On the road to the Little Apple
It takes around 11 hours to drive from Los Lunas, New Mexico, to the “Little Apple” – Manhattan, Kansas. A brand new baby boy provides plenty of motivation for two excited grandparents.
The vast majority of the route to Kansas consists of two-lane ribbons of asphalt that stretch through northeastern New Mexico, the panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma, and then the big drink of water that is Kansas. The Heartland.
One becomes aware of a slow change in topography as the craggy mesas of New Mexico give way to vast fields of corn and sorghum that dominate the land all the way to the horizon.
I don’t know who coined the term “flyover states.” I doubt that the business of show has much to do in the heartland other than visit briefly for a film such as “Field of Dreams.”
Of course my favorite town name on our long route was Liberal, Kansas. I sincerely doubt one would discover many folks of the political liberal persuasion in Liberal, but one can stop over and visit a replica of Dorothy’s farmhouse from “The Wizard of Oz.” So I guess there is show biz out there in the cornfields.
Tiny hamlets sit astride laser straight state roads. Tall grain elevators dominate the center of small Oklahoma towns where all that corn gets processed. The roads leading in and out of these towns are filled with all manner of large trucks carrying the commerce of a nation.
The familiar green of the John Deere Co. dominates the roadside. Even in a state with such a robust agriculture industry as Georgia, I have never seen such huge farm equipment. The enormous combines look as if the creators of “Star Wars” designed the vehicles. Some are so tall they require an embedded stepladder to gain the driver’s area.
Heading toward Manhattan, we approached Dodge City from the south. I thought of all those cowboys herding cattle up from Texas back in the day. I imagined how hot, tired, and thirsty they were for the relatively sophisticated treats of the city that made Wyatt Earp famous. Indeed, we turned on Wyatt Earp Boulevard as we continued east. The city border was dominated by a stunning sculpture of a group of cowboys on horseback. I got a coffee at a Dodge City Mcdonalds. No horses or cowboys were present.
John Steinbeck wrote a book titled, “Travels with Charley.” I have read and reread this book. There is something so exhilarating about the open road, and Steinbeck and his faithful dog travel this nation offering wry commentary on the United States of his time. I get it.
I could offer an entire thesis on the myriad of ways Americans pronounce their cities, counties, and locales. Georgia with its “Cairo” pronounced as the syrup and not the legendary city of the Pharaohs. Taliaferro County pronounced not as the original Italian (means iron cutter), but Anglicized (and I opine, very badly) to rhyme with the musical comedy “Oliver.” “Somewhere in Salinas, Lord, I let her slip away …” from “Me and Bobby Mcgee” by Kris Kristofferson, made famous by Texas blues chanteuse Janis Joplin.
In the great song, “Salinas” is pronounced Sah-lee-nas. Not so in Kansas, Steinbeck fans!
In the heartland they pronounce it Sah – l(eye) – ness, as in the late shock jock Don Imus. When informed of this, my response was one word: No.
A change in the weather paved the way for a lovely, but long, drive back to New Mexico after all the grandbaby hugs and lullabies I could squeeze into a week. Dodge City waved as we passed, and Liberal, Kansas, sat silently by the road.
We were somewhere between a cornfield and a sorghum patch when we encountered a fairly large contingent of motorcycle riders, perhaps near a hundred. They were parked beside the road in front of an abandoned auto repair shop and the entire area was ablaze in Confederate flags and other banners proclaiming firearms and America.
I saw only one political sign the entire trip and that was in a yard back in Manhattan, Kansas. The motorcycle heraldry on display in the center of this peaceful land was jarring, and for me a bit frightening. I wondered where they were headed. I wondered about their lives, their families, and their dreams.
We continued our journey toward the New Mexico border and home.
I still say that the two-lane road is the best way to see America. There’s plenty to celebrate, to ponder, and to observe.
Oh, and one can still get a mighty fine cup of coffee at a down-on-its-luck truck stop just outside of Minneola, Kansas. Wave when we pass each other. Former Roman Harry Musselwhite is the author of “Martin the Guitar,” co-creator of “The Dungball Express” podcast and is an
award-winning filmmaker.