Category: Stories From the Road

Nothing

I’ve wanted to go to Kansas for a long time. Part of me was sure that there was more to Kansas than the rumors allowed [see previous post]. Another part of me hoped that there really was nothing there except flat farm fields. I wanted to see who I was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by space, with nothing, only what was inside of me.  Turns out that I’ve been in flatter, more desolate places back in Illinois- lots of times. I guess I’ve already experienced “nothing,” but I didn’t recognize it because I never felt empty. 

Photo: Bowl Plaza, Lucas, KS 

Kansas

Kansas has a reputation of being “the most boring state to drive through.” I’m not sure what roads other people took when they decided this, but they must not have been the same roads I was on. My experience with Kansas so far is rolling hills, rock outcroppings like in pictures I’ve seen of the Dakotas, the otherworldly rock formations in Rock City, and- of course- the wind. How many other generations have climbed on these rocks, carved their initials into them, wondered who was there before them?

Photo: Rock City, near Minneapolis, KS

As the World Turns

The most memorable part of the migration was the movement of crane flocks in the sky. Maybe gliding on the wind, I saw several flocks in a slow swirl, like a pot of soup being stirred. When I close my eyes, I see cranes like an afterimage of the sun, each a tiny white V or T, slowly circling in a peaceful cosmos.

Photo: cranes near Kearney & Gibbon, NE

Ribbons of Birds

The cranes aren’t alone during their migration. Other birds also inhabit the area in great flocks. Many of these birds fly in intricate patterns like fishnets, lace, or elaborately strung pearl necklaces. At times, layers of birds fly past, each flock on its own plane, crossing over each other in a complex design.

Photo: Kearney, NE

Migration

My first destination was Nebraska, to see the crane migration. Flyers and guides listed parks and bird sanctuaries to visit, but the best views I found were by pulling over on the side of the road near farm fields or water. Near sunrise and sunset, waves of flocks would fly over. One black cloud after another levitated, then swooshed past in the formation of a stroke of paint from an enormous paintbrush.

Sometimes, all at once, birds flew in front of me, on each side, above me, and behind me. The area echoed with the chatter of sandhills- even when I couldn’t see them, I could hear them.

Photo: cranes at the Platte River, near Kearney and Gibbon, NE

Preservation Hall

If you’ve never been to Preservation Hall in New Orleans, you should go. The venue is about the size of two living rooms. Half of it holds the band and seating, which consists of cushions on the floor plus a few benches. [I was lucky enough to get a seat on a bench when I visited.] The other half is standing room only, with people crowded in like sardines. There are no microphones, no amps, no speakers. The time I went, before the band started playing, the employee who had taken our entrance fee came in to announce, “Everybody, turn off your phones. Put your phones away. Put your cameras away. For the next hour, it’s going to be a roomful of people enjoying great music.” The music is so close and immediate. Nowadays, it’s a rare experience.

Haven’t We Met Before?

I’ve never been out in public, seen another person, and felt like I was looking in the mirror. However, I can’t count the number of times people have said things to me like, “You look so familiar,” “You look just like someone I went to high school with,” “You look like someone I used to work with,” “Are you a professor? You look like a professor I’ve seen” [I’ve never been a professor], “You’re Amber’s older sister, right?” [I don’t have a sister], “Did you used to work out at Gold’s Gym?” [I didn’t used to work out at any gym], and even “How’s the pregnancy going?” [I wasn’t pregnant, and I don’t think I looked pregnant!]

A man staying in the same hostel told me with a heavy accent that there’s a woman in Germany who looks like me. “Her name is Anna.” It’s gone global!  

When a cashier guessed, “Jennifer?” then told me, “Oh, you look like this lady that works at Dollar General,” I was tempted to drive to Dollar General and ask for Jennifer, just to see what she looked like.

I’ve had the same mind-boggling conversation with a few business owners. It goes something like this:
“Weren’t you in here last week?”
“No, I’ve never been here before.”
“Are you sure? You look familiar.”
“This is my first trip to _______ [name of town or state]. I just got in last night.”
After a moment of reflection, they’ll decide, “I’m sure it was you. I recognize you.”
How can I prove that I wasn’t there?

The strangest occurrence happened when I was working in the Registration office of my community college. A woman came to my station and told me right away, “Oh my God! You look just like my sister-in-law, Linda, who died!” What do you say to that? During the transaction, she kept making comments about it. “Oh my god- you look so much like Linda.” Near the end, she whipped out her phone and took a picture of me, then texted it to her daughter with the message, “Who does this look like?” A minute later, she showed me the screen with her daughter’s reply: “Aunt Linda.”   

I got to thinking about my doppelgangers today. They must be decent people. I’ve never had anyone turn angry when they thought they recognized me. In fact, I seem to get asked a lot in public, “Excuse me- will you take our picture?” The other replicas of me out there must not be camera thieves, either. To all the people running around who look just like me: Before you do anything crazy, keep in mind that it isn’t only your reputation on the line- it’s mine, too! And I’ll think of you.   

The WOW in Powwow

My mom used to work at an art center on an Indian reservation. In addition to selling art made by Native Americans, the center offered classes in making birch bark baskets, beaded bracelets, fish decoys, and other traditional crafts. While I was visiting, a young local man came into the shop to browse. A higher than average percentage of people I saw on the rez wore American Eagle Outfitters t-shirts, and he was one of them. It was never a plain AEO shirt with just the brand name or logo; the designs always involved soaring eagles. I wondered if AEO realized the appeal that their shirts might hold to the Native American segment of the market. Anyway, in chatting, the guy told us that he was a fancy dancer [a showy Native American dance]. It was even part of his email address. I wondered how many American white guys would put the word “dancer” in their email address, let alone the word “fancy.” And how many of them would boast to strangers that they danced? 

Nearby, an outdoor arena held weekly powwows all summer. I attended a couple with my mom. The emcee would explain the meaning behind each dance, and then a group of dancers would demonstrate. A couple times each night, the emcee would call out “Intertribal!” which meant that everyone, including the audience, was invited to participate. Those of us who didn’t know what we were doing basically did a stilted version of walking in a circle, but there was an elated feeling of camraderie, being a part of the drumming, the singing, alongside others dressed in colorful regalia: jingle shell dancers, grass dancers, fancy dancers, and butterfly dancers. We were lucky that the community was willing to include us. Going to see a powwow by itself could have been cool- watching the spectacle, learning something, and eating fry bread- but there’s nothing like experiencing an event to make an impact.  

On the Way to Arcola

On my way to Arcola, IL, I had seen a speck on the map called Chicken Bristle, and I set out to find it. I thought it would be fun to take a picture of the city limit sign. I think I found the town, although I never saw any sign. A cluster of houses sat where the speck had been on the map, an island in an ocean of cornstalks. The roads near Chicken Bristle were paved and one-lane, set in a grid. The cornfields flanking each path created almost a tunnel effect. I wondered what would happen if a car came from the opposite direction, but I never found out. Sometimes, when I dream, I’m walking down that same blacktop, protected by armies of corn. My footsteps make no sound. The corn is always green, and it is always summer.

The Chicken Cheats

Several summers ago, I went on getaway weekend to Arcola, Illinois. The biggest attraction there was Rockome Gardens, which was basically a theme park about Amish culture. [Sadly, this attraction closed.] There were the actual gardens, which may have been pleasant except for the photographer parent trying to get a perfectly posed shot of his two-year-old. “Kayla, come over here. No- stand right here. Don’t move. Now look at me. Kayla, look at Daddy. Kayla. Kayla! Look at Daddy. Kaaaaylaaa. Kayla, turn this way. Look at me. Look at Daddy. Kayla, look over here. Look at Daddy. Kayla. Look at Daddy.” There was a museum, a barn with farm animals, a woman who demonstrated weaving on a floor loom (and who let me try it), and a souvenir shop filled with canned green beans, homemade fudge, and other old-fashioned edibles. I paid extra to take a buggy ride with an actual Amish driver. It was here that I played tic tac toe with a chicken. Yes, the chicken won. Twice. I knew it would. But let me tell you something: the chicken cheats.

The game was in a box about the size of a vending machine. Half of it displayed the electronic gameboard and instructions, and the other half housed a live chicken. The poor thing was panting in its little plexiglass enclosure. Part of me didn’t want to participate (and encourage housing chickens in plexiglass boxes during summer). But when would I get another chance to play tic tac toe with a chicken? Novelty won in the end.

I fed my money into the machine. The rules state that the chicken goes first. Once the game started, the chicken hid behind this partition, but I was spying on it to see how it operated. It would peck at this button until a kernel of corn dropped down a chute. The chicken’s move would register on the gameboard. After gobbling up the corn, the chicken would peek its head underneath the partition and stare at me with one eye until I pushed a button to make my selection on the gameboard. Then its head would disappear underneath the partition and the pecking would start again. On the second game, after the chicken made its first move, I put my finger out toward the game board, but I hesitated. As I was deciding which button to press, the chicken took another turn. She probably didn’t cheat intentionally. Oh, well- she would have won anyway. [The strategy of having the chicken go first is orchestated so that the best an opponent can do is tie.] If you ever get the chance to play this game, be warned! Those chickens will try to get away with anything!

Photo: twined rug