Kansas

I drive into a gathering Kansas gloom, aimed in a westerly direction, in search of the American West. Evening clouds are low and swift, yet soft, not unfriendly yet, though they can get that way in a hurry in these parts. The landscape is a sea of grass, cultivated of course, as expected in the Wheat State. What I didn't expect was to find it strangely beautiful. Intriguing too, knowing that somewhere out there were Superman, Dorothy, and Toto, Kansans one and all. A splatter of raindrops on the windshield awakens me from my reverie, and I seek refuge from the weather and the night.

The next day dawns bright, chock full of sunshine and blue sky. I visit several towns that all look aglow with cleanness and prosperity, quintessentially American. The downtowns seem frozen in perpetual 1958. I walk the squares and strangers tip their hats and smile. Cars cruise by with Buddy Holly on the radio. Streets are leafy and lazy, more or less perfect, like Mayberry.

Just this side of Dodge City a transition takes place. Folks stop wearing overalls and straw hats and don instead the cowboy hat and boots, signatures of machismo in these parts. The cowboy doesn't walk, he saunters. His expression is a sneer instead of a smile, as if all strangers lack manhood and need to be beat up. Could it be? I believe it is-the American West.

Westerners like to shoot things. When they first arrived in the West there were 50 million bison lumbering around, chewing on grass, like cows with the bighead. Imagine what a difficult target they made as cowboys shot them to shreds from point-blank range. Mostly for fun. In a few years there were only about a thousand left, hiding and trembling in Yellowstone Park.

Then the cowboys took to shooting Indians, more of a challenge since sometimes they shot back. No matter. In time their numbers would dwindle too, from a couple of million to a hundred thousand.

So the government stepped in and made it illegal to shoot bison and Indians, and relocated them to preserves where they were safe, at least in theory. Thankfully, both have made a modest recovery without bullets being sprayed in their direction. So Westerners today are left with little to shoot but themselves and the occasional stray liberal. (next photo)

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I drive into a gathering Kansas gloom, aimed in a westerly direction, in search of the American West. Evening clouds are low and swift, yet soft, not unfriendly yet, though they can get that way in a hurry in these parts. The landscape is a sea of grass, cultivated of course, as expected in the Wheat State. What I didn't expect was to find it strangely beautiful. Intriguing too, knowing that somewhere out there were Superman, Dorothy, and Toto, Kansans one and all. A splatter of raindrops on the windshield awakens me from my reverie, and I seek refuge from the weather and the night. The next day dawns bright, chock full of sunshine and blue sky. I visit several towns that all look aglow with cleanness and prosperity, quintessentially American. The downtowns seem frozen in perpetual 1958. I walk the squares and strangers tip their hats and smile. Cars cruise by with Buddy Holly on the radio. Streets are leafy and lazy, more or less perfect, like Mayberry. Just this side of Dodge City a transition takes place. Folks stop wearing overalls and straw hats and don instead the cowboy hat and boots, signatures of machismo in these parts. The cowboy doesn't walk, he saunters. His expression is a sneer instead of a smile, as if all strangers lack manhood and need to be beat up. Could it be? I believe it is-the American West. Westerners like to shoot things. When they first arrived in the West there were 50 million bison lumbering around, chewing on grass, like cows with the bighead. Imagine what a difficult target they made as cowboys shot them to shreds from point-blank range. Mostly for fun. In a few years there were only about a thousand left, hiding and trembling in Yellowstone Park. Then the cowboys took to shooting Indians, more of a challenge since sometimes they shot back. No matter. In time their numbers would dwindle too, from a couple of million to a hundred thousand. So the government stepped in and made it illegal to shoot bison and Indians, and relocated them to preserves where they were safe, at least in theory. Thankfully, both have made a modest recovery without bullets being sprayed in their direction. So Westerners today are left with little to shoot but themselves and the occasional stray liberal. (next photo)

© Danny Kimberlin 2015