Kansas Leaves

The backyard in Olathe

November is my favorite time of year. No-one in this neighborhood of Olathe, KS, has done any raking yet, so the road and pavement are carpeted in yellow and brown leaves that fly up whenever a car drives past. The leaves have fallen fast here, on account of the wind, which sometimes shakes this house. We had a lot of thunderstorms in the Chicago suburbs, but these ones are different. The thunder isn’t so much a loud clap as it is a giant, murderous fox-gremlin screeching right outside your window because it knows you’re in there. 

The leaves have made their way inside the house, covering most of the kitchen floor. This is largely due to the hoarding tendencies of our kids and the false promise of using them for crafts. Exactly one leaf has been turned into a Christmas tree, with pom-poms glued onto the points. The rest of them are just getting crushed into crumbs under our feet. The kids have done a lot of art projects here, for several reasons. One is the availability of big, easy clean tables near the kitchen, meaning I can set them up with a project while I prepare our meals and feel like an accomplished mother and human. Secondly, the absence of carpet, so no major damage stressor (magic erasers and Goo Gone are travel cleaning kit staples for us, and their use has been minimal in the Olathe house—only one offending sticker). But mostly it is because Mabli has sprained her ankle and has to avoid being on it too much.

The pair of them were dancing to a busker, who was playing electric guitar to gospel tracks, at the Poseidon fountain in Kansas City. We’d just been to Buca di Beppo, where they’d gone through half a shaker of parmesan cheese, licking it off their plates behind tall menus. They have become very accustomed to sugar bribes this trip, and our trip into Kansas City was no different: hot chocolates and cake pops. All in all, they needed to burn off some energy, so even though it was dark and past their bedtimes we let them have a long dance session, spinning into people’s paths, swinging around lampposts along the main street, and jumping off the side of the fountain wall. Mabli misjudged one such jump, readjusted to prevent her face from hitting the concrete, and went over on her ankle. It was X-rayed the next day because she couldn’t walk on it and it was very swollen and bruised, but deemed just a sprain. She was climbing fences and hanging from the banister two days later. 

Assessing the Poseidon fountain

Kansas City is actually in Missouri. It is apparently known as the City of Fountains (more than any other city except Rome, didn’t you know), so we tried to visit as many as we could. We made it to three with water and another three without, barely making a dent in the two hundred the city has. It also has a lot of vibrant, quirky murals and nice parks. Mabli collected a bunch of leaves from the War Memorial water feature (not technically a fountain, I think) at Penn Valley Park. Another girl tried to join in, but her mother told her to stop because the maintenance man had said the water was full of harsh chemicals. The little girl ran on, dropping her leaves without drama. I tried to get Mabli to stop with this logic, but she just took them to a drinking fountain (also not included in the two hundred count), rinsed them and shook them a bit, then announced, “Now they’re fine” and stuffed them into my hand. 

 

Me following Mabli around at the war memorial

I’ve been nervous to drive since my collision a month ago. I am currently an absolute nightmare to travel with, panicking over getting too close to trucks, checking our speed often, telling Owen to keep his eyes on the road and to generally watch out. In Olathe, there is a coffee shop a mile away from the house called Sweet Tee’s. While on Central Time, I have until 11am to myself before Owen starts work, and I try to get out of the house and write during that time. I wish I was an early riser but I just am not (though I am still trying!), so I always end up saving the travel time by driving. It was good practice for building up confidence, and always worth it to go there. It was always banging, no matter when I went. People having meetings there (the Olathe library staff were there the last time I went), teenage study groups, friends catching up, grandparents treating their grandchildren, new mums with babies. The coffee beans are roasted by one of the local policemen, and are really tasty. It’s a warm and brightly colored place, with rows of fun mugs hanging from the walls so you can pick your own. Nothing I would’ve expected from the font they used on their sign, which is usually my first filter for assessing a coffee shop.

A couple of nights later, newly emboldened to drive further, I go to get some groceries. Weekend wine is on the list, but the Whole Foods I am in only has beer. In Utah and Idaho, the state requires that alcohol be sold only in designated liquor stores (which are state-owned); other states we’ve been to require supermarkets to have a separate store for the sale of alcohol. I wonder if it’s the same here, but then I come across a beer display. Then I think it must be a demand thing, that perhaps Kansans just don’t think much of wine. This Whole Foods has a bigger essential oils and crystals section than I’ve seen anywhere else, though, so I’d be surprised. I ask the cashier and he tells me that, according to Kansas state law, alcohol over 3.2% ABV isn’t allowed to be sold anywhere in the store, only in liquor stores, it is just “near-beer” they sell there. Later, carrying a bottle of wine back from the liquor store through the dark carpark, I trip over a pothole. I try to adjust so I don’t smash the bottle, and twist my ankle on the way down. Luckily we have all the ice-packs and art projects I need.  

The weekend we leave Olathe, after a final pickup at Sweet Tee’s, we drive the full width of the state. First we go to Topeka, to visit the Brown vs. The Board of Education historic site, Monroe School, and learn that things were far more complex than I’d learned about for GCSE. The Monroe School was the black segregated school that the daughter of Oliver Brown attended, instead of her local school, which was white segregated. She never ended up going to the local school following desegregation, because she was too old by then. Brown was one of thirteen plaintiffs who filed a class action suit against the school board, coordinated by the NAACP. Darlene Brown was actually first alphabetically, not Oliver. It is overwhelming going into the school, imagining what life had been like for those elementary schoolchildren. The tiny benches and water fountains. 

Opposite Monroe School, Topeka

We drive on to Abilene, to visit Eisenhower’s Presidential Library. We love a good presidential library, although it is difficult to take much in with the kids at this age. I know the libraries (read: large museum and archives and sprawling rose gardens and reflection pools) are built in the hometowns of the presidents, but I still don’t fully understand how so many of their childhood homes are on the premises. Do they get moved, or are the other buildings nearby knocked down to make space for the libraries? And the childhood homes are often very small and simple. We only have forty-five minutes inside the museum—gone are the days when we’d spend all day wandering around them, reading everything. Mostly I go around with Emlyn, looking for pictures and models of vehicles. Mabli sits in the centre of the room, watching the video of Eisenhower’s speech about waging peace. Emlyn joins her after a while, after Mabli rushes over to tell him, “They say the name of your favorite show on adult TV!” They both wait patiently for Eisenhower to say “Miraculous” and also “Shrunken world” (because it reminds her of our shrink ray stories), cheering for the planes and tanks and explosions along the way. “Yay, weapons!”   

Mabli collects more leaves for our car from the gardens, after the pair of them have run up and down the accessibility ramp several dozen times, long enough for the final museum to close for the day. A woman wearing a pink crocheted hat is power-walking loops and stops to talk to us more than once, learning all about the town that Emlyn is building from rocks. She recommends the old town strip, with a retired strip of railroad and old train for us to play on. Then it is onward to Hays, for a bistro dinner. Final stop is Oakley, where we are staying for the night. Owen thought that the Annie Oakley Motel would be fun (“You know, Annie Oakley!”) but it is just a motel, exterior stucco walls painted a muted pink, lots of giant pick-up trucks in the carpark. The Buffalo Bill Cultural Center is nearby, but we don’t get to go in. We’ve been following some of his story around, it seems. He was born in Iowa, married in St. Louis, moved to Hays, was written into some novels at some point then performed in a melodrama in Chicago, established the town of Cody, Wyoming (we stayed near there and went in a couple of times), before gathering together his cowboy performing group and traveling. 

Garden at the Eisenhower Presidential Library

The Annie Oakley Motel has no breakfast, and we are not prepared either, so we find a drive-thru coffee and donuts place. It is the absolute end of the world because it is closed, so kids have to sadly make do with half an old chocolate muffin while Owen and I eat shriveled apples from the supermarket. We drive an hour through the plains for breakfast in Goodland, where the time zone changed without ceremony. We are now on Mountain Time, so my day starts at 10am. We both completely forget we were going to see the world’s biggest easel, and instead blast on through Kanorado and into Colorado, where the price of petrol immediately jumps up thirty cents. And there we are: not in Kansas anymore. 

We still have the leaves, though