There would've been no 'Chuckie the Kid'

The world never ceases to amaze me. And I’m not a big fan of the word ‘amaze’ so you gotta give that phrase some value.
I took a post-Thanksgiving tryptophan-shrouded trip to Wichita, Kansas to a place called Friends University for an NAIA national football playoff game. At 53-36, they weren’t very “Friendly”.
But it wasn’t the game that has me a little dreamy this weekend. It was the trip through eastern Kansas, specifically the El Dorado area.
I’m not sure I’ve been through this part of the country before, and I’m sure it’s an age thing, because I think after five decades, I’ve finally found my age and am acting more like it.
But I was almost mesmerized by the amber fields of December grass that carpets both sides of Interstate 35 running southwest out of Lawrence or even Topeka toward the oil fields of El Dorado and Wichita.
Oh, and don’t go easily into that area. It’s remarkably undisturbed except for the “pumpjacks” spread strategically around the fields. Pumpjacks are the small oil pump looking things that are actually pumping shallow crude oil through an underground system of piping to a holding facility. Or they are pumping water from an underground aquifer for irrigating the fields.
The point here is make sure you have some gas because, if you can’t go an hour, you could be in trouble.
This land, as I said, is incredibly natural with very few trees and, in some cases, vast openings that allow you to see 10-15 miles on either side. The only deviations are cracks in the earth where water has created a creek and some greenery grows along the side. There’s the occasional homestead but it’s well-placed sufficiently away from the noise of western civilization.
It made me wonder about days before me when lawmen rode beautiful animals across those very same plains in search of riff-raff of the time all carrying Colts and Winchesters. I wondered how I would fare in those days. I’ve always thought I looked like a dufus in a cowboy hat and I pretty much suck at poker, so I probably would have been one of those guys in a black vest and spectacles and a bow tie that printed a one-page paper and sold flour and chocolates to make ends meet.
After my daydream into 18th century Kansas and the depression that came with knowing I would’ve been no Wyatt Earp or Chuckie the Kid, I came back to the gorgeousness of what was escorting me to the last football game of the season for the William Penn Statesmen.
I noticed that all the fencing was on the inside of what I’m sure was ATV or snowmobile trails, but these fences were all driven metal post fences. Nothing fancy, but they ran forever along the interstate at about a 50-yard setback. Other than that and the occasional single and double tower transmission lines, I was kept in awe of how natural it all was.
It came to mind that this really could be the Midwest’s Grand Canyon. No, it’s not a canyon, but it carries the same stop and look appeal. When you drive through it you can’t help but be distracted by it. An occasional tree has survived in the distance or along one of the cracks in the pasture. The cattle is brown and/or black and usually acres and acres from the homestead.
The terrain rolls gently to several decent peaks and valleys uncommon to Iowa because Iowa’s is usually covered with timber and roads.
I watched out the window with my head gently laying on the glass for close to 45 minutes. John was driving and I kept hinting he should look as I was trying to narrate, but it was very windy and rainy so probably best he just stay in his lane.
I can see where people who paint landscapes get their motivation and ambition. If I had a scribble book, I would have tried something bad and it wouldn’t have worked because I can’t draw a stick figure without an eraser and don’t give me crayons or fingerpaints – you have to really be into abstract expressionism to get any value of my coloring.
This little slice of earth forced me to realize how young we all really are even though we may feel old. The things we’ve done to this blue and white stone are incredibly exciting, while at the same time overwhelmingly sad. It’s crazy with me. I love architecture and steel and downtown trips to Chicago or New York City, but I’m just as moved by these organic plains.
It makes me a little sappy to grow old. I haven’t seen enough.
I guess I better get moving – but that’s Beside the Point.
Chuck Vandenberg is editor and co-owner of Pen City Current and can be reached at Charles.V@PenCityCurrent.com.