Now, buckle in. And get ready. ‘Cause this post’s gonna be a long one. Sorta like the long, strange-but, wonderful-trip I’m fixin’ to tell you about.

The Noisy Silence

My trip actually started decades ago when my late, lamented father-in-law, Cliff Gardell, bribed (he paid my tuition) this good Protestant boy into joining him for a-gasp!-Catholic weekend retreat at the Sacred Heart Retreat House. And, even more alarmingly: silent! What? No chitter-chatter for over 48 hours? Yep.

Now an old man myself, I’ve gone back many, many times over the ensuing decades. Most recently about a week ago for a private, directed retreat of several days with Ed Kinerck, the House’s director who leads his merry band of monks at “Jesuit Mission Control” haha! (“haha!” is the vernacular frequently used by my cheeky young daughters). The House is just west of the, thankfully, still tiny town of Sedalia, about 20 miles south of Denver.

But this time it was very different. During my turkey hunt in Kansas and Nebraska a few days earlier, I’d somehow heard about a blue grass festival set for the weekend following my departure from the House. “So,” I thought to myself, “why not turn the retreat into a launch pad for a leisurely ramble, first to the Kansas festival, then continue across the state to see friends in Independence, before heading north to see my son, Byron, in Omaha?”

“Ok,” you say. “But why, very different?” Because a bunch of my time at the House during this retreat was taken up, not in silent prayer. Or in the always welcome, hour long “conferences” with Ed. Or strolling the lovely grounds. But in often frustrating, time consuming efforts to line up places to stay during my odyssey. “Curse you, airbnb! I’ll make you pay for this. Somehow!” (Actually, how ’bout this for payback? This Bloomberg story about the millions the company is paying to make the many stories of horrific crimes that have occurred during Airbnb stays go down the memory hole?)

I don’t know how many times I had to go back into the system canceling and rescheduling. And then apologizing to my host. And, believe you me, I’m not going to tell you how many times I was cursing under my breath as I did so. Right in quiet of my room in the House that observes a rule of silence. Talk about your Pharisee: “straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel”!

Bottom line? Airbnb is, no doubt, great-maybe. But especially for folks about 40 years younger than I am.

But, in the end, “God works all things together for good for those who love him.” And, during our last conference, just before I hit the dusty trail, Ed affirmed, “You know, don’t worry about the interior noise and frustration. God can easily use things we least expect to speak to us.”

So, I left the place Friday just before noon, easing down the House’s long, winding driveway to CO 67. Then turning east to Sedalia for a couple of miles, crossing the railroad tracks that cut through town and where passing freight trains’ long whistles light up the valley at all hours of the day and night. And then heading north to get back to Denver on the old “Ribbon of Death” highway.

Once home, I did a quick load of laundry, picked up a new prescription or two of the seemingly endless bottles of pills I take at the nearby Kaiser clinic. And kissed Marleen goodbye. And was then on my way, east on I-70 toward Colby, a few miles over the border. The first thing that was immediately evident on crossing into Kansas? How much better their version of I-70 is. Coloradans should be outraged by their rutted, bumpy share of that road. And ashamed.

Next Stop? Pickin’ On The Plains!

When I pulled into Colby, small as it is, I wondered around a bit before I found the Festival. But when I did, I turned west into the small, graveled parking lot and grabbed the folding camp chair that my wife so wisely suggested I bring along. I walked to the entrance, got my concert pass and lanyard, and hitched a ride on a golf cart for the “grueling” 100 yard hike to the big top tent set up in front of bandstand. Where, I think, The Trinity River Band, was pickin’ and singin’ to an enthusiastic crowd of-what? Maybe five hundred? Mostly older couples and a smattering of younger folks with kids. Ball caps and deep tans everywhere in evidence.

It didn’t take long at all to feel right at home. And by the time the set was over, novice though I was to bluegrass festivals, I knew I was in the right town for the weekend.

A sentiment that was only further confirmed by the enticing smell of barbecue wafting from from the festival’s midway of three or four food trucks parked a couple dozen yards south of the big top and nestled up against the concrete stands of the county fairgrounds that loomed behind us. “ColoradoQ” sounded like just just the ticket. Their pork ribs, brisket, and coleslaw combo meal hit the spot after the long drive. And fit right in with my anti-Alzheimers keto diet. Suffice it to say, I ate my share of ‘Q during the weekend.

Hunting Back Toward Town

Back in our Amway days, one of my favorite guys on the tapes was Kay Fletcher, from south La (for you uninitiated to the subculture, that’s south Louisiana). Don’t let his thick, southern drawl fool you; Kay’s a smart guy.

On one of his tapes, he declared that “we lived so far out, that we hunted back toward town.” And if ever there was a place in Kansas where you can hunt back toward town, I found it that evening.

When the pickin’ and singin’ was done in Colby (At what? The very latest, 9:30. My kind of crowd) I pointed my car east on Main Street to US 83 to where, in the star spangled darkness, I drove 20 minutes or so. And sailed right by the small sign pointing north to Rexford. Braking hard, I did a six point U-turn in the middle of the two lane highway, retraced my path, and went a few miles north to the middle of town: population 224. One of the Rexford’s main claims to fame, historically speaking, is the election of a three year old mayor in 1923.

Slowly, I drove west on what I presumed was Main Street until, to my right, I saw a woman sitting on the porch of what was about the only house in town whose front light was still lit. Turned out that my fine hostess, Serena, was on the expansive, wrap around porch of The Shepherd’s Staff, awaiting my arrival. This is an outfit that can legitimately claim, “We’ll keep the light on for you.” And not be whistlin’ Dixie.

By now tired and a bit disoriented, Serena led me to Philip’s Room, the mansion’s master bedroom; it was far more than I needed for me and my little suitcase. It took a while, but I finally settled in for a good night’s sleep. Which was broken by the buzzing of my cell: “Hello?” I answered, blearing at the screen, “who’s this?” “It’s Serena,” she replied, “it’s 8 o’clock. Breakfast’s ready across the street at the cafe.” “Eight? But my phone says it’s only seven.” “You must have forgot to reset it to Central time.” “Oh, yeah, I did. Be right over. Where is it again?” “Out the front door, turn right, and across the street to The Whistle Stop Cafe.”

When I finally got there, the bacon was cold. But the scrambled eggs and coffee were hot as Serena left the kitchen and sat across the table from me. With Covid, I was the only customer in both the restaurant and the mansion-which usually serves as a retreat house for pastors and their spouses. By far the cafe’s most interesting architectural detail? The model train layout that circled the room just below the ceiling, complete with a tunnel that ran through the three dimensional mountain hanging from the wall in front of me. The cafe’s name’s not for nothing; the tracks that run through town are about a 7 iron north of the front door. One train, each direction, each day. The model train never left its station during my two night stay.

In deference to my keto diet, I ate the blue berries from the proffered bowl, but left the strawberries. “I’m on a keto diet,” I explained, a bit abashed, “trying to ward off Alzheimer’s. Cutting back on the carbs.” “I’m on keto myself,” she replied, “I’ve lost over 40 pounds. But, I still have a ways to go.” “That’s impressive,” I said, as she poured me a third cup of coffee, “I’ve lost some weight myself.”

So, over the following two days, it was back to Colby for the Festival. Folks were friendly-to say the least. It was a breeze to strike up a conversation with couples during breaks or at the back over lunch in the shade of a pavilion.

But Susie McLemore stands out. A local, she’s a tireless all-arounder for the event. Planning in the months leading up to the Festival. Scurrying from place to place making sure everything came together when the big weekend arrived. But to top it all off, she was also on stage with her family band, The McLemores, for whom she plays a mean banjo. They did a bang-up job helping round out the weekend at a Sunday morning gospel music fest. If memory serves, they were the ones who did one of my favorites, I’ll Fly Away.

The Wichita Lineman

From Colby, I went south most of the way across Kansas before taking a dog-leg east at Garden City to that fabled western town of yore, Dodge City. Boot Hill. Bat Masterson. Wyatt Earp. Cattle drives. The Long Branch Saloon. Gunsmoke.

My suggestion in 2021? Don’t bother. Boot Hill’s buried somewhere beneath the foundation of the Boot Hill Museum. For heaven’s sake. A kitschy Long Branch Saloon and other, similarly pale imitations of the distant past stand, largely forlorn, at one side of a “boardwalk.” Where, on the other side, is a big parking lot. The only shops that seemed to display red neon “Open” signs looked to be touristy bars. Admittedly, I only spent one night in Dodge. But the Dodge City boardwalk looked more like a chamber of commerce fantasy-turned nightmare-than anything else to me.

The town’s redeeming quality? The hosts of my snug and spotless Airbnb with whom I enjoyed dinner with that night. And who spared me the necessity of checking into one of the many cookie cutter hotels that, one after another, line Dodge’s main drag.

From there, I joined countless windmills stalking east over the fruited plains to yet another Airbnb in Wichita. Again, my accommodations were snug and spotless. But this time, even stylish. On the stark, white wall above my bed, in bold black: “mi casa su casa.” And, get this: Look, ma, no TV! And on the little writing desk? A stack of books, including the Bible and Jefferson Bethke’s Jesus >Religion.

Did my hosts accept my offer to join me for dinner when we met at the front door? “No,” he replied, “we’re having some people over this evening.” During that exchange, he was holding his son in his arms. And I think that, during the night, I heard a second little voice from the other side of the stout door that separated my room from the family’s quarters. Who could blame them for turning me down? When they’d asked me to complete some sort of security screening form through Airbnb, I was clueless-and said so. But they took me in anyway; they didn’t know me from Adam. Of course, I didn’t know them either. Which make me think that, at least when it comes to Airbnb, both parties are often like Blanche DuBoise: “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

The Wages Of War

I was in Independence by early afternoon the next day. I’ve written about the Huckabeys before: Forrest, Lakin and their five kids-all girls except four boys. Two of the kids are adopted; a little boy and girl born to Forrest’s sister. The mother got swept out to sea by the undertow of the highly addictive drugs coursing through the veins of rural America. The Sackler family, our nation’s pusher of opioids, has extracted their pound of flesh from the Huckabeys.

Forrest did a couple of combat tours as sniper in Afghanistan before he came home fully disabled with TBI; a grenade went off behind him before he could scramble through a door that led out of the narrow, adobe-walled alley where he and his small unit were patrolling. Somehow, Lakin kept all the wheels on while Forrest was on multiple, lengthy deployments.

They used to live in the woods not far from town. Until, that is, the wiring in their home that dated to the early 20th century shorted out and the house nearly burned to the ground late one night. Leading me down dirt roads where the trees on either side arched overhead, Forrest took me to the site one morning. I took a picture of him standing in the overgrown front yard, the scorched roof behind him collapsed in on itself behind hollow-eyed windows. It was not easy to see how everyone had gotten out safely; by the time the fire department arrived, it was little more than a “cool down the foundation” operation.

The couple’s dream had been to convert the surrounding acres into a therapeutic horse ranch; that subject was little discussed while I was there. We walked around the place a bit. We stayed out of the deep grass; tiny pink ticks are plentiful in the spring. As are gourmet morel mushrooms; he showed me a picture of a monster he’d found above a road cut this year. Their freezer’s loaded.

Now, the family lives in a rambling, ranch style home in the little burg of Neodesha, a few miles outside of Independence. At the end of a cul de sac tucked into a patch of woods, the house backs up to a small lake. Off a rickety dock, the kids fish and splash in the summer-warmed water. Sentry like around the front of the house sit an assortment of vehicles suitable for a family of six: van, oversized SUV, ski/fishing boat, 4 wheeler. Motorcycle? I lost track. There’s a mossy swimming pool where a large bull frog held sway at the far end.

All Sports. All The Time.

The golden hour in Neodesha is the just before the sun dips beneath the western horizon. Around baseball diamonds that would do many semi-pro teams proud, parents and siblings turn out en masse to watch older brothers (and, occasionally, an older sister) pitch, hit, field, and dive head first into home plate. Grass groomed to within an inch of its life. Base paths pampered and raked. The outfield defined by waist high netting. Full dugouts, protected by chain link fencing. And, when the sun goes down, the field lights come up.

No wonder I never made it as a little leaguer! But I’m in the big leagues now. I cracked and spit out the shells of a better part of an entire bag of sunflower seeds during my three nights of following the Huckabey mob from field to field.

The Kitchen Table

For my first breakfast in town, I walked about a mile from my downtown Airbnb to meet Forrest at the Down Home Family Restaurant. So-so. At best. But across the street, immaculately stretching out of sight beyond a low stone wall, was the Mount Hope Cemetery. With over 21,000 “residents,” the city’s necropolis has the town’s living population of not quite 10,000 beat all to flinders.

Over breakfast, Forrest and I got into it a bit as to why none of the many churches in the area are suitable for his family. “They’re only in it for the money.” Or, “It’s always just for the pastor and his family. They’re hypocrites.” I didn’t push too hard. With the Grateful Dead, I thought, “All a friend can say, is ‘Ain’t it a shame.'”

The second morning, I met the entire gang in Fredonia (population 2,482) at The Kitchen Table for breakfast. Forrest nailed this one. Next time you’re in town, this is the place you need to come. As only Amish women can do it in their prim, starched-lace head coverings, homemade pecan/cinnamon rolls, nearly the size of dinner plates, featured prominently. Along with lemon meringue pies the summits of which rivaled Colorado’s Pyramid Peak. True, those rascals were way off my Keto diet. But there were no shortage of other tasty, in-bound selections.

When I turned due north for Omaha first thing next morning, you can guess where I had breakfast. Even though it involved a minor detour.

Cats And Dogs

Although usually four lanes, Kansas’ share of US Route 75 is not an interstate. Heavily trafficked with semis constantly leading strings of passenger cars, it kept your attention. About every mile or so, a county road came in from the side with only a stop sign. You could never tell, bookin’ along at about 75, when a car that pulled up to the stop sign might miss you. Or take a chance. And you’d have to come to a very sudden stop. Nervy, wearing driving.

As the day wore on, lighting continually flashed in a monstrous thunder head that loomed many miles up the road. When I finally got into it, the rain came down in blinding buckets. The kind of storm that windshield wipers can’t keep up with. And it went on for what? At least an hour and a half. Seeking some sort of respite, I went through a Wendy’s drive through and ordered a nasty salad. But before I could pay and retrieve my lunch, my legs were soaked. As I continued north, low lying fields on either side of the road had become small lakes at the end of newly gouged-out gullies.

But, the storm eventually relented. And with the help of my phone’s trusty GPS system, I came to a stop in front of Byron’s new home before night fell.

The Farmer In The Dell

Byron’s a good cook. And just as good a golfer. The former skills were amply on display that evening by way excellent pork chops that had come off his pellet fed grill. Next day, the latter skills over the rolling hills of his nearby Platteview Golf Club. While he drove the cart, it felt good to occasionally jump out and stretch my road weary legs on the fairways.

But the highlight of the quick weekend layover with Byron? A visit to his friend Josh’s small, organic farm 30 miles out of town, where, with his Philippine wife, Maria, and their young son, Jake, they raise pigs, a dwarf breed of cattle, and tend a garden. With Byron, Josh works at Google’s Omaha data center. But something tells me his heart is in the farm. They’ve beautifully renovated the old farm house. About once a year, my kids have made a pilgrimage out that way to bring home some of the organic bounty. I’m thinking of joining them next year.

But that’s enough. In fact, more than enough. First thing Monday morning it was:
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity-Jog!