Kansas

With a bit of imagination and a lot of techno know-how, that's me to the right being nailed in the knot by a blinding bolt, courtesy of the old Abolition fanatic, John Brown. Love him or loath him, "Old Osawatomie" is one of our things here in Kansas. This past week, readers may have noticed a preponderance of stuff from the Sunflower State. For all our readers beyond the borders of Kansas (and that's about 99% of you), please be patient. This is Kansas Week. Kansas was born in violence and reared in bloodshed. For the first twenty years of its existence, Kansas as a political experiment was often in doubt. Missouri Border Ruffians, Missouri Bushwhackers, Missouri bandits, and home-grown Indians gave the new state fits and at times threatened to shoot down the 34th star altogether. Now, while I wouldn't want to relive those terrible times it does make for exciting reading. As anyone who knows us knows, Deb and I are pretty passionate about the state's history. I am a native; she is a transplant (Virginia). Together, we have discovered that our state's history is second to none.

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Debbie Daily

Washington--This week's "Pioneer Spirit Award" goes to several Seattle Sals. Apparently, the traffic there is so bad that three women recently gave birth while stuck in traffic. From the Associated Press comes the story of Liz Kirkman, who would have been right at home in any Conestoga crossing the plains. "Once I was in the moving car, I was like 'Uh-oh," Kirkman, 28, said. "I got this urge to push." Finally she propped her leg up on the dashboard and delivered Juliet, her seventh child, as her husband drove in the car pool lane. Seven? You Go Girl! Nebraska--A tragic traffic accident near North Platte in 2005 has led to multiple lawsuits. A terrific cloud of dirt blew across I-80 resulting in a multi-car pileup with several fatalities and serious injuries. Winds were gusting at 30 to 50 mph when the accident occurred. As a native Easterner, this is a story I would never have understood until I moved West. We just don't have dust storms in the Blue Ridge Mountains. In the Plains States, however, this can obviously get pretty serious. During the Dust Bowl of the 1930's (above), dirt from Kansas obscured stoplights in New York City. Kansas dust was even found on the decks of aircraft carriers in the Atlantic Ocean. South Dakota--Legislators in Pierre are debating what to do with the proceeds from the sale of the state's cement plant. One man wants to build three power lines across the state that would make South Dakota a leader in the export of wind energy. Okay, I know that I'm no scientist, but the above items would indicate to me that there already exists some pretty substantial wind power in Nebraska and Kansas and I don't think they or the surrounding states are going to buy more. And, power lines across South Dakota? Have you ever driven across South Dakota? If they pull this off, those lines will be the biggest tourist attraction since Deadwood. Oregon--The state legislature convening in Salem has been asked to crack down on birdseed. Well, maybe I'm a bit behind. . . . Did they finally legalize marijuana in Oregon?

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A news item that appeared around the world this morning . . .

Colorado Countdown: Mile-High Headache

(Topeka, Kansas, February 3, 2007, AP) The Kansas Committee for Reclaiming What is Rightfully Ours (RETAKE) announced at a press conference here today that its organization is complete and its goals have been set. The purpose of the ad hoc group, said committee chairwoman, Deb Goodrich, is to reclaim most of eastern Colorado, including Denver and Colorado Springs. From 1854 to 1861 much of what is today the Centennial State was Kansas Territory.

"Our researchers have strong reason to believe that the handover in 1861 was an illegal act that will not stand up under close court scrutiny," Goodrich announced to a crowded room of reporters during the morning press conference. "We think that it can be reversed, even after 150 years, much as many Indian claims are resolved."

Goodrich, who is also an author and lecturer, said that the group has several lawyers working on the matter and a number of prominent individuals are lending their support, including descendants of James Denver (right), a former Kansas governor and one of the men who founded the city of Denver.

"We hope, and we strongly believe," added historical adviser, Tom Goodrich, in a telephone interview from his Topeka office, "that much of Colorado east of the mountains will be returned to its rightful owner--Kansas--in time to celebrate our sesquicentennial on January 29, 2011. Since the loss of Colorado was never submitted to a vote of the people when it was taken from Kansas upon statehood in 1861, and has thus never been legally ratified, we feel that the officials at the time had no authority to make such a transfer. We therefore believe that the whole transaction is null and void. We are confident the court will feel the same way."

Goodrich noted that when the transfer is complete Kansas will become the fifth largest state, geographically. With a laugh, Goodrich also admitted that what would be left of Colorado after 2011 "will rank right down there in size with Vermont, Delaware and Rhode Island. The state's population will be dead last."

"There will also be some name changes," said Goodrich. "Colorado Springs, Colorado, after 2011 will be known as "Kansas Springs, Kansas."

For more information on RETAKE, contact Deb Goodrich: Etalgoodrich@aol.com

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Double-Take

The Art of History

The noise down the marble hall faded away. My classmates, like chattering sparrows, were flitting elsewhere--to dolls, to dioramas, to dinosaur bones. I stood alone, transfixed, silently staring at the huge old print. Once a year my eyes searched every terrible scene and every horrible detail; over to the naked, writhing bodies and the poor devils who were being scalped, though yet alive; beyond to the swarming Sioux coming up from the valley, as if there were not already more than enough to finish the job; to the front where half-breeds dressed like white men had joined the party.

But though my eyes might drift from horror to horror, always, again and again, they returned to the center of the painting. There . . . to him . . . No, there to ME . . . that was ME in the center . . . ME with the slashing sword and the empty pistol that I was using like a club . . . ME fighting to the finish . . . ME about to die . . . ME . . . bound for glory. Me! My God! What a grand and heroic exit for ME . . . the ten-year-old weenie and coward!

Every demon every little boy ever faced was on display there in that painting--fear, cowardice, shame, isolation, loneliness, hopelessness, foolishness, pain, torture, death--all was there ready for childish inspection. How would we react in a similar situation? We feared the truth. "But my God," we thought to ourselves, "please let us go down just as he--fighting, on our feet, defying death, brave to the end, a source of everlasting pride and inspiration to our families, our friends, our selves."

It has been called the most recognized painting in American history. I think it true. And judging by the number of fellows roughly my age who read and write books on the Little Bighorn battle, this work might also be the most influential piece of American art, as well. It is not the best executed painting; it is not the most imaginative; the colors are dull and drab; its historical accuracy is questionable. And yet, I dare say that the painting captures far more than the artist ever intended.

More than any book or movie I have read or seen, this 1895 painting by Cassilly Adams captures the horrible essence of Indian warfare. This is not the anemic Cowboy & Indian stuff of Grade B Westerns where NO ONE ever bled and where no one ever messed their pants or breathed the death rattle. No, at a glance one can see that this is a fight to the finish. It captures the hopelessness; it captures the courage in the face of impending doom; it captures the refusal to go down. In short, this magnificent painting in more than a history lesson; it is a commentary on war. Glorious as it might seem to a child's simple mind, the work is an anti-war statement just as surely as is The Thin Red Line or Slaughterhouse Five.

Fifty years later, I still stare at the image. Now, however, I sit rather than stand. I was given an original print by Deb several Christmases back and it now hangs (rather grotesquely) on our living room wall. And I must say, after fifty years, I am still horrified . . . and mesmerized.

Art truly is a powerful medium. Drink it down.

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Toyz For Boyz


To purchase, Visit Historynetshop.com and click on "Gift Ideas."

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Photo of the Day

Sioux reinforcements en route to the Little Bighorn, June, 1876

The Human Shooting Gallery

Kansas, August 21, 1863: During the Lawrence Massacre, when rebel raiders knocked on their doors, women employed almost any device to save their homes . . . and very often the men hiding in rooms just above or cellars just below. But as often as not, no amount of tears or lies would suffice, and a home was put to the torch anyhow. And, as soon as the bushwhackers had done their work and moved on, behind them women and children rushed with quilts and slopping buckets of water in an attempt to smother the flames. As was commonly the case, however, after gamely battling and subduing a blaze, the soot-smeared ladies looked up only to find another squad approaching with the same intent.

"Put that out if you can!" snapped an exasperated guerrilla to a woman who had just stopped one fire. When he had gone, she did just that.

Those at the home of John Thornton were more persistent. When the straw tick they ignited was doused, the rebels returned and started it again, but this time Nancy Thornton was forced to leave. In a short while, when the husband too appeared and raced out the back, the guerrillas were ready and waiting. A chunk of hot lead burned into Thornton’s hip. He turned and fled back into the house. Again the heat became unbearable, and when he reappeared another shot was fired, this time blowing his knee apart. Once more, and followed by his screaming wife, Thornton limped back into his blazing home.

Blinded by smoke, the wounded man soon came out again, leaning on Nancy for support. One of the raiders rode up, took aim, but just before he could jerk the trigger the Kansan lunged for his leg. Thornton was unable to reach the weapon, however, and a slug at pointblank smashed into his eye and exploded out the cheek. Another gun went off and a ball entered the victim's back, ripped down the spine, then tore into a buttock. Still, Thornton clung to his attacker. Frustrated and out of ammunition, the bushwhacker tried again.

"I can kill you," he growled as he used the heavy revolver like a hammer to bash again and again the head of the struggling man. At last John Thornton lost his grip and released the leg. But he wasn’t dead.

"Stand back and let me try," yelled an impatient guerrilla nearby. "He is the hardest man to kill I ever saw."

With that, the enraged bushwhacker let fly every ball in his weapon, striking the target one, two, three times. Thornton stumbled a few steps, then collapsed in a heap. Still doubtful, one of the rebels reared his horse to stomp the body.

"For God’s sake," shrieked the hysterical wife as she grabbed the horse’s bridle, "let him alone, he’s killed now."

Satisfied, though amazed at the time and energy needed to do it, the men finally moved on.

To preserve it for burial, Nancy managed to drag the body away from the fire to an open space across the street. There, she saw that her dead husband had a wound for almost any given spot and was literally soaked in blood from head to toe. Looking closer though, the woman saw something else--John Thornton was still alive!

Historical Postscript

Many of John and Nancy Thornton's neighbors were not so lucky. Shot, stabbed, drowned, strangled, suffocated, incinerated--150 men did not escape the awful revenge of Missouri on that fateful "Black Friday." And, in more ways than one, John and Nancy Thornton may have envied them. Terribly maimed and disfigured by his ordeal, Thornton spent the rest of his life as a pitiful freak, slithering along the sidewalks of Lawrence on his hands and knees like some crippled amphibian.

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Book Review

Tom and I are well-acquainted with the hordes of reenactors who go to great (if not borderline insane) lengths to achieve authenticity. Those who specialize in the Indian Wars are going to love The U. S. Army in the West, 1870-1880: Uniforms, Weapons and Equipment by Douglas McChristian. This is probably not a volume the casual observer of history would be interested in; history geeks, however, will be enamored. McChristian is a retired historian from the National Park Service and there is no doubt about his knowledge and expertise. Heavy on illustrations, his book presents in detail the arms, accouterments, and uniforms of the post-Civil War army. Of course, many of these items are exactly the same as during the Civil War, but there is innovation during this time as the Army is pushed and shoved and dragged into the modern era. Numerous full-page photos show the army in the field and bring all these details into the perspective of a frontier soldier's daily life. Some details are quite un-glorious, like General Crook's men butchering a mule on the "Starvation March," or Private Earl Smith in full regalia. (Smith is one of my favorite characters from Tom's Scalp Dance--sort of the "Beetle Bailey" of the western army. We'll devote a blog to him soon.) It's possible to earn a minor in military affairs just by perusing the photos and captions. (University of Oklahoma Press, 315 pages, softcover)

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Photo of the Day






"Wild West magazine? Why, right over yonder... first row, top shelf!"

A Damn Fine Shot

On a cold March morning in 1862, Abraham Ellis (left) lay curled in his warm bed on the second floor of the Aubrey hotel. Stopping in the village the night before, Ellis was returning from a visit to Fort Leavenworth where he had petitioned the military for protection of the Kansas border. Although little had occurred thus far, Abe and other Kansans were concerned that after the jayhawking forays into Missouri of the year before, the coming spring would witness vengeful rebel bushwhackers attempting to do the same in Kansas.

Before the Civil War Ellis had been a Kansas school superintendent and in 1860 one of the instructors in his system had been a tall, fair-haired boy from Ohio named Will Quantrill. Abe had taken a shine to the good-natured youth. The two spent many a night talking over subjects serious and not so serious. Since that time, however, his former protégé had made a name for himself in western Missouri as a leader of "regulators"--men who took the law into their own hands in an effort to curb the robbing, arson and murder committed by Kansas jayhawkers--that so wracked the region.

It was just such bands, led by his old friend Quantrill, that Ellis and other Kansans were worried about. But the officers at Leavenworth had assured Abe that there was no cause for alarm; large bodies of Union troops would be constantly passing up and down the border and the Missourians would be compelled to stay on their side of the line.

And so, as the golden glow of dawn spread across the horizon this cold morn, Abe Ellis lay snug and secure in his warm bed at Aubrey, resting up for the final leg of his long journey home.

Suddenly, the peace was shattered by the sound of galloping hooves.

"I was awoke by the cry ‘The cutthroats are coming'," remembered Ellis. "Before I could dress the house was surrounded & they were yelling & swearing like devils."

As Abe and the other boarders in the hotel madly tried to dress, the thirty or so guerrillas opened fire on the building. With balls whistling through the rooms, several men panicked and ran into the street. A hail of bullets quickly mowed them down.

When the firing slackened, Ellis cautiously peered out his window. Directly below, he saw a man sitting in his saddle. The man held a pistol. . . .

William Quantrill (right) was one of only a handful of men that this historical researcher has found who could do one thing, and do it very, very well--he could hit what he was aiming at in a life-and-death situation. With noise and confusion all around, Quantrill caught movement from the corner of his eye--something above him at a window. Without a word, the guerrilla wheeled in his saddle and sent a ball whizzing in that direction.

And that was the last thing Abe Ellis would see this morning. The bullet shattered the glass and smashed straight into his forehead.

When the bushwhackers stormed into the building soon after, they discovered that the body on the second floor was yet breathing. More than that, they also saw that, despite the horrible wound, the victim was still conscious.

"If you have any money, God damn you, give it to me in a minute or I’ll blow you to Hell," growled one of the excited guerrillas.

Already blown half way to hell as it was, Ellis feebly handed over $250. When he was then ordered to the first floor, the wounded man somehow managed to crawl down the stairs. Once there, he was helped to a chair.

Shortly, Quantrill entered the room. Startled to recognize his old friend, the partisan chief grabbed a cloth and some water, then washed the blood from Abe’s face. And as he did, the young man sadly noted that he was "damned sorry" for what he had done; that of all the men in Kansas, Ellis was one of the last he wanted to harm. After promising to safeguard his old friend’s property, Quantrill led his men back to Missouri. Except for shooting his best--and perhaps only--friend in the state, Quantrill’s first raid into Kansas was a perfect success.

After fainting away, Ellis was carried outdoors and placed on the frozen ground. There he remained for several hours and everyone who passed swore that he was dead. And yet, in spite of the hideous wound to the head--as well as nearly freezing to death--Abe Ellis made a speedy and miraculous recovery. From that day forth, however, he was known throughout Kansas as "Bullet Hole" Ellis.

Historical Postscript

Until the day he died, Abe Ellis had an difficult time keeping the hole in his head free of dirt and debris. Reports state that each day Ellis used a jigger of whisky for the purpose. Reports do not state how the whisky was used, however. Did Ellis pour the liquid into a shot glass then place the tumbler to his forehead and joggle it into the hole? Or did the suffering man simply drink down the liquid to steady his hand, then fish out the mess with a finger or stick? How Ellis performed the task shall remain a riddle for all time to come.

Coming Tomorrow!
If You think Abe Ellis had it tough, check out John "The Human Shooting Gallery" Thornton in tomorrow's blog.

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Debbie Daily

Colorado--Lawmakers hope to transform the state's "Make My Day" law into the "Make My Day Better" law. (Could you make this stuff up?) The law allows people to use deadly force to protect themselves in their homes without being prosecuted. Beefing up this law is important, promoters insist, and would extend the use of deadly force to businesses and automobiles. The case which sparked the debate was a Denver businessman who blew away a burglar inside his restaurant. The business owner had to stand trial for first-degree assault. If folks just watched Gunsmoke every morning, so much of this could be avoided. I'll guarantee you that if Miss Kitty had shot someone breaking into the Long Branch, not only would she NOT be charged but Marshal Dillon would have been grateful for the support. Nebraska--Having only violence on the football field to worry about in the Cornhusker State, the legislature is turning its attention to the state song. Seems "Beautiful Nebraska" is old hat and a bill has been introduced to change the tune to a more upbeat, country rhythm. Tune in to National Public Radio and decide for yourself which best represents Nebraska: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=7085644. Kansas--There is no news to report from the Kansas Statehouse. When General George A. Custer left the Sunflower State for the Little Bighorn in 1876, he addressed the legislature and instructed them to take no action until he returned. We Kansans are forever indebted to him.

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Photo of the Day

"Home, Home Under the Range"

Amazing

Yakking with someone in St. Louis last week, I mentioned that Deb and I planned on the morrow to take in both Jefferson Barracks and Grant's Farm, each a national historic site and each a place we had somehow managed to miss over our extended lifetimes. We did make Grant's ("Gateway to the West," 1.26.07) but Jefferson will have to hold for another day. But anyway, the individual in question admitted that, life-long history-lovin' St. Louisianan that he was, each place was a place he had never visited. I was amazed. I'm always amazed. In Washington, we spoke once with a historian who--although a D. C. denizen of long-standing--confessed that he had never been to Ford's Theater. Considering that Ford's just happens to be the scene where one of the most significant events in American history occurred, I found that even more amazing. Our friend and fellow Philadelphian, Carol Neumann, said she was stopped recently by a man on a downtown street and asked, in that inimitable Philly accent, "Hey, Yo! Whez da Liberty Bell at?" I am amazed right off the chart.

Yes, I am always amazed by these comments from people who have visited Tombstone, the Little Bighorn and even such remote and inaccessible sites as the "Hole-in-the-Wall," yet have never found the time to visit a significant spot just a stone's throw from their digs. Amazed, that is, until I consider myself.

In the new issue of Wild West Magazine is a nifty piece on the Dalton Gang. I can't wait to read it. Even if one knows nothing at all about the Daltons, this bunch of bank robbing brothers have name recognition that ranks right up there with the James, the Youngers, and the Clantons. And yet, while I have been to Northfield, Minnesota (scene of the James/Younger demise), and Tombstone, Arizona (scene of the Clanton eclipse), I am ashamed to say that I have never been to Coffeyville, Kansas (scene of the Dalton departure), even though it is right here in my own home state.

Now, unlike the fellows in St. Louis, D. C. and Philadelphia that I mentioned, Coffeyville is not just around the block from my home here in Topeka. It is 150 miles away. But the fact is, I have been in that area many times. I suppose we all travel under the premise that "Hey, what's the rush? I have plenty of time. It's right here! I'll eventually get there." Baloney! As I write, I also vow that the next time I pass within 50 miles of Coffeyville--regardless of the rush--I am driving over, having a quiet cup of coffee, then visiting one of the most significant Wild West sites on the map, Coffeyville, Kansas--scene of the Dalton defeat.

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Scripts that Rock!

Tombstone

(Scene: Saloon. Early morning. Quiet. In the all-night poker contest about to be concluded, Ed Bailey and friends have been taken to the cleaners.)

Ed Bailey: That's it, Holliday. Are you in or out?

Doc Holliday: Five hundred. Must be a peach of a hand. (to Kate) Oh, thank you, darlin'. Kate! You're not wearing a bustle. How lewd.

Ed: Come on, Holliday, you in or out, goddammit?

Doc: Why, Ed Bailey, you look like you're just about ready to burst.

Ed: Come on! Come on, show!

Doc: Well, I suppose I'm deranged, but I guess I'll just have to call. Cover your ears, darlin'. . . (shows hand) Isn't that a daisy?

Ed: Why, you son-of-a-bitch!

Bystander: Damn, Bailey, just settle down!

Ed: Shut up! (to Doc) Take your money and get out,'cause I'm tired of listenin' to your mouth.

Doc: Why, Ed Bailey, are we cross?

Ed: Them guns don't scare me.' Cause without them guns you ain't nothin' but a skinny lunger.

Doc: Ed, what an ugly thing to say. I abhor ugliness. Does this mean we're not friends anymore? You know, Ed, if I thought you weren't my friend, I just don't think I could bear it (places his pistols on the table). There. Now we can be friends again.

(Ed jumps Doc but soon discovers that the card-slick has more up his sleeve than aces. A dagger puts Ed out of his misery)

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Double-Take














Bank at Coffeyville, Kansas: Then and Now (scene of the Dalton Gang robbery, 1892)

Kit Carson

In the 19th century, the frontiersman, Kit Carson, took over the mantle of Boone and Crockett and captured the imagination of the world. As Tom and I have discovered, and as anyone who has ventured into the American Southwest already knows, Kit Carson is everywhere. Counties, roads, lakes, art galleries, and taco stands bear his name. Who was the man who inspired such homage? Are the tales of his exploits truth or myth? Read Paul Andrew Hutton's article in the newest issue of Wild West to find the answer. An added bonus is the cover portrait of Carson (above) by Andy Thomas. Andy's artwork is very familiar to history enthusiasts along the Kansas/Missouri border, and with this latest issue of Wild West the rest of the country will have the opportunity to see why. Andy is a rising star who has painted numerous Civil War battles as well as scenes from the Old West, such as the famous shootout between Wild Bill Hickok and Dave Tutt (prints are on sale in the back of your magazine). My personal favorite is the burying of the saloon girl, "Final Farewell for a Soiled Dove." I asked Andy about his inspiration to paint Kit Carson:

The story of Carson's efforts to save Anna White refocused my interest in Carson and his character. I wanted to do a portrait of Carson in his prime and attired as he might have looked at the time. I didn't find any photos that fit the age I was wanting to show so I blended features from images of him as a young man and an older man. The reddish hair, blue eyes and ruddy complexion came from contemporary descriptions. I really wanted Carson to appear natural, vital and lifelike. As for the costume, a fringed leather overshirt was appropriate for the age I show and I used Arapaho beadwork to adorn it since his first wife was Arapaho. The rifle is a Hawken.

It is an incredible painting by an incredible artist (when Tom first saw it, he thought it was a contemporary work). This is a magazine cover you may consider framing!

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The Thirty-Fourth Star

Back when some of my first books came out I had a chance to speak on the phone with many people from across the nation. Some were newspaper reporters and some were radio talk show hosts. When I told these people that I was a writer, they said "good." When I told them that I was a historical writer, they said "great." When I told them that I lived in Kansas . . . there was only silence. Though never said, it was obvious what they were thinking: "Kansas! Why don't you leave?" Usually I preempted my hosts' thought process by exclaiming that if one wants to paint, go to Paris; if one wants to compose music, try Vienna; but if one wants to write history, there is no better place on earth to be than Kansas. Although the state seems determined to forget its past, it's a hard task--Kansas history is everywhere.

I'm certainly no poet, but one day I was ruminating on why my state's history is so special and here's what I scratched out:

Kansas has Coronado, Lewis and Clark, Kit Carson, and Fremont.

Kansas has John Brown, Jeb Stuart, Abraham Lincoln, John Wilkes Booth, Horace Greeley, Robert E. Lee, William Tecumseh Sherman, and Phil Sheridan.

Kansas has Custer, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Ben Holliday, and Cyrus K. Holliday.

Kansas has the Bills, both Buffalo and Wild.

Kansas has the Daltons, Frank and Jesse James, Bonnie and Clyde, Amelia Earhart, Carrie Nation and Susan B. Anthony.

Kansas has Dodge City, Hays City, Ellsworth City, Abilene City, Wichita City, Denver City, and Kansas even has Kansas City City.

Kansas has the Chisholm Trail, the Santa Fe Trail, the Butterfield Trail, the Pikes Peak Gold Rush Trail, and the trail of all trails, the Oregon Trail.

Kansas has Cheyenne, Sioux, Arapaho, Kiowa, Comanche, Apache, Delaware, Pottawatomie, Sac, Fox, Shawnee, Osage, and, of course, we have the Kansas, or Kaw, Indians.

Kansas has Black Kettle, Dull Knife, Little Wolf, Satanta, Roman Nose, and Red Cloud.

Kansas has Fort Hays, Fort Scott, Fort Wallace, Fort Dodge, Fort Leavenworth, Fort Riley, Fort Harker, and Fort Lincoln.

Kansas has the Pottawatomie Massacre, the Appanoose Massacre, the Marais des Cygnes Massacre, the Lawrence Massacre, the Verdigris Massacre, the Mine Creek Massacre, the Marmaton Massacre, the Kidder Massacre, and massacre on massacre-–indeed, Kansas' state song might better be reworded, "Home, Home on the Massacre."

Kansas has cowboys and Indians, Jayhawkers and Bushwhackers, Abolitionists and slavers.

Kansas has Indian wars, range wars, county seat wars, and, of course, Kansas has the Civil War.

So, the next time I hear someone slamming Kansas for its lack of blue lakes, towering mountains or white sand beaches, I'll just tell them: "We've got history . . . YOU can sort out the rest!"

Since writing the above, I have not changed my opinions on Kansas one whit. Kansas has forgotten more history than most states have made. Today is Kansas Day, the anniversary of statehood (January 29, 1861). School children will go to the capitol, eat birthday cake, tilt their heads up to stare into the wild face of John Brown in the statehouse murals (above), and read the names of freestate "martyrs" on the chamber walls. Kansas grows wheat, corn, cattle . . . and history. Indeed, here in Kansas, history is our greatest "crop."

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Double-Take
Denver, Colorado, c. 1890, and Denver today







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answer to yesterday's "Who Am I?": C) None of the above--An European bison, or Wisent.

Free . . . and Other Four-Letter Words

Warning: Graphic Language Ahead! "Deadwood" Fans Continue . . . All Others, Tune In Tomorrow.

As noted in past blogs ("The Hitchhiker," 9.22.06; "Thumbs Up," 12.16.06), back when dinosaurs ruled the earth, I used to hitchhike a lot. Almost every mile I spent thumbing was from necessity, however, and not some airy impulse to see the world for free. Consequently, most of my experiences were seen through the filter of trial and travail, not adventure. Back when I was twenty-something, myself and a friend took the Amtrak to Las Vegas. We had visions of instant wealth. My buddy, fresh out of state prison, had a sure-fire method for breaking the roulette bank at any casino entered and I was just naive and desperate enough to give it a whirl.

Forty-eight hours after we reached Las Vegas, we left Las Vegas--with our thumbs out. Because it was much quicker to thumb back in shame solo, we separated at Hoover Dam.

"Kansas? Dat's a mother-f--in' flat state, ain't it? Ha, ha. S--t, I go f--in' nuts out there, with all them tornadoes and s--t. . . . What you mother-f--kers do out there beside f--k and drink? Holy s--t, I haf to mainline if I lived out there, ha."

My new ride was a Puerto Rican chap from New Jersey. I'll call him Carlos. He was a likeable enough fellow, upbeat in every respect. But he never stopped talking. And he seemingly could not string four words together without two of them being extremely vulgar profanities. Although I cussed and everyone I knew cussed, we did not cuss all the time. If uttered at all, curse words should be used like hand and arm movements when speaking; for emphasis only. Perhaps Carlos was emphasizing everything. Carlos' continual talking and cussing were already bad enough, but he insisted on looking at me while he talked and cussed.

"S--t! You see that good-lookin' b--ch? G-d d--n! Mother-f--ker!! MOTHER F--KER!!! S--t, that momma good-lookin.' Man, she f--k your mother-f--kin' head off then screw it back on and f--k you some more. I'm getting a f--kin' knot just thinkin' bout that sweet whore. S--t! F--K!! That was one good-lookin' b--ch, wasn't it? Wasn't that a good-lookin' f--kin' b--ch?"

After fifty or so miles of this, I asked Carlos if he'd like for me to drive. I didn't mind driving, I told him, and I was a very good driver. I was greatly relieved when my host agreed, since I had visions of Hoxie carnies and Denver drunks (former bad rides) dancing in my head. And thus, from Kingman, Arizona, to Oklahoma City--where I planned to get out--I was resolved to hold my position at the helm and never relinquish it to this chattering, profane madman, no matter the trial to come. Cactus Junction, Skunk Town, Lizard City, Dirtville–-mile after mile we drove on through the desert with Carlos babbling away most blasphemously.

Although I was driving as fast as I possibly could, there must have been at least fifty "mother-f--kers," "c--k-s--kers" and "son-of-a-b---hes" per mile, with hundreds of "s--ts," "f--ks" and "d--ns" tossed in for good measure. I swore to myself several times that day that I would never ever cuss again.

Late that night we stopped in Gallup, New Mexico, for something to eat. It happened to be a Mexican café and we both ordered chili verde. "Mucho calor," said the waiter. That was an understatement. The food was very hot going in and, as events would prove the following day, it was very hot going out. Somewhere in central New Mexico, Carlos mercifully dozed off. I suppose he was even cussing in his dreams since he was laughing a lot in his sleep. Although Carlos had been revolting in the highest degree to my ear drums, he had nevertheless kept me awake. Now I was on my own. I began the fight to stay alive. After nearly twenty hours of almost nonstop driving and three million vile cuss words, I was fairly exhausted.

Traveler's Rest Lodge, Cozy Time Hotel, Sweet Dreams Motel, Slumber Inn-–every sign our headlights lit up seemed to mock my condition. Perhaps with the exception of the night I conked off on guard duty in the military, this keelhaul may have been my hardest night ever to stay awake.

When we reached Amarillo at dawn, we pulled over to a rest stop. Carlos was having a tough time with the "mucho calor" of the night before. Hardly had he closed the door and raced to the restroom, than I laid my head against the window and promptly fell asleep. I've always been a restless sleeper and during college this quickly developed into insomnia. But on this bright Texas dawn, I was out like a light. When I was startled awake again by Carlo's return, my deep slumber might have lasted five seconds or five years; so addled was I that I could not rightly tell. I suppose it was actually five minutes. At that moment, I would have gladly traded a year or two of my life for five minutes more.

"Hey man, wake the f--k up! It's a new day, a new f--kin' day," my bright and rested companion laughed. "You want me to drive?"

Tired though I was, my survival instinct was still in tact and I continued to drive the next two or three hundred miles to Oklahoma City, with Carlos cussing every f--kin' klick of the way.

Moral: Though it may seem so, hitchhiking ain't "free."

__________________________________________________

Who am I?


A) American Buffalo

B) American Bison

C) None of the above

(answer in tomorrow's blog)