There are dumb people who are smart enough to realize they are dumb (construction sites, college campuses, assembly lines, taxi cabs, and 7-11s are filled with this category of folks).
There are dumb people who are too dumb to realize they are dumb (TV studios, prisons and episodes of "Cops" are filled with this latter group).
This pretty much accounts for 99% of humanity. But what of the others? The one-percenters? What about the "artists" of the world, those who write, paint, sculpt, compose, invent, sing, act, dance, perform, and those who "wing it" in a hundred other ways? These featherless bipeds who imagine they are artists and were born to create . . . are they not smart people, but too dumb to realize how dumb they are? If wealth and happiness are the measures, then I do not know any smart artists. . . .
Most of the 99 percenters say they admire the one-percenters. They see the glitz and bling, they hear the applause and shouts, they see the art shows and book signings, but they do not see the rest of the picture. How many of the 99 percenters would give up their steady paychecks, their paid vacations, their health coverage, and their retirement checks to become an independent trucker, so to speak? I can tell you straight: Very few. True artists pursue their passion even if the trail winds through a junk yard to a slice of cold pizza and a cardboard bed under a bridge. These people are convinced that their whirl on this mortal coil was meant for more than a lifetime of wage slaving in which the reward after thirty years of dog-like obedience is a gold watch, death from cancer two years after retirement and their name misspelled in the local obit.
I once came to a "T" in the road. One sign pointed to Freedom, Oklahoma; the other sign led to Protection, Kansas. And, as one true old artist, Bill Shakespeare, might have said, "therein lies the rub." Ninety-nine percent of humanity ditches freedom for protection; one-percent fore goes protection for freedom. Both groups make their choice. Some will know the slavery of protection all their lives; some will know freedom, but hardships, all of theirs. God Bless both groups; without the one, the world would stop spinning; without the other, this orbiting orb would be as gray and sterile as a rock in space.
There is a small "herd" of buffalo here--maybe 10 animals. Every time I see these buffalo, or others penned in, I have an overwhelming urge to see them unpenned. I find it sad that these most migratory of American mammals are confined by barbed wire to a few square feet of stubble and manure. No other animal was more wedded to the prairie than the bison--even their deep brown color matches the soil. With an instinct to move born over tens of thousands of years, it must be maddening to the great beasts, even perplexing, to be confined thus. Humans denied freedom kill themselves or go nuts. And yet, most caged humans have committed some crime against the rest of us; the buffalo's only crime is merely existing.
Even though these past ten generations of bison here in Hays, Kansas, have never known a single day of freedom in their lives, the urge to move hundreds of miles each spring and fall must still beat heavy in their hearts. I have no doubt that if the gate was suddenly thrown open, these buffalo would begin drifting south within days, if not hours. Next spring, I'm sure we would see the same animals moving by here on their migration north.
Do not trouble me with small matters of money or logistics: Would it not be glorious to some day establish a Migratory National Park--a swath of prairie say 200 miles wide stretching from the Missouri in the north to the Rio Grande in the south, in which a herd one million buffalo strong could live and roam as intended? Think of those nature films of the Wildebeest migrations in Africa and how impressive they are with the bellowing roar of thousands and the clouds of dust roiling on the horizon. That's a scene we could have here too . . . again.
To all my loyal--and disloyal--blog-heads out there, my most sincere, humble and apocalyptic apology for being so negligent on this blog. A number of petty assignments and sundry bullwhack have kept me hoppin' 'round lately like a toad under a workin' harrow. With some luck and a bit of geographic stability we should be good to go for at least another hour or so. I won't promise to be more punctual, but I will promise to try.
Since reaching the environs of this most historic of historic places, your blogologist has noticed with surprise that there is an incredible number of cyclists in Hays. Indeed, I have seen more bikers here, per capita, than anywhere else in the States. Most, like myself, just prefer a quiet, healthy way to get around. That seems clear. As for the others? Since you see "the others" even in cold weather pedaling around, bundled, smoking a cig, I don't think the bike has anything to do with being eco-friendly in their case. Don't forget: This is German America out here.
Talking with a Hays chap last night (another biker, of course), I mentioned the super high incidence of cyclists in town. A wry smile came to the man's lips, a twinkle in his green eye. He said he personally knew one drunken farm fellow, a bit down on his luck after his hundredth DUI, who was warned by the cops that he would be jugged the moment he tried to drive his truck again on the streets of Hays. So, next time he gets a suds seizure, this ingenious imbiber fires up his tractor and chugs into town. The cops were waiting, of course, and promptly caught and caged the man, but not for driving the tractor; it was verboten for the drunk to drive ANYTHING on the streets. Worthless/desperate sot that he may have been, stupid he was not. So, the next time this gent gets a hankerin' for hops, he drives his tractor to town on the railroad tracks, then parks back behind the Horseshoe Inn. Problem solved.
Perplexing. Buzzing around the High Plains this week I noted that some flags are at half-mast and some not. This half-staff stuff must stop. I have no idea whose death made possible this latest flag lowering but it does seem like the flag is at half-staff about half the time, or more. We may as well just leave the flag where it is now, cut off the top half of the pole, and never move the flag again; that way the flag can be at full-mast and half-mast at the same time. Ridiculous. The thing with Ted Kennedy just sort of says it all. Certainly one of the most divisive characters in modern American politics, I can safely bet that well over 50% of Americans despised this liberal wonk who voted for Lefties 99% of the time. Who decides if this US senator or that US senator gets a half-staffer? I say stop it. It's out of control. It's a bad joke. No more half-mast for anybody or anything.
Speaking of divisive. Who has had it with Obama? I personally am tired of the empty suit, the empty rhetoric and the toothsome smiles. Stop making war on half the world, Mr Obama, and stop threatening war on the other half. Make peace. Follow through with your campaign promises. You were elected because we were just sick and tired of a smirking clown in the White House who tossed out world-wide threats like other people eat popcorn, who sanctioned torture and surrounded himself with some of the most sinister men the world has ever seen. You were elected by white people, Mr. Obama, not because you are black but because you promised to stop these non-stop wars. To many white voters you looked like a breath of fresh air. You were not. In less than a year there is the stench of corruption and duplicity surrounding you that takes most presidents years to acquire. Where is that Iraqi shoe-thrower when we need him? Send in the shoes!
Despite its Italian-sounding name, Antonino is an old German community. At the close of the Nineteenth-Century these thrifty, industrious immigrants flocked to the High Plains around Hays, Kansas, and established their own communities. When I lived here in the late Seventies, I still recall German being spoken in the supermarkets.
I biked to Antonino today. One way is maybe eight miles but the day was gorgeous and the wind was behavin' and when those two come together I ain't complainin.' Just west of town is the community cemetery. Here I stopped, opened the little gate, then rested and watered in the shade of a large statue depicting the crucifixion. Like the blood of Christ above, the sweat of Tom dropped down to the bricks below.
Perched on a gentle slope above the Smoky Hill River valley, this cemetery is a large one, I judge, surrounded on one side by a fancy wrought iron fence and on the others by the ubiquitous post rocks (top, limestone posts cut from the ground to make up for the lack of wood on the plains). But it does seem odd. In that large plot of land--maybe 3-4 acres--only a hundred or so souls rest in peace, and these in the middle, taking up only a fraction of the space. Obviously, the city fathers long ago looked to a day when Antonino would be a booming, bustling hive of industry, commerce and agriculture with plenty of dead folks to fill the plots. But that day never came. Barely a crossroads today, no more than fifty souls call the village home. The dead easily outnumber the living.
Sauer...Klaus...Pfanenstiel...Reichert...Wasinger...Keberlein...Munsch.... the names on these New World stones trace back to the earliest beginnings of the Old World. Touchingly, separated from the adults, a children's cemetery. The two dozen markers here, many made of metal, appear to be done by hand, as if it were the last loving act a heart-broken father could perform for his child.
The plain surrounding the cemetery is almost treeless. I walked about this wind-swept ridge, looking at the markers, avoiding the little cacti that refuse to die after a thousand mowings. Chewing on some buffalo grass that grows here reminded me of oats. A flock of small birds passed high overhead. I had forgotten that wonderful whooshing sound so many working wings make.
Some of the stones have little round photos of the deceased.
"Dale F. Rohr, November 19, 1948-June 5, 1969." Dark suit...thin black tie....innocent looks...his high school graduation photo. One year younger than me, we look nothing alike....but then again we do.
An ambulance speeds by on the lonely little highway in front of the cemetery, lights flashing but siren silent. The irony.
Back after a glorious pedal over the plains. Each day the weather gets better. Today, straight south on a paved road with no shoulder but...no problem. Very few cars use this road and those that do give a biker plenty of room. The wind, of course, is always a problem up on the prairie plateau but for every action there is an equal reaction and sailing back with a stiff breeze at my butt is just the greatest thing.
At one ranch I passed, I noticed that out back several hundred yards, amid a waste of rusting farm equipment and sundry junk, sat a big blue bread box. Someone's older stoner brother, no doubt, abides with his habit and eccentricities in that painted school bus. Who hasn't seen this a hundred times? A school bus squatting in a debris field. Let's call it rural recycling.
A little further on was a field of sunflowers-for-profit. So heavy-headed with seeds were these that none could lift their face to the sun anymore. With bended necks, all drooped on their chins submissively, I thought. Harvest and the dying time are already upon the plains.
Generally, when I arrive back in town, I plant myself for a fifteen minute cool-down in the pretty little park at 10th & Main. Here, I am in my glory. Not only do I share space with the wonderful statue of Wild Bill Hickok (top), but if I am really lucky a train on the old Kansas Pacific thunders by only a few yards from the park. The horn will blow out your eardrums. Since my diaper days, when I popped up in the crib each morning to watch the old Missouri steam engine pass by the window, I must always stop and watch a train go by even today.
Across Main is 10th Street. This is the front street of the notorious old Hays City that Custer, Cody and above all, Hickok, made so famous at the time. Modern bronze plaques at virtually ever door tote the tally of the poor nameless wretches who did, at least, make a name for Wild Bill.
On the corner of 10th and Main is the old bank building. Every half hour or so there is a loud and terrible taped screeching of owl, falcon and hawk sounds, designed to keep the pigeons moving. It does not work. The pigeon may have a brain the size of a raisin but with him, as with everything else in life, familiarity soon breeds contempt. On the roofs above, the birds continue to poop twice a minute and madly mate to make even more pigeons.
Apologia: I have repeatedly neglected to mention this but for the past several months yours truly has been blogging for something called Great History. If interested, go to greathistory.com and look for me under American History.
Hays, Kansas. For the past week I have taken longish bike rides out into the country. Since there are no trails here one must either negotiate the stop-and-go city streets, risk life and limb on the highways, or strike off on the rural roads. No brainer. The locals call 'em "gravel roads" but they are actually dirt roads, sandy and as hard as concrete in the summer sun. Unlike the back roads I grew up with, which were yellowish, these out here on the high and dry plains are chalkish. My bike tires quickly turn white after only a few yards.
On the southern heights above town, out by "Sentinel Hill" (soldiers stood watch here to warn the fort of Indian attacks), one can see for miles and miles in any direction. And with no trees or other obstructions, the sky is a beautiful open book. If a thunderstorm is brewing three counties west, you know it. Rain fifty miles south? Easy to see and up go the car windows. Cold front from the north? Plenty of lead time to chop more logs. I love it. Weather Channel? Ha! Don't need no fancy folks a thousand miles away in fancy clothes pointing at fancy radars and fancy Doppler's to tell me what's cookin' out here.
And something else: Nothing like a storm cell thirty miles wide and a towering thunderhead seven miles tall to make you feel small as an atom and put life into perspective. Vanity and large egos cannot survive the Big Sky. Maybe that is why I value the folks out here so much.
There are dumb people who are smart enough to realize they are dumb (construction sites, college campuses, assembly lines, taxi cabs, and 7-11s are filled with this category of folks).
after thirty years of dog-like obedience is a gold watch, death from cancer two years after retirement and their name misspelled in the local obit.
