I grew up near a lake, and not far from the Atlantic Ocean. Consequently, my geographic perspective is always shaped by early experiences on and near the water.Riding top-down across the prairie, sun on my face and wind in my hair, is not unlike the exhilarating feeling of riding in a sailboat or other ship across the water. Ok, so the fragrance in cattle country is decidedly different from that of the sea. But the visceral feeling is the same. And when I look out at waves upon waves of grassland, as far as the eye can see, it does bring back the primal experience of looking out upon the ocean, seemingly limitless in its scope and in its profundity.
Some who have taken this road-trip cross country remark that by Kansas it gets a bit boring, a whole lot of flat nothing for miles and miles. I disagree. I find a certain kind of liberation in the vastness, the calm. The hues of America’s farmland, with its lovely varieties of green -- interspersed occasionally by the golds and browns of early-cut crops and rotated crops – are truly beautiful. There is certainly a romance in the sensation that Garry and I are the only two people in the world – this world. In that situation, 100% of the people within fifty miles of us are laughing at my jokes. Ok, just some of my jokes.
And then, there are the towns. Don’t blink, or you’ll miss them. A railroad station and a grain elevator. That’s all. Just as it was when we last drove through, 37 years ago.
But then, there are changes, too. Whole towns, interesting places with lovely homes and tourist attractions, in places where we only remember farms and grasses.
In Lebanon, Kansas, we come across a notable spot. This is the center of the 48 contiguous states, the true middle of America. We divert from our planned route to find the marker, the X that marks the spot. It’s a stone marker with an American flag stuck in the middle, and in the middle of – you guessed it – miles and miles of farmland. There is a nice little sign, a welcoming white rooster, and a tiny chapel, no bigger than an outhouse. That’s it – a pretty unpretentious presentation for the very center of this great land. Strains of “This Land is Your Land” fill my head – in the remembered voices of my ESOL students at the Bryant Center and in the voices of my beloved staff, who sang to me, spontaneously, at our last remarkable gathering. This is another memorable moment. Garry and I take pictures of one another (and the rooster) and then, as we prepare to leave this spot, another car with another tourist couple pulls up – this one coming from California. Dang, it’s getting crowded here: tourists from both coasts converging at center.
We continue our glorious trek, on through Kansas and across to Nebraska. Ogallala is our destination for the night. Nighttime comes late: at 10 p.m., the sun is just deciding to go down. Meanwhile, storm clouds are gathering on the formerly perfect blue skies.
Suddenly, there are storms in the distance. We are still top-down, but no longer sun-kissed. Now, we are tempting fate, with rain clouds all around. There is a bolt of lighting streaking across the sky. Then, a flash of light behind this cloud, a responding flash from that one, and a chiming in from a third. Again and again. It reminds us of the dualing flashes between earth and the space ship in the movie Close Encounter of the Third Kind (except, there is no accompanying music). It’s a fabulous light show over the prairie, punctuated occasionally with brilliant bolts of lightning in the spaces between the clouds. But this great celestial light show is a good 40-50 miles away from us, so we can enjoy it, continuing our journey undaunted.
We stair-step our way from Interstate 70, north and west from Kansas through Nebraska, traveling country roads and running through small towns until we’re back on the big highway, I-80, the road that will take us to our one-time home and long-time destination, Cheyenne.
But first, a night’s rest in Ogallala, where the people are friendly but the mosquitoes are fierce.
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