A Little Slice of "Leaving"

The original working title of my 2016 book “Leaving Cancer for the Circus” was “A (Little) American Odyssey”. I thought that the tale of my solo, clandestine journey through the Black Hills after radiation treatment that was the template for the book WAS an odyssey of sorts, but just calling it “An American Odyssey” was far too grandiose. Through the editing process, I settled on the eventual title, based on a small anecdote from a stop in Pierre, South Dakota.

The book is a mixture of childhood reminiscences, broadcast stories, and travel diary, but at its heart is the visits to small towns in Nebraska, South Dakota, and Wyoming. It was a delightful trip that really was more than I could have hoped for. It was now five years ago, and it is three years since my wife and I shared a similar journey, payback in many ways to Jayne for understanding, as I had faith she would, in my just up and leaving one day.

And once again, my wife is at the heart of the tiny replication of that type of experience this past weekend. The previous one was our anniversary weekend, our eighteenth. Our fifteenth actually coincided with the 2017 journey we took together. We made plans to get away for the first time since coronavirus lockdown, and combine an errand in Manhattan, Kansas with a little overnight stay down the road in Council Grove. We had stayed in an air b and b there last summer when were to attend the Symphony of the Flint Hills, which ended up being cancelled.

Our weekend was a series of calamities which resulted in my car dying and needing to be towed, my wife fracturing her ankle after being startled and tripping off a curb, and obviously no romantic getaway. But with a warranty situation in place, and paid for accommodations and the like, my wife suggested I have a little weekend to myself. She had somewhat settled into her uncomfortable healing routing, and was graciously giving me a little respite from nursemaid duties in our staircase laden house, ill-suited for staying off your feet.

The famous old phrase “you can’t go home again” comes to mind here. Feeling that you can even get a sense of the intrinsically wonderful feeling I had in the 2015 solo trip is a fool’s errand. But you know what, maybe it was the restrictive nature of our lives recently somewhat mirroring the lonely battle through radiation, or whatever, but I had about thirty six hours of an experience that took me back to that time that inspired me so.

I did my due diligence and went to a lighting store in Manhattan to exchange merchandise and continue the process of a home project, and then headed down Route 177 toward Council Grove. The Flint Hills might be one of the most underrated areas of America, and would come as a stunning surprise to millions whose vision of Kansas is deadass flat prairie. We had a wet early spring and now a hot late season, and the rolling vistas were greened up to perfection as I cruised the thirty seven miles to Council Grove on a clear and sun baked Saturday afternoon.

Just as on my more epic journey, I had no solid plan, but thought if things timed out right and there was time for a little golf, I might do that, or if I was too late, or golf was not available, I would take an evening bike ride. Everything had gone about as smoothly as it hadn’t the previous Saturday, and I cruised into town about four o’clock, heading to find the Council Grove Country Club first to see what was up. There were only about six cars (well, mostly pickup trucks) in the lot, so I knew I could scoot over after unpacking and play a little by myself.

I was back in about fifteen minutes to find an open, but empty, pro shop with no one to be found. It reminded me of a similar experience in Murdo, South Dakota in 2015 when I would only get one hole plus in before being driven from the course by mosquitoes. With no one here to get a cart from, I teed it up and got set to hike the course. I walked when I played golf all the time until injuring my knee several years back, and actually that day in Murdo might have been the last previous time I had walked. It was 95 degrees and Council Grove C.C. is as Flint Hilly as you can imagine. But I have seldom had more fun sweating and marching and chasing the little white ball as I did on Saturday evening.

There are few times when a cold beer or three tastes better than after a blistering hot round of golf, particularly walking, and particularly because I never drink while I’m playing. I went back to my nice little apartment, one of a few in a historic bank building. Gloriously not adorned with a television, and having forgotten my laptop (I remembered the cord LOL), I put some tunes on my phone and wound down before taking a shower.

Council Grove’s population is around two thousand, and it was similar in many, many ways to most of the places I chose to stop in 2015, and my wife chose for the reboot. In driving about for a bit, and subsequently Sunday touring on my bicycle, it appeared the Covid-19 situation had reduced places to grab a beer and some food and maybe see a little live music from a handful to two. One of which was right across the street from my home away from home.

BG’s was a small, but not tiny, place. I would find out that it is owned by a young lady and her husband. The pleasant woman was working the bar, and she appeared to be in her mid-twenties at most. About twenty people were there, and in the hour or so I was, people wandered in and out, seeming to come from kids ball games, or they own softball games, or just their regular Saturday. A young musician was on break when I arrived and he was discussing the current challenges of his trade with some customers. He had a band, but business was slow, so on this night he performed a little one-man band deal with guitar, bass drum, and harmonica. He played mostly straight blues tunes of his own with a cover or two, and was more than just passable, certainly worthy of the ten buck tip I tossed in his jar. I sat off in the corner and observed as I am wont to do, (also at a safe distance which was not the order of the evening here in Council Grove), and had good, simple fun. This night was quite like one I experienced in Hot Springs, Wyoming in 2015.

Sunday was left blissfully open for nothing. No checkout time, no clock, turned my phone off and slept until I felt like moving, which turned out to be 9:30. I got things arranged for when I actually would leave, and about 10:30 got on my bicycle to tour the town, which was a daily occurrence as well five years ago. I am fascinated by these rides. You can cover basically every square inch of town in the ninety minutes or so I would ride. No headphones or anything, just daydreaming about what life was like here in this quaint town, and what it might have been like in the past.

I first headed west on Main Street, and I noticed the the cross streets became presidential. I was quite excited to see Washington, then Adams, then Jefferson. It was somewhat like in Lawrence, where the streets are named in order of states introduction into the union. I was curious how far we would get in the lineage of leaders. Next up Madison….cool. But then… the end… McCaskill was not a president as far as I know. Since we were at a place where there was a huge cemetery and the Country Club was adjacent. I surmised this might have been the edge of town at some point, and when it expanded a little further, the cool idea of presidential streets had passed.

As I noted many times, I am always fascinated by the mix of well-cared for older homes and almost completely neglected ones, in these towns. Council Grove leans more heavily to the positive, but on the same block you will still get the unusual mix. I rode out to the south on 177 to an incredible vista after climbing a rather onerous hill, I returned past the high school, with a very nicely done football stadium, and then to the east side of town, which had less well-maintained homes, but only by a little. There is a really nice riverside park area, really a selling point for walking and biking. I smiled as what seemed to be a group of grandparents. and their grandchildren on a little historical journey posed for photographs in front of the restored “Calaboose”, the old town jail.

I had checked out about everything on this fabulous combination of exercise and reverie. The little art galleries were appointment-only on this Sunday, so I would skip that. Council Grove had more than done its job. It fit right in to the template of Broken Bow, Valentine, and Superior, Nebraska. Hot Springs, Pierre and Valentine, South Dakota. Sheridan, Buffalo, and Saratoga, Wyoming, and more, from the recent past. The American landscape, towns that seemed a bit stuck in time mostly in a good way, and interesting people with stories to hear, or create in your own mind.

I took my sweet time, and some unusual routes, on my drive back to to my home in Shawnee. Yes, I was milking it. The choice of roadways would indeed cost me the chance to sit down for a late lunch, since I never found anyplace to do it, which was fine. I can be a complicated person, and dive into complicated thought and territory with the best of them. But I am so grateful that I also can get a whole lot of joy from very simple things. I got to remind myself of that once again for thirty six hours.

I thank my wife, and highly recommend once again experiences like this to you, if you choose, yours.