Send Me Off Forever But I Ask You Please

When people heard that I was going to Kansas for vacation they seemed incredulous, as if there were no conceivable reason to visit the state.  After my visit I can conclude that the people who reacted that way have never been to Kansas themselves.

For the record, I did have two good reasons to go: to visit a Pal, and with said Pal to attend a Czech festival.  Though they may have questioned the destination, no one who knows me would consider those two reasons anything but in line with my character and established patterns of behavior.

I only spent three full days in Kansas, but it seemed—in a good way—like much longer.  I’d been worried before I left home that there wouldn’t be enough time to do everything Pal and I had planned, or enough time to feel like I was really getting a break from work; but I’m happy to report that neither of those proved true.  And even if I did leave without a cowboy hat, that only means I have a good reason to go back for another visit.

On the drive north and then west from the airport in Wichita (smaller than I’d expected, especially after having left from Charlotte and changed planes in Atlanta) I noticed that the landscape didn’t feel as foreign as I’d thought it might.  Kansas’ reputation is for being flat, but on I-70 the land is not a flat, featureless plain stretching without end.  There was enough roll to the green hills to placate a valley girl, enough trees to break up the horizon, and enough cows and horses and what were possibly goats grazing in the fields to prove that there is life even in the long stretches between towns.  The landscape was reminiscent of Nebraska, Kansas’ neighbor to the north.

Friday morning was cool as we sat on the porch.  There the wind that seems near-constant in Kansas was refreshing; that wind, though it did a number on my hair and any attempts to look well-groomed, also kept the days from being too unbearably hot.  I’m thankful that the weather had cooled somewhat from the highs of the weeks before.  It was still in the 90s, but I know it could have been much hotter, and I’m glad it wasn’t.  It also wasn’t nearly as humid as South Carolina is, nor as dry as southern California.  Maybe it was the slightly cooler temperatures, but for some reason on that first day I forgot that getting a sunburn was even a possibility, that sunburns were even something that happened.  And again, though I came home that evening with pink shoulders and warm cheeks, it could have been much worse.

Before she had to go to work Pal drove me to see the buffalo herd.  The City of Hays owns several of the animals, who live across the street from the Fort Hays Historic Site.  In the morning the four or so adults and four calves were having a lie-down, doubtless tired from the work of eating breakfast.  When I came back later in the day they were more mobile.  Of course I happened to be visiting them soon after a little girl was tossed into the air by a buffalo at Yellowstone, and just before a teenager was gored in the leg on Saturday.  In Hays those incidents would have taken effort to achieve, as there are two fences between the herd and visitors.  Still, even though I knew the animals were wild and therefore dangerous, I understood the temptation to climb over the outer fence (which I couldn’t have done anyway) to get a little closer to them.

In the mid-1860s a fort was established to help protect workers building the railroad that would pass through the area.  First called Fort Fletcher, the name was soon changed to Fort Hays, after a Union general.  Towns were organized not far from the fort, and of these Hays City emerged the champion when the Kansas Pacific Railway built its station there.  For a few years Hays City was the epitome of an Old West town, full of saloons, soiled doves, outlaws, and gunfights.  General Custer, Wild Bill Hickok, and Buffalo Bill Cody all spent time in or around Hays.  Around town there are plaques marking historic sites, explaining what happened there; the ones opposite the railroad track, where Tommy Drum’s saloon and a few hotels were, denote some of the most violent incidents in the city’s past.  On more than one of the plaques is recorded that someone who shot multiple people later became mayor or sheriff in another town.  That is the kind of career mobility I want.  The city’s wicked days were ushered out in part by the arrival of the Volga Germans in the 1870s.  The county historical society’s museum includes a stone house lived in by Volga Germans and intricately carved furniture by Julius Bissing.  The influence of the cowboys is there, too, though, and doesn’t stop at descriptions of how wicked they and their associates were; important displays talk about the Clarkson brothers, buffalo hunters out of New York state who became good citizens of Hays once their hunting days were done, and Sheriff Alexander Ramsey, lauded by all who knew him as an honorable man.  Unfortunately, Sheriff Ramsey was shot while apprehending a horse thief and died of his wounds, and his widow, Mary, died soon after.  They’re both buried in Mt. Allen, the cemetery built by a Mr. Allen so his daughter Clara would not have to spend eternity with the ruffians interred in Hays’ Boot Hill.

Fort Hays State Historic Site consists of four historic buildings (six if you count the outhouses) and a modern visitors’ center.  The two-story officers’ quarters, two of which remain, each housed two families, sharing a kitchen and dining room, or four bachelors.  Behind the officers’ quarters is a garden, and further back, near the site’s border with the local golf course, is the guardhouse.  Made of the yellow limestone so common in the area, the guardhouse is a long, rectangular building that, as the name implies, was used to imprison military miscreants.  The outside of the guardhouse is incised with names, some of soldiers who were stationed at the fort and some of more recent visitors.  Though I’d heard about this before I went, I was surprised at the depth and skill of some of the carvings; I’d been expecting names and dates simply scratched into the surface of the stone, but some of the letters were quite deep, and there were pictures, too, from the suits of a deck of cards to an entire clock face.  The exhibit inside the guardhouse includes recordings, of popular songs from the late 19th century and of vignettes recounting the experiences of different soldiers, including a Buffalo Soldier.  There are also reproductions of uniform jackets and hats that visitors can try on, with a mirror that encourages them to take selfies.  I was pleased to find that one of the jackets fit me, as did a hat, and, hoping that whoever last wore them was not as sweaty as I was, put them on and took a picture.  

That might have been my favorite part of the site, if the surroundings weren’t so pretty.  As I mentioned, the fort grounds aren’t separated from the golf course by anything other than a cart path, and of course the course grounds are well-kept; but there was one place that was either very carefully planned or completely natural that was just beautiful.  What I assume were native grasses and wildflowers rippled out from the path in a swath leading toward a tree maybe fifty yards distant.  I would totally believe that it was a glimpse of what the plains looked like years ago.  The effect, and its beauty, was heightened by the fact that I was more or less alone out there; sure, I saw some golfers in the near distance, but there was no one else wandering around that part of the fort.  With nothing modern in view I could have been alone on the prairie a century or two ago.

The fort was a large complex of buildings, most of which are now gone.  On the east end of the site was the laundress’ quarters.  The laundresses were enlisted men’s wives who were then paid to do washing for the soldiers of the fort; a marker at the site notes that “With most privates earning $13 per month, a laundress could double her family’s income.”  That being said, enlisted men were only allowed to marry with permission, and only if there was room for another laundress.

The last building on the grounds was the octagonal blockhouse.  When you first enter the fort through the visitors’ center you’re given a card with a soldier’s name on it; in the blockhouse are binders where you can look up your soldier and see what his position at the fort was.  Mine was Sergeant William Nicholson, an Irish immigrant who worked in the Quartermasters Department.

At the front of the site is a large statue of a buffalo called Monarch of the Plains.  Created by local artist Pete Felten, whose works are scattered around Hays, this statue commemorates the importance of buffalo in Kansas history, particularly to the Native Americans.  Not coincidentally, it also overlooks the park where the buffalo currently live.

After lunch (a really bacony BLT and a cherry phosphate at the soda shop) I wandered around downtown, looking at the historical markers and different architectural styles.  It rained a bit, but nothing I couldn’t more or less avoid under a tree.

That evening we drove out to a barn where I met a few horses, most of whom were only interested in seeing if I had treats.  By far the coolest of them was the a Bureau of Land Management mustang (not pictured; I just liked the colors in this horse’s mane).  The BLM uses what looks like an alien language to brand mustangs.  On a darker horse, the freeze brand shows up as white markings along the neck, and the different symbols show when the horse was born and its registration number.  Apart from being a very pretty horse to begin with—she’s a sorrel, a light auburn color—when the evening light hit her coat she glowed.  Between that and the sunflower-bordered pasture with horses grazing and the sun setting behind a barn in the distance, it was an idyllic scene.  I think I can be forgiven for romanticizing the state when presented with such vistas.

On Saturday morning we headed east to the town of Wilson.  Though even smaller than Hays, Wilson is a capital—the Czech capital of Kansas—and every year hosts the Wilson After Harvest Czech Festival.  The festival runs the last Friday and Saturday in July.  We arrived about mid-parade and watched the usual local Shriners, tractors, dance teams, and community businesses, interspersed with groups with Czech heritage.  After that we headed for the egg.

One of the major attractions Wilson has to offer is the world’s largest Czech egg.  Around 20 feet high, the egg, patterned after traditional kraslice, was designed by local artist Christine Slechta.  It stands on a corner lot in a lovely black metal gazebo, featuring red Czech lions and cut-outs of geometric patterns similar to those found in Čičmany.  An informative sign nearby explains the kraslice tradition, the significance of the colors used, and the egg’s history in town.  

Despite its designation as the Czech capital, and the store windows decorated with Czech greetings and symbols, and the smaller kraslice dotted around town, there isn’t as much Czech stuff in Wilson as I thought there might be.  One of the shops did sell normal-sized kraslice and kroj-type blouses, but there was little in the way of imports.  I’ll put it to you straight: nowhere at the festival or in the town at large were there Kofola or Studentská bars.  Yes, I have Kofola at home, thanks to the import shop in Connecticut, and at least one Studentská left, thanks to a kid, but still.  My Pal didn’t get to try these important Czech culinary treats, and therefore missed out on the true Czech Experience.  And while there was some folk dancing, courtesy of a group visiting the festival from Prague (pronounced more like “Craig” than the capital), Oklahoma, some five hours south, it was not as much as I thought there might be.  In my most humble opinion, a town billing itself as the Czech capital of its state ought to at the very least have a sister city in the Czech Republic.  If Wilson were to hook up with a town in CZ—not a big city like Prague or even Brno; I recommend Plzeň*—they could use that connection to get actual Czechs to come to their festival, or at the very least import items to sell there.  There, sorted.  Call me, town of Wilson.

Since the food vendors outside seemed to be of the general-fried-stuff persuasion, for lunch we stopped into Grandma’s Soda Shoppe (or Babiččina Sodný Obchod, as the sign also claimed).  I had a bieroch, a thing I’d never heard of; it was a large bun filled with ground meat, onion, and possibly cabbage.  In hindsight it was like a runza, which makes so much sense now.  Then we checked out the town’s old water tower/jail before heading to the Kansas Czech-Slovak Queen pageant, held at the school (but not the old school downtown, the newer one a couple of blocks from the egg.  The festival could possibly have benefitted from some signs).  There were only two contestants in the pageant, which made it pass by fairly quickly.  Just to add some excitement I was ready to jump in as a surprise competitor; alas, I am too old, not a student or Kansas resident, nor was I wearing actual kroj.  

The competition included a brief introduction by each contestant, kroj modelling as the reigning queen read a description of the girl’s outfit, presentation of a talent, and a short interview portion.  Both young ladies were wearing Americanized kroj that had been researched and made here, not an outfit that was made in Europe.  On one hand, it seems to me that Americanized kroj isn’t real kroj; but on the other, there’s something to be said for researching what your family’s kroj would have been like and making a version of that yourself, rather than buying something that someone else made.  Was their Americanized kroj more or less authentic than my “kroj” for the day?  You decide.  I was wearing:

• the Slovakia t-shirt I got at one of the sporting goods stores at Europa in Banská Bystrica when SK was going to the World Cup in 2010;
• the leather cuff bracelet I got in Čierny Balog from somebody one of my kids knew when I was there for their forest festival;
• the ring that I wear all the time that I got at the Banská Bystrica days festival in 2009;
• and hairbows I made from krojové stuhy sent to me by an accommodating former student.
• (Also weirdly long shorts and sneakers.)

Both queen candidates sang for their talent: one sang, in English and in Czech, part of a Dvořak song, while the other played the ukulele and sang, again in English and Czech, “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”  The former may have been more traditional, but the latter was in keeping with the modern practice of Czech and/or Slovak covers of American pop songs, and I applaud that.  (On that note: Why did I have to hear Karel Gott’s Czech cover of “Holding Out for a Hero” on the sadly-canceled “Whiskey Cavalier”?  Why did no one tell me about this before this spring?)  My talent, presented in a patch of shade across the street from the hotel, was singing “Tota Heľpa” like way louder than I meant to.  See, I think I could’ve won.  Private interviews were conducted before the pageant, and for the onstage interview each contestant answered three questions, not unlike in the maturita.  One question was about kroj, one was about the Czech Republic and/or Slovakia, and one was an opinion.  I found all of the answers to be very short, but maybe they were supposed to be.  One of the questions was something along the lines of “What statue is found in St. Wenceslas Square in Prague and what is its importance?” and I was like ‘...Is this a trick question?’  Is it not Svatý Václav himself, on his horse, and that’s where people arrange to meet up, and not far from there is where Jan Palach self-immolated to protest Communist rule, and the site of mass protests during the Prague Spring and the Velvet Revolution?  I’m still wondering if it was a trick question.  Anyway, whatever the girl said, it was not St. Wenceslas, so I personally deducted points from her score.

The small museum in Wilson was hosting a traveling exhibit from the National Czech and Slovak Museum and Library in Iowa telling the stories of Czechs and Slovaks who emigrated between 1945 and 1989.  Some of the stories were amusing or inspiring, but many were sobering in terms of the hardships people had to endure in the process of leaving their homes and starting new lives in foreign countries.

In the afternoon the festival seemed to be winding down, at least out on the streets of Wilson.  Instead of hanging around there we drove up to Wilson Lake.  The reservoir is located in a state park.  Though the lake is man-made, that doesn’t make the park any less beautiful.  For a $5 fee visitors can park on any mown grass, and can go swimming anywhere except where it’s otherwise posted.  The water level was unusually high, so when we did park we waded into knee-high water beneath a picnic shelter, with trees emerging from even deeper water beyond.  The shade and the water were welcome after wandering back and forth across Wilson all morning.  When we’d cooled down enough we went in search of dinner; we found it in the small town of Sylvan Grove.  

Then it was back through the quiet hills to check in at the Midland Railroad Hotel.  The hotel was built in 1899.  Its rooms are decorated in the Mission style; outside most of the room doors are slatted wooden “screen” doors, so that occupants can have privacy while letting air flow through (though of course there’s air conditioning these days), and the transom windows above the room doors are etched with the surnames of local Czech families—ours was Svoboda—and actually opened.  In the morning the continental breakfast included local smoked meats, hard-boiled eggs, and biscuits, but I just ate several kolaches made at a bakery in town.  It was a cool place to stay.

On Saturday night Pal drove me just a few minutes south of the hotel to a dirt road outside Wilson Cemetery.  It was dark enough there that I could see more stars than I can remember seeing anytime in the last, say, eight years.  Then she drove me north of the freeway to another dirt road where it was perhaps slightly darker.  It was amazing to look up and so easily pick out the Big Dipper, and even to see what was probably part of the Milky Way.  Listen: the sky really is bigger out west. 

We checked out on Sunday morning and headed south and east to Ellsworth.  Located on the Smoky Hill River, Ellsworth was another of the wicked cowtowns, and like Hays, its streets feature a walking tour pointing out some historical points of interest; also like Hays, many of those sites were concentrated in the vicinity of the railroad tracks.  The Ellsworth County Historical Society maintains a museum area that includes the Hodgden House, a livery stable, church, and train depot and caboose.  I especially liked walking through the shell of the old jail building, a marked contrast with the active correctional facility in town.

From there we continued on through farmland to Wichita.  Many of the city’s museums are located on or near the Arkansas River, as was the first place we stopped.  The Keeper of the Plains is a monumental steel sculpture of a Native American, situated at the point where the Arkansas and Little Arkansas Rivers meet.  The plaza surrounding the sculpture includes informational texts about Native American life and culture.  For those interested in more information, the Mid-America All-Indian Center Museum is adjacent to the plaza.

Also nearby is Old Cowtown Museum.  By a stroke of luck, the museum is free on Sundays this summer, which made it even better.  Old Cowtown is a living history park presenting a cattle town in the mid-19th century.  We arrived just in time to see a skit featuring a gunfight, and after had lunch of a hot dog, bratwurst, and sarsaparillas in the saloon before exploring the town more thoroughly.  All of the businesses and industries necessary to support a town are present, from livery stables to the marshal’s office to a pharmacy to the local newspaper office complete with working press; in addition there are private homes, a farmstead, a schoolhouse, and social halls.  We talked to some of the gunfighters, who are all volunteers and who welcome new participants, if you ever happen to be in the area.

One of the great things about Old Cowtown is that some of the buildings are air-conditioned, a fact that several other visitors remarked on as we made our way in or out of doors.  In the general store and haberdashery Pal and I picked out what fabrics we liked best, for both special occasions and everyday wear.  We decided against having our portraits made at the studio, since the process seemed to be the usual old-timey-costume-and-sepia-tone.  If true tintypes had been available you can bet I’d have one of those in my possession at this very moment, and I wouldn’t be able to shut up about it.  (Maybe I’ll learn how to make tintypes and become an itinerant tintypist, traveling the country to various historic sites to photograph people.)  And on the way out, by the chuck wagon, was an unattended lasso and a wooden calf, so the one of us who knows how to rope taught the other of us, and a young boy as well.

Then we went to Botanica, the city’s botanical gardens.  The most unusual feature that set them apart from other gardens was the display of nature-themed Lego sculptures scattered around the grounds.  The traveling exhibit is called “Nature Connects” and was built by New York-based artist Sean Kenney.  I also enjoyed the Butterfly House.  And something else I hadn’t seen before was in the Sensory Garden.  It was a large bowl planted with petunias—nothing that you wouldn’t find outside someone’s house—but mounted to a semicircular frame arching over the planter were two kaleidoscopes.  Visitors could look through them at the planter and turn the kaleidoscopes to get a different view.  Not only that, but the entire bowl spun, making for even more possible patterns.  I thought that was cool, and the kids who were there at the same time seemed to enjoy it, too.

We were only at Botanica for probably a little over an hour before it closed, which was fine because at that point it was necessary for me to sit down and also drink a massive amount of water.  We had a simple dinner of chicken tenders at a fast food chain called Braum’s.  I don’t know if all of their locations are like this, but the one we went to not only served hot food but also had ice cream and an entire little market inside.  So we got dinner, ice cream (I highly recommend the Deep Raspberry Ganache), and muffins and bananas for breakfast the next morning.  Then we cruised around downtown Wichita for a little while—the YMCA there is HUGE—before heading to the airport hotel to have an early night, because I stupidly got a flight that left the next morning at 5:55.  

As usual, thanks go to my parents, for driving me to and from the airport so I didn’t have to pay for parking for four days.  I also owe huge thanks to Pal for inviting me to visit and showing me the best of Hays, America.

This trip was good for me.  I think I’d forgotten how much country there is out there, how many things I haven’t seen yet and how many things it wouldn’t hurt to see again.  My last trip, to Milwaukee at the end of last summer, felt like going back to a place I’d been before, even though I’d never been to the city; but since I was seeing old friends and going to watch our favorite band and it was all so Midwestern, it felt familiar, and that was good.  This trip reminded me of all of the possibilities out there.  Whole dissertations have probably been written on the legendary West disproving the very things I’m about to posit, calling them romantic nonsense at best; but it seems to me that the allure of the West is that it embodies the ideals of freedom, of optimism, of determination and grit, that speak to the American spirit.  In a country this big it feels like you can achieve anything you put your mind to, like there are endless opportunities waiting if you will only go chase them down.  That’s not a bad way for a place to feel, I don’t think.  I was fortunate not only to have a great time while I was away but also to come home inspired, and I don’t think you can ask much more of a vacation than that.  

Representative selections from the playlist I made to prepare for this adventure:

“Santa Fe” from Newsies
“Tota Heľpa” (this is not the version I have, but it was filmed at the festival in Heľpa and is sung by adorable children, so it’s worth watching)
“Mud on the Tires” by Brad Paisley
“Prairie Town” by the Wailin’ Jennys
and the song that should have been on there, especially if that’s where the title of this post comes from, but wasn’t, “Don’t Fence Me In” by the Andrews Sisters and Bing Crosby

*Only the fourth-most populous city in CZ and a previous European Capital of Culture, no big deal.  But they definitely like Americans (historically) because of General Patton, so that’s a positive, and they have not only a regular folk group but a whole children’s folk group they could send, too.  [back]