Category Archives: travel

Books and Beyond

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I am not happy if I do not have a book within reach.

I have upstairs books (Malcolm Gladwell’s Talking to Strangers). I have downstairs books (Bob Edwards’ A Voice in a Box). I have doctor’s office books (finished reading Steve Inskeep’s Disagree We Must in an office this week). When we go on a trip, I pack at least two paperback whodunnits (John Grisham has shortened a lot of flights over water) that won’t be much of a loss if I leave one in a hotel room or an airline seat pocket.

The box next to the chair is waiting to be re-filled at the Missouri River Regional Library’s used book sale in a couple of weeks.  I have a porch book—-to take out on the screen porch on nice days and sit in the glider with Minnie Mayhem, one of our cats who likes to glide, and I read a bit, nap a bit, read some more and then come inside to write.  Or fix a salad for dinner or something. The book is called Masters of the Word: How Media Shaped History from the Alphabet to the Internet by William J. Bernstein.

The preservation of language, he argues, did not begin with writing; it began with mathematics in “a small area of southern Mesopotamia about five millennia ago…The first writing arose not from the desire to record history or produce literature, but rather to measure grain, count livestock, and organize and control the labor of the human animal. Accounting, not prose, invented writing.”

It is a long way from then to now and our emphasis on technology and all of the uncertainties we feel as we plunge into worlds of information that we could not have imagined as recently as yesterday. Bernstein is an optimist:

“When viewed over the ages, technologies do matter; a writing system that is simple to master is inherently more democratic than one that is difficult; a printing press capable of inexpensively turning out thousands or millions  of tracts is inherently more democratic than limiting book production to a few Church-controlled scriptoria, and two-way cell-phone and Internet communications are inherently more democratic than mass-market one-way radio and television…Over the course of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, an ever greater portion of the human race lives under democratic rule, and it is not difficult to credit this happy result to recent advances in two-way communications technologies.”

He concludes by noting that the technology of information distribution did not change much after Gutenberg’s invention of movable type moved Martin Luther’s status from being a dissatisfied German Catholic priest to being the creator of the Protestant Reformation and the 1840s that saw the development of the high-speed press and the telegraph. But the ongoing, though slow “empowerment of ordinary people” took a step back in the late 1800s and early 1900s—-an era most of us might think was a time of great growth in the flow of democratizing information. To the contrary, he argues, that era brought “the advent of the penny newspapers, radio, and television—expensive, complex media that could be controlled by only a few hands.”

But, “Fortunately, the new digital media have once again dramatically moved the empowerment needle back toward ordinary citizens. For the first time, a significant fraction of the world’s citizens can be in instant communication with one another.”

He is confident MOST of the changes affecting our political, social, and cultural lives will be positive.  But he warns this new world also could give governments more ways to control their citizens.

It seems from our high observation position that we are just entering that era in which we as free or potentially free people will be the determining factors in whether technology continues to enhance more democracy in our country and in the world—-or if we allow that technology to turn us against one another, which will only ennoble and enhance those who wish to use communication technology for repression and control rather than for Expression and freedom.

We have to control technology, not let technology control us.

Notes from a Quiet Street  (travels with Bob edition)

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The other day I heard a commercial on the radio for a securities investment firm.  It closed with the announcer cautioning, “Investment in securities involves the risk of loss.”

If investing in securities involves the risk of loss, why do we call them “securities?”

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I have been watching gasoline pump prices rise during the summer and have yet to hear anybody comment on a key supply-and-demand contribution to their rise.

It occurred to me as I drove along the newly-resurfaced street between gas stations on Ellis Boulevard to ask: How much petroleum is under our tires instead of in our gas tanks at this time of year?

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On a related note: When I was growing up on a small farm in central Illinois, there was an annual event (or maybe it was every couple of years event, memory isn’t clear) that we used to dread. Road-oiling.

We knew it was coming when the county road department came by our house and ground up the old surface into little pieces which would be rolled smooth or used to fill in potholes.   Then a few days later, a truck would creep past our house spraying a very thick coat of hot road oil on the surface. Another truck would spread sand on top of the gooey surface.  For the next sevcral days, cars and trucks would also creep down the road as the new surface hardened. But it was impossible to avoid the oil splattering onto the car or the truck—or the whitewall tires that were part of the automobile.

One positive that came out of that operation is that cars and trucks got a new undersealing to protect against the rusting salt that was spread on those same roads in the winter.

If often seemed that the crews didn’t re-oil the road past our place until the start of school—and the bus drivers undoubtedly cursed the practice as they cleaned the goop off the buses. And I’m sure the school didn’t appreciate all the tar that was spread into the school from the shoes of students who had to step on that surface to get on the bus.

This enlightening observation came one day on the way back from Columbia when 63 drops down to the flood plain and the ball diamonds and the turf farms and there was so much dust from the gravel side roads blowing across the highway as to make driving a tad bit more dangerous.

Gravel or oil?  I choose gravel.  I helped my father clean the splattered oil off our cars enough times to appreciate dust.

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I was on the Whitten Expressway in Jefferson City and in the lane to my left was a dump truck hauling an empty trailer.  Written in regular-pickup truck-size letters on the rear gate of the truck was, “Stay back 300 feet.”

I thought, “What an I supposed to be doing?  Wearing binoculars instead of my glasses so I can read something on a truck a football field away telling me not to get any closer?

And how would you pass such a vehicle?  Or is a 50 mph truck a rolling roadblock—albeit a safe one.

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Back in the Arab Oil Embargo times of the 1970s, I recall when the 55 mph speed limit became a standard.  Not only would it save petroleum, we were told, it would save lives.

I remember thinking, “If saving lives was the goal, why not set the limit at zero.  Parked cars don’t cause fatalities.

Unless, I suppose, somebody opens the door as a bicyclist is going past.

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We went to Kansas City for a meeting a few days ago.  The shortest trip, timewise, was on Highway 50. It’s four lanes from Jefferson City to California, two lanes to Sedalia and  four from there to Kansas City.  It’s also four lanes east to Linn although it doesn’t become four lanes again until the highway funnels traffic onto I-44.

We took 50.  And most of the time we didn’t have a lot of traffic.

We wonder if the Transportation Department has considered looking at two more lanes for those stretches of 50 as it launches its aggressive expansion of I-70, which already requires great courage and patience to use.  If the department hasn’t, we hope it doesn’t say anything that would make Highway 50 an alternate cross-state route while 70 is torn apart during the next several years.

 

Ignorance gone to seed 

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My friend Derry Brownfield had an expression that describes somebody doing something so egregiously stupid that it causes jaws to drop in total disbelief.

A few days ago, a tourist in Rome was accused of carving into the walls of the Coliseum, something such as “Igor+Muffy2023” to show his undying affection for his girlfriend. After he was arrested, the young sculptor/love-struck fool sent a letter of apology to the local prosecutor.  He gave as his excuse, “I admit with the deepest embarrassment that only after what regrettably happened, I learned of the antiquity of the monument,”

The “thud’ you hear is the jaw of your correspondent striking the area carpet covering the hardwood floor under my chair. It has happened every time I have read the account of his apology.

He did not know that he was defacing a structure that was built about 2,000 years ago? Did he spend his entire education playing video games in class?  Did he make it through thirteen grades of school and however many years of college without ever hearing ANYTHING about ancient Rome?

This is one of those times when it is common for millions of people to think, “How could anybody be that stupid!!!!!!” (I probably did not include enough exclamation points, actually).

The Coliseum is only one of the most recognized structures in the entire world. How can somebody NOT know it and the ruins of the Roman Forum and other obviously ancient features in Rome that the city and a lot of its structures dates back to Biblical times?

It’s ROME, for God’s Sake!  The place is old. Could he not tell it’s old just by looking at it?  Did he think it was built like that just last week? 

Why did he go there to begin with?  What was he expecting to see—lots of buildings by Frank Lloyd Wright?  (This assumes he knows what a Frank Lloyd Wright is.)

What did he think went on in the Coliseum?  The Rome Lions versus the Florence Christians in the Chariot Bowl?  He seems to say in his apology, “Golly, I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t thought it was sort of new.” As if there’s nothing wrong with spray-painting anything made or built within his lifetime that sits still long enough to be attacked by a clown with a pressurized can or a chisel.

Somewhere in the last twenty or thirty years, a new culture has been created that says it’s okay to display your decorative skills by spray painting property that does not belong to you and for which you have no permission to paint—or carving your initials in something made of more solid materials twenty centuries ago.  “See how brilliant I am?  I can paint or chisel my name and other names or even paint a suggestive or profane slogan on your property.  You’re welcome. I did it to enhance public appreciation of your property (building, boxcar, subway car, billboard, town sign). And I really like your day-glow red St. Bernard now, by the way.”

Equally troubling is his apparent belief that he can just deface any building he wants to deface.  Places such as this were created, whenever, so people like him can carve away at the stone if they feel romantically or artistically inclined.

Where do these people come from?  The ones who carve their names in the rocks of world monuments and satisfy their personal artistic muses by turning somebody else‘s property into their canvas or carving piece?

Wouldn’t it be interesting to talk to their parents?   And see how proud they are of their children for their overwhelming self-expression and how they want to commemorate their immortal love for one another.  Or until their gap year ends, mom and dad’s money runs out, and they go to separate homes.

There are better ways to make your mark on the world. I wonder if such a thing will occur to those whose ignorance has gone to seed.

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Notes From a Quiet—

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Road.

Your traveling correspondent has been on the road for a month, from Cincinnati and Indianapolis to Illinois to Colorado and Texas.

He has not been to Auxvasse.

Auxvasse is the home to 1,001 people.  At least it was in the most recent census.  It has a total area of three-quarters of a square mile.  It’s a few miles north of Kingdom City, the crossroads of Missouri.  You might catch a glimpse of its former small business district as you flash past it on Highway 54.  The town tavern has survived.

It originally was called Clinton City when it was platted in 1873 but changed its name to honor a nearby creek because the postal service was easily confused by the presence of another town in Missouri named Clinton, with no “city” on the end. It has had a post office since 1874. It is the largest populated area in Jackson Township of Callaway County.

Blogger Tom Dryden, who might be the most famous person to come from Auxvasse—because of his blog—notes that the town website refers to the community as “the third largest fourth class city” in the county.  He says I have been pronouncing its name incorrectly, Oh-vawz.  No, it’s “Of auze.”

Dryden wrote a loving tribute to his hometown in his October 23, 2016 entry. I suggest you check him out at TOMDRYDEN.COM.  He has written some other things about the town and its people, too.

Dryden admits the town is so insignificant he cannot convince his car’s GPS system that it exists, which led him to concede in his May 14, 2012 blog entry, “When you’re from Auxvasse, you can’t go home again.”

I can appreciate his love for his town because I grew up in a couple of small towns in Illinois—one of about 1,500 people (Mt. Pulaski) and the other of about 3,300 when we moved there (Sullivan), probably considered big cities when Tom was a kid.

Now I live in a REALLY big city. Jefferson City (43,228 people in the most recent census).  And Auxvasse has been irritating me for decades.

(By the way, we made an interesting discovery on our way back from Albuquerque last weekend.  We drove through Wichita, which has a listed population of 397,552 in the 2020 census.  St. Louis claims 301,578.  Wichita, Kansas is bigger than St. Louis!!.  Sedgewick County can’t hold a candle to St. Louis County, though, so St. Louis is still a bigger metro area)

Tom Dryden’s GPS doesn’t know where Auxvasse is. But he’s wrong. He CAN go home again. The Missouri Department of Transportation makes sure of that. Interstate 70 exit 148 has a big green sign—

Maybe it’s a conversation piece designed to keep drivers bored by hundreds of miles of billboard-ugly, mostly straight, highway alert by trying to figure out (a) how to pronounce that top word and (b) why it is important enough to be on the highway sign.

“Hey, Maude, get out yer Triple-A guidebook and look up Ox-Vassy and see what’s there.”

“It’s not listed, Claude.”

“They why do you suppose Missouri wants you to go there?”

Well, why does it?

Why doesn’t the sign say “Jefferson City?”  It’s only the state capital, you know.  It’s only the place where the department has its headquarters.

Heck, with Kingdom City’s development into almost-Effingham West, why isn’t Kingdom City on the sign?

We are left to ponder whether Auxvasse has the distinction of being the smallest town in Missouri, or in America, to be listed on an Interstate Highway exit ramp sign.

But it just irritates the sock off me that Jefferson City apparently is less important to the department than Auxvasse is.   I will confess, however, that there have been some times when I’m just one more tired and semi-dangerous driver on the road late at night, that seeing that sign has kicked up the mental processes just enough to make it the last 30 miles or so home safely.  That and the Coke I get at the Kingdom City McDonald’s drive-through window.

Congratulations to Auxvasse, though.  Every day, tens of thousands of people go past a sign that says it is more significant than the capital city of the state. If I lived in Auxvasse, I’d be proud of that.

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The genetic pull

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No, not the genetic pool.  The pull.

Some of the few who read these profound thoughts will understand when I ask if  you’ve ever felt drawn to a place or to an event because its in your genes—-because something was planted in your DNA early in your life and your life isn’t complete if you can’t see or do something?  Because there are instinctual longings that drive you to do, to be, or to go—-just as instinct drives the gees south in the fall and north in the spring, as the Wildebeest is driven in constant migration following the good grass from north to south to north to south, despite the lions, leopards, jaguars, and cheetahs, or big crocs in the streams.

A few years ago we were in the middle of it, on the Masai Mara in Kenya (in a balloon over it, in fact, one morning), and in the Serengetti National Park and the Ngorongoro Conservation area of Tanzania.  In the lower right corner is the Ngoroongoro Crater, where even an elephant is overpowered by the magnificence of the surroundings.

Go there if you ever get the chance.  We’ve been.  And right now our next big trip will be across Kansas, where there used to be gigantic fish-things whose bones have turned to rock—and you can stop in Hays and see them.

Many folks hate to drive across Kansas.  Not us.  In fact we feel it whenever we go to something in Kansas City. There is a faint whisper in our genes that says, “Don’t stop here.”

We think it’s because her mother’s family was from the Larned area and my ancestors, on both sides, moved to north-central Kansas’ Mitchell County not long after the last Indian raid.  We have a Kansas Gene.

The Flint Hills and the Tall Grass Prairie, the rolling prairies that stretch before us as the sky grows larger as we head beyond Salina.  Not until Hays, the home of the Sternberg Museum’s fish things and the remains of other fascinating beings, is the rising flatness something we notice. But the sky is all around us (as are big trucks) and the sky is open and uplifting.

The Garden of Eden is out there, you know.  We’ll let you look it up.  But it’s worth a jaunt a little to the north to break up the trip.

As we cross the Colorado line, we confess, we have to remind ourselves we’re still at least two hours from seeing the first faint outlines of mountains. But we’re done with the quiet stateliness of Kansas.  Let’s get to the dramatic stuff now.

The problem is—there’s too much Kansas in Colorado.

The other problem is that it’s I-70.  We understand why people get bored crossing Kansas on I-70 but we wish they appreciated the fact that it’s the road, not the landscape or the places along the way, that is boring.  It’s I-70 on the land beyond the windmills and before the sighting of the mountains that becomes tedious, even for us.

We are going to answer the call of our genes in a few days.  Time to visit the granddaughters at the foot of the Rockies in Longmont.  That means a day and a half on the road, most of it enjoying Kansas in warm weather.

But before than I have a personal gene pull that has to be satisfied.  I’m off later this week to the east, to the City of Indianapolis—a prototype for a big city that wants to reclaim itself—and to the Greatest Spectacle in Racing.

There are those who are surprised that an educated and literate person can also like to watch noisy very fast cars going so fast that it’s impossible to read a sponsor’s message  on the side of the car.  This corrupted gene was planted almost (Oh, Lord!  Just saying this give me chills) seventy years ago.  Something about the unique climate of the event, as well as the event itself, is a magnet.

In my working days, the trip to Indianapolis was a step toward freedom after being cooped up for four and a half months inside the pressure cooker that is the Missouri Capitol in the closing days of the legislative session.

And I’m going to watch 33 people hurl themselves around a 2.5-mile squared oval at 230 mph-plus, turns included. I have tried to think of something else that is so frightening yet so remarkable and the closest I can come is Olympic downhill skiing.

Why go?  Because it’s the Indianapolis 500.  It is part of my genetic programming. My parents took me there for the first two or three times. I have taken my self there for as long as I have had a driver’s license.

I do not know if the those I will watch ever think about Theodore Roosevelt’s famous remarks about “the man in the arena,”  those who “strive valiantly; who know the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spend themselves in a worthy cause; who at best know the triumph of high achievement and who, at worst, if they fail, fail while daring greatly, so that their place shall never been with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.”

Some people like to watch birds. Some like to chase little white balls around well-manicured courses. Let me admire the courage and the remarkable precision of 33 cars going 230 mph and turning left, perfectly putting wheels where they must, running within inches of one another. In my genetic makeup, that beats the tar out of watching a little white ball slowly curl its way into a hole.

So, pick the adventure your genes call on you to take. If it’s genetic, it can’t be wrong.  And don’t pay attention to those who think you are odd.

Greatness is not achieved by those who think those who push the envelope are odd.

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A Reading List

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This is the last week of the legislative session.  Time is even more precious now and the risk that some worthwhile things will be talked to death is greatest.

This session already will be remembered as the year the Missouri Senate became a reading club.  A lousy one.

Not only were the choices of reading material poor, the reading of the material was fingernails-on-the-blackboard irritating.

Not only was their choice of material and their delivery of it lifeless, spiritless, colorless, arid, tedious (we could go on—we found a listing of 50 synonyms for “boring”), it set a low bar for being educational.

If unrecoverable hours of members’ lives will be taken from them, they at least should have the opportunity to turn the torturous time into a learning experience.

To solve this problem, we suggest that the Senate set aside funds to hire temporary personnel who have professional reading skills and employ them as part-time reading clerks—overnight reading hours would demand heftier salaries but it would be a small price to pay for making the Senate a more enlightened chamber.  Accompanying this recommendation is a suggested rule change that any group fomenting a filibuster must commit to staying in the chamber for the duration of the readings, thus guaranteeing that SOMEBODY will learn something.

Herewith, then, we offer a reading list for filibusters in hopes that consumption of those hours will provide participants and listeners alike some value.  We regret that we cannot guarantee that the readers can do a better job than they did this year.

Our Declaration: A Reading of the Declaration of Independence in Defense of Equality by Danielle Allen, a professor at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton. While most of us have read the Declaration or have heard it read, this book is a highly-informative explanation of the care that went into each paragraph and sometimes each word of our nation’s foundational document and how the elements of the Declaration fit together and constitute the legal framework that led to the writing of the United States Constitution.

America’s Unwritten Constitution: The Precedents and Principles We Live By, by Akil Reed Amar, who teaches Constitutional Law at Yale College and Yale Law School. Amar is considered “one of America’s pre-eminent legal scholars” who explains why the Constitution does not set forth all of the rights, principles, and procedures that govern our nation. He maintains that the Constitution cannot be understood in textual isolation from a changing world and the laws that change with it.

The End of White Christian America by Robert P. Jones, a former psychology professor at Missouri State University who now leads the Public Religion Research Institute, that examines what is happening because our nation is no longer an evangelical majority white Christian nation and the political and cultural effects of that change. The book explores that change, its implications for the future, and why those who fear the future should instead understand how the positive values of white Christian America will survive.

New World, Inc., by John Butman and Simon Targett. The authors explain that it was commerce, not religious freedom, that was the motivating factor for the earliest explorations and settlements of our nation.

The Wordy Shipmates, by Sarah Vowell. Ms. Vowell is greatly entertaining in explaining who the Puritans on which so much of our standard history is based really were as human beings—and they were pips and not necessarily pure..

Marooned: Jamestown, Shipwreck, and a New History of America’s Origin, by Joseph Kelly, takes us to the dangerous, desperate times overlooked in our usual histories. We do not often consider that those who came to this side of the Atlantic placed themselves in a hostile world for which most were unsuited to settle with no guarantees that new supplies to sustain them would arrive later  It also explores the papal-approved concept that if a land was not populated by Christians, it was proper—a duty, in fact—for Christians to take that land regardless of the cost to those who inhabited it.

El Norte: The Epic and Forgotten Story of Hispanic North America, by Carrie Gibson.  Long before the Pilgrims and the Puritans arrived on this side of the pond, the Spanish were here as conquerors, settlers, enslavers, missionaries, and adventurers.  But most of our history is based on, as poet Walt Whitman put it, the idea that this nation was founded as a second England.

There are several others that could broaden understanding of who laid the foundation for our country and the opportunities and the missed opportunities to recognize them that shape our attitudes today, and not always in a positive way.

If the Senate, or a small part of it, wants to kill time and possibly beneficial legislation (for somebody) in the process, it should at least contribute to improving the general knowledge of our nation, at least for the Senator who should fill his mind while killing everybody else’s time, and for those who might stick around if there’s something worthwhile to listen to.  And with these books, there is.

We offer these suggestions with no hope that they will amount to anything.

But that doesn’t keep individual members of the legislature—and the public—from becoming better citizens by broadening their understanding of our nation’s roots.

 

 

Premonition

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Your faithful chronicler was invited to speak to a group of freshman, sophomore, and junior State Representatives last week. It turned out they all were Republicans, including some Republican candidates for the House.

If Democrats want to hear the nonpartisan speech, I’d be glad to do it for them.

In fact, the words of a Democrat had a prominent role in the early part of the speech.  I had recited some facts about being raised in a Republican family. But I came of age in the Camelot era, a pedigree that I hope is somewhat behind my efforts as a reporter to harass both parties equally.

As I was researching some of the material for the speech, I came across the speech President Kennedy would have delivered at the Texas Trade Mart. As history records, the world ended for him ten minutes or so before he was to arrive there. The conclusion of the speech reaches across the generations since that day in Dallas.  Here’s the part of that speech that made it into part of my remarks last week:

“In this time of division and hostility, of narrowness and demagoguery often fueled by fear of the different instead of the opportunities presented by the things we have in common, it might be good to reflect on some of President Kennedy’s words again.  The other day I came across some words he would have spoken at the Dallas Trade Mart on November 22, 1963, a day I remember vividly as a young reporter.

Ignorance and misinformation can handicap the progress of a city or a company, but they can, if allowed to prevail in foreign policy, handicap this country’s security. In a world of complex and continuing problems, in a world full of frustrations and irritations, America’s leadership must be guided by the lights of learning and reason or else those who confuse rhetoric with reality and the plausible with the possible will gain the popular ascendancy with their seemingly swift and simple solutions to every world problem.

There will always be dissident voices heard in the land, expressing opposition without alternatives, finding fault but never favor, perceiving gloom on every side and seeking influence without responsibility. Those voices are inevitable.

But today other voices are heard in the land – voices preaching doctrines wholly unrelated to reality,…doctrines which apparently assume that words will suffice without weapons, that vituperation is as good as victory and that peace is a sign of weakness…

We cannot expect that everyone, to use the phrase of a decade ago, will “talk sense to the American people.” But we can hope that fewer people will listen to nonsense…

We in this country, in this generation, are – by destiny rather than choice – the watchmen on the walls of world freedom. We ask, therefore, that we may be worthy of our power and responsibility, that we may exercise our strength with wisdom and restraint, and that we may achieve in our time and for all time the ancient vision of “peace on earth, good will toward men.” That must always be our goal, and the righteousness of our cause must always underlie our strength. For as was written long ago: “except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.”

It has been too long since we heard that kind of uplifting challenge. And it’s time for leaders with courage to speak that way again.”

The crowd provided a standing ovation at the end of the talk, which was nice. I hope that means they didn’t think they were listening to nonsense.  And that they won’t go out and deliver it.

Notes from the road

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(Abandoning the quiet street for a few days in search of adventure.)

Our recent trip to Colorado, via Kansas of course, featured a munchkin toilet, a Ferris wheel inside a store, a revelation of what’s in a cheeseburger (or so it seemed), and a place where dart-throwing is a game for sissies.  And, oh yes, we DID see some mountains this time.

We drove across Kansas, which we kind of like to do.  The Flint Hills in the eastern part, the wide open sky and countryside, the windmills lazily—most of the time—creating electricity, the scattered houses and small towns on the high prairie on the west side.

Whenever we make that trip, we cannot help but compare I-70 in Kansas to I-70 in Missouri.  We were at peace on the highway in Kansas. It’s smooth, quiet, and features FEW billboards.  We all know about I-70 in Missouri, a butt-ugly disgrace of sardinesque traffic cans that cram cars, trucks, bigger trucks, campers, RVs, pickups, motorcycles and Heaven knows what else into a tight space at 80 mph, with elbow to elbow billboards advertising everything from Ann’s bras to somebody’s porn shop.  Driving on I-70 in Missouri is a tiring slog through mile after mile of advertising sludge.  Crossing into Kansas generates an instant feeling of freedom.

If you make it to Goodland, about 18 miles short of Colorado, and if you stay at the Quality Inn, do not let the clerk give you Room 102.  It’s a nice room for normal-sized people.  But if you have to use the bathroom—-

That’s our tablet in front of the toilet to give you an idea of the scale of the fixture. The tablet is 8.25 inches tall. The, uh, facility must have been purchased from Munchkin Plumbing just down the road from Dorothy’s farm.  It’s good for a pre-schooler, probably. But for adults?

We will not elaborate. You can use your imagination.

Goodland’s a nice, small town known for having the largest easel painting in the world.  In fact, it’s a Van Gogh painting.  Van Gogh was never in Kansas but he was famous for his five paintings of sunflowers.  And we know what the state flower of Kansas is.

The easel is 80 feet tall (That’s Nancy underneath it for perspective) and is visible from the highway as you come into town from the East.  It’s on your right and easy to miss from a distance.

Kansas has two things that have come to symbolize the state, other than sunflowers.  It has windmills, 3500 of them.  And grain elevators.  One of those in Goodland reminds us of a great ship of the plains waiting to load its cargo.

A lot of first-time travelers to Colorado are disappointed when they don’t see mountains as soon as they cross the state line.  It takes a while before they start to rise against the western horizon. The traveler begins to see them about 45-50 miles from Denver.  But in July, we couldn’t see them at all from there and they were only vague shadows in the western forest fires smoke when we were as close as four or five miles.  Here’s the picture we used in our July 31 entry. It was taken from six miles away:

But the day after Thanksgiving, we drove out to the same area, or close to it:

Or, looking south:

It never quite looked like Colorado in July.  But it sure looked like it at Thanksgiving.

We went to Loveland one day, to a place that seemed to be a cross between Bass Pro/Cabella’s and Dick’s Sporting Goods.  We saw a woman walking around with her cat in her backpack, which had a clear plastic cover and air holes to give Puff air.

Can’t see the cat?  Look at the lower right, just above the right air hole and you’ll see two yellow eyes.  Several folks had their dogs with them. Not service dogs.  Just dog dogs. It’s part of Colorado’s laid-back culture.

The place had a Ferris wheel right in the middle. Big sucker.  We haven’t been on one in years so we rode it and got a good look at both stories of the store.

We expected Colorado to be Colorado in late November and early December—a few years ago we ran ahead of an ice storm all the way back home as far as Salina holed up for the night while the storm passed and then came the rest of the way to Jefferson City on a cold, wet day with cleared roads but ice and freezing rain on the trees and roadsides.  So we packed appropriate cool or cold weather clothes.

It was in the 60s or low 70s every day but one.  The day before Thanksgiving it was a raw, gray day in the low 40s. There were even a few tiny snow things in the air.

We had an eye-opening experience on the way home to Missouri. We stopped for lunch at a famous fast food place in Burlington, Colorado and learned:

Wow!  And all this time I thought those things were 100% ground beef!

Here’s another discovery from Kansas:   There’s a bar in Topeka that doesn’t seem to have much interest in dart-throwing.

 

Kansas was a place where a 6-foot-tall scowling temperance crusader named Carrie Nation stormed through the doors with an axe in her hand and started breaking up bars.

I don’t know if I’d want to spend much time in a place where there’s a lot of drinking going on and people are throwing axes.

But, you see, there ARE interesting places in Kansas.  Just don’t get in the way of an axe or, if you have bad knees, check into Room 102.

 

The Encounter

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It had the elements of a nightmare.

Blackness

growing larger

in the eyepiece of my camera

rushing toward me

engulfing the sky

darkening it

obliterating it

consuming me

with its noise

its speed

its wind

its blast of heat

roaring past.

Bob Priddy met Big Boy

that day

And lived to tell the tale.

The railroad crossing in Osage City was crowded with onlookers a few days ago, all waiting for the largest steam locomotive ever built anywhere in the world to pass through on its way to a stop in Jefferson City.

Union Pacific locomotive 4014, the only Big Boy still running, rounded the curve in the distance, its mighty steam whistle bellowing in full-throated bass, warning those near the crossing to stand away.  Inconceivable power was coming and coming fast.

And then it blew past, faster than I could turn with it, slightly staggering me with its power, force, and the wind it was pushing outward. And briefly, a ripple of heat reaching out from its boiler to brush my face.

https://youtu.be/QweVLPAyDyY

Later, in Jefferson City, as the locomotive rested briefly at the station, too close to the Capitol bluff to be seen from above, I thought it might be visible from the House of Representatives garage, west of the capitol.  And there it was, lurking and breathing. And when it began to move, slowly, there was a feeling of menace, of a great beast stalking creatures protected by the barred garage windows as it slowly passed by, seconds later to ease onto a siding with the muscular attitude that it was going to go where it damn well pleased to go and it would be best not to challenge it.

https://youtu.be/8zmkZ1Ky2hc

We can be grateful such machines are restricted to tracks and that Transformers are not real.

Walt Whitman, the great American poet, long before Big Boy was even lines drawn on a planning page, felt what I felt when he confronted a locomotive, one of the mechanical marvels of his time:

Thee in thy panoply, thy measur’d dual throbbing and thy beat convulsive,                                                                                           Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel,                   Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shuttling at thy sides,/ Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar, now tapering in the distance,/ Thy great protruding head-light fix’d in front,     Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple,/              The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack,/Thy knitted frame, thy springs and valves, the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels,/ Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily following,/        Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack,/ yet steadily careering;/ Type of the modern—/emblem of motion and power/—pulse of the continent…/Fierce-throated beauty!/ Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music,/ thy swinging lamps at night,/ Thy madly-whistled laughter,/ echoing, rumbling like an earthquake,/rousing all,/ Law of thyself complete,/ thine own track firmly holding,/(No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,)/Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d,/ Launch’d o’er the prairies wide,/ across the lakes,/      To the free skies unpent/ and glad and strong. 

The older generation can dwell for a short time in nostalgia at the appearance of restored steam locomotives. Children often gaze open-mouthed at this great machine, oozing steam and occasional spurts of hot water, as it dozes in front of them. For some, the graceful dance of the slow-moving side rods as the locomotive heads toward its overnight parking place is endlessly fascinating—-as is the pounding rhythm of the same side roads at speed.

The Big Boy and its few smaller kin who still display railroading’s past are far more exciting and, dare we say, romantic than the sanitary and ungainly diesels of today.  But their constant need for care and cleaning, their relatively short runs before needing more water and more fuel, and their mechanical makeup are reasons they are now curiosities, not commonplace.

In 1976, when I rode the American Freedom Train from Boonville to Jefferson City, I asked engineer Doyle McCormack if he thought he missed anything by not living in the age of steam.  “Yeah,” he said, “a lot of work!”

Let us be glad there are still those willing to do that work.  And to bring these great pieces of fierce-throated beauty to us from time to time, glad and strong.                                                -0-

Son of Fun with Snowplows

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A few days ago we suggested the Missouri Department of Transportation follow Scotland’s lead and give clever names to its snowplows.  We have seen any signs that the department has a sense of humor yet but Minnesota’s Department of Transportation has joined the fun.

It ran a poll on fifty potential snowplow names.  Participants could vote for eight names. The top eight at the end are:

Plowy McPlowFace (Inspired, no doubt, by a contest several years ago run by the British National Environmental Research Council to pick a name for its new polar research vessel.  More than 27,000 respondents chose “RRS Boaty McBoatface.” The council decided after seeing the results that the name wasn’t respectful enough of the council or its ship and said the contest was meant to just get suggestions, not to pick the real name. The council later announced the boat would be named for naturalist and broadcaster David Attenborough. However, one of the boat’s underwater research submarines will carry the less distinguished name).

The other seven:

Ope, Just Gonna Plow Right Past Ya; Duck Duck Orange Truck; Plow Bunyan; Snowbi Wan Kenobi; F. Salt Fitzgerald; Darth Blader; and The Truck Formerly Known as Plow.

Some of the others: Buzz Iceclear, C3PSnow, Edward Blizzardhands, For Your Ice Only, Mary Tyler More Snow, Plowabunga, TheWinterstate.

(We could have Winterstate 70, Winterstate 435, etc.)

If you think you can stand it, the others are on the department webpage: Name a Snowplow contest – MnDOT (state.mn.us).

In northern areas such as Scotland and Minnesota, the snow is different than it is here. And people can play in it—and do, for many months of the year. Here, it’s often wet, heavy stuff that clogs the snowblower that we bought at Sears—back when had a Sears store from which to buy things. It’s fun up there. It’s a big pain down here.

But, hey, MODOT, why not let us add at least a little levity our misery. Have a contest.  People who submit the top ten snowplow names get a new shovel they can use to clear out their driveways.

Can’t government be a little fun?