to us about who we are and who we should be?

Her right hand is outstretched in blessing but her gaze is challenging.

She is waiting for us to say something. What would we say? What should we say?

She will tolerate no nonsense. No fawning. Flattery will get us nothing. Neither will bluster. Threaten her with harm and she won’t change expression while she breaks your arm. Offer her flowers of friendship and she will be thankful but flowers won’t get you very far.

Her eyes see through us.

We wonder what we should say. Nothing that would compliment her beauty. She knows she is beautiful and has no need to flaunt it or to expect others to tell her what she already knows about herself.

She is strong of will, confident in her intelligence that is obvious to those who come face-to-face with her.

What is she saying to us just by her look at us?

This is one intimidating lady.

You can be better than you are, she says. You might have greatness but do not stop achieving it. Get on with the business of loving your neighbor. Don’t ignore those who need you. And stop whining about things. Be meaningful, not just important.

Don’t dispense and don’t accept BS.

Obfuscation won’t work with me. Don’t try it.

Be better. You can be but you too often don’t want to be and you know it.

You can be more than yourself. Get with it.

I won’t tell you how to do it. You’re capable of figuring that out.

I was the goddess of agriculture, grain, and fertility to the ancient Romans. I was kind and benevolent and anything that was “fit for Ceres” was very good, splendid in fact. I represented the love a mother bears for her child.

You will not see me this way for the rest of your lifetime, probably. But I will be atop your Capitol and I will be watching you as a mother watches her child.

Do not disappoint your mother.

Straighten up. Behave. Be “fit for Ceres.”

            (Ceres. Sunday night, December 8, 2019, waiting to “go home.”)

 

 

 

 

Notes from the Road

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Before we get into this, we note that a few days after returning from a short trip we turned on our computer and got a message reading, “Hmmm…can’t reach this page.” The message offered to connect me with my usual first page by using a different web address. I tried that and that didn’t work either.   Going back to the previous “can’t reach this page” page, I noticed another line:

“Report this issue.”

I wonder how many people have gotten similar messages and have clicked on that line before giving themselves a good solid dope-slap.

Now, on to our stories:

(Oh? What did I do about that “report this issue” message? None of your business. And besides, the red mark on my forehead has disappeared.)

I always get a good chuckle, if not a good laugh, from audiences when I say that God invented Kansas so Missourians would appreciate Colorado more when they get there.   Problem is, you don’t start seeing hazy mountains in front of you until you’re more than 100 miles into Colorado. I consider that area for several miles west of Limon to be Kansas West.

And in truth, Nancy and I don’t mind driving across Kansas all that much. A lot of our ancestors were pioneers who were there when corn was the dominant crop. We like the way the sky opens up, enjoy the Flint Hills, and the rolling prairies.

It’s easier to enjoy those things at 80 mph instead of looking at the back end of the oxen for the month it took thousands of people headed to the mountains 150 years ago.

Best name for a Kansas town: Grainfield. It’s three counties in from the Colorado border, a little place of about 275 people, that topped out at 417 in the 1980 census. Children from Grainfield attend Wheatland High School (another appropriate name), where the sports teams used to be called the Shockers, as in shocks of wheat (we mention that for the city folks who think the kids might have done weird science with electricity). They’re the Thunderhawks now.

Grainfield’s old opera house is on the National Historic Register. We don’t know when the last opera or any other performance was held there. The place is an antique shop now. Not surprisingly, it’s the dominant building in a town that, like a lot of small Kansas farming towns (one up north particularly close to your observer’s heart) seems to be shrinking back into the prairie.

But if you’re on I-70 and not enjoying the experience as much as we do, you might drop in on Grainfield.

Or just down the road, at Quinter, which boasts the Fick Fossil Museum (do not try to say that real fast too many times). The oldest Mosasaur skull in the world is on display there.

Not far away is Oakley, which is near Castle Rock and Monument Rocks, the chalk remnants of the great inland sea that split present North America into two land masses about one-hundred million years ago. Nearby Quinter, about 30 miles from Oakley, is Castle Rock, from the same time period.

—The features live on in the Kansas University cheer, “Rock, Chalk, Jayhawk.” At least we suspect that’s where it came from, should any Missourians care.

Incidentally, all of this silly Kansas-Missouri animosity aside, we like Lawrence and we think the KU campus perched on Mount Oread (seen from the interstate) is a lovely campus. It, too, has a nice fossil museum but it’s most famous museum attraction is the hide of Comanche, the Seventh Cavalry Horse that survived Custer’s ill-considered attack in Montana. The hide is stretched over a taxidermy mount so it looks like the horse. Although Comanche is sometimes described as “the only survivor of Custer’s Last Stand,” he isn’t. A lot of Indians survived. And about half of Custer’s troops survived a few miles away on another hill.

As long as we’re providing you with a travelogue, you might consider drifting off the interstate about 115 miles east of Quinter, in the Ellsworth area, and going to Lucas, which is the home of The Garden of Eden. We wrote about it years ago on the old Missourinet blog—about a Civil War Veteran who hated corporations and decorated his house built out of concrete logs with concrete anti-corporation figures and figures from the Genesis story of the Garden of Eden, something bizarre to many visitors but also an interesting piece of self-expression through folk art.

Of course, if you want to get up near Highway 36 you can visit the largest ball of twine, in Cawker City, or if you want to drop down to Highway 50, you can climb down into the world’s largest hand-dug well at Greensburg—and while you’re there you can appreciate the effort to rebuild the town after it was flattened by a tornado almost twenty years ago.

We always enjoy driving through the miles-long Smoky Hills Wind Farm about 140 miles west of Topeka. There are 155 of these giant three-bladed machines, some close enough to the road that we can appreciate how big those things are. There’s an interesting juxtaposition near the eastern end of the farm, a church with a big windmill nearby:

 

I call the image “Higher Powers.”   This picture isn’t a good one. It was shot with a cell phone while Nancy was driving about 80. One of these days I’m going to have the good camera and we’re going to stop and do it right. We find these big wind turbines (the official name; I guess “windmills” are the old things we sometimes also see along the road that pump water for livestock) kind of fascinating.

We “enjoy” running on a couple of toll roads in the Denver area.  We saw “enjoy” because they don’t have toll booths.  Cameras take pictures of our car’s license plate and a week or two later a statement arrives in our mail box saying how much we owe the state of Colorado.

Saw a headline in the Longmont, Colorado newspaper that recalled an old television comedy show and we—for some reason—thought, “Ralph Kramden would be proud.”   For those few who peruse these entries who do not know about Ralph Kramden, let us perform an educational service.

 Ralph Kramden was a television character in “The Honeymooners” skits, a New York bus driver in the 1950s and 60s who made $62 a week and who lived in a small tenement apartment with his wife of fifteen years, Alice. Ralph was a bombastic, fat, man with who was often scheming on ways to get rich. His schemes, often hatched with sidekick Ed Norton, an always-cheerful sewer worker who lived with his wife, Trixie, in the apartment upstairs, never worked. Alice was the queen of the put-down who dreamed of a better life that included a refrigerator that didn’t need to have a bowl underneath it collect water that dripped from the ice box. Sometimes she would irritate Ralph with her spot-on observations of his girth or job or scheme and he would, in anger, threaten:

“One of these days, One of these days, Alice: Pow! Bang, Zoom, you’re going to the Moon.”

It was funny then and it remains funny in the context of its times. Of course, it wouldn’t play at all, now. But those were different times. By the end of the skit, the humbled Ralph would tell Alice, “You’re the best,” and they would kiss and the screen would fade to black and then to a commercial.

Ralph Kramden was played by Jackie Gleason, who might be remembered by some younger—but increasingly older—movie viewers as Sheriff Buford T. Justice from the “Smokey and the Bandit” films. Alice was played by Audrey Meadows. You can still see “The Honeymooners” sketches on various YouTube videos.

Ralph, a prophet in his way, and Alice, the beneficiary, might find that headline, uh, meaningful, I thought.

Longmont, by the way, is the hometown of Vance Brand, an astronaut who was the command module pilot on the 1975 flight that linked a leftover Apollo capsule with a Soviet Soyuz capsule for the famous “handshake in space” that was the first American-Soviet joint space venture. He also flew three shuttle flights, including the first fully-operational flight. He might have walked on the Moon if there had been an Apollo 18 mission.

Well, enough of these latest notes from the road, which culminated with a hike to 12,005 feet and an involuntary geological study of the relative hardness of my head with some Rocky Mountain granite that left a temporary mark on my forehead and some marks on the granite that will wash off in the next rainstorm.   Conclusion: both seem to be of equal hardness.

—which might explain why we drive across Kansas rather than fly over it.