I slept surprisingly well last night on the exceptionally uncomfortable ground. There were no dogs, only the cicadas who lulled me into a deep sleep. So deep a sleep, that I had an anxiety dream about going back to work. Before summer started, I interviewed for a history position at the school where I am currently working. You’ve been reading what I write. You know how much I love history. Not only would I be much happier teaching history, imagine how incredible I’d be in the classroom, sharing with students what I’ve shared with you the last few summers. My colleagues told me I would never get the history position because English teachers are harder to come by. Administrators want to keep me where they need me, especially since there were already many English vacancies in the district. Kati seemed to agree with my colleagues. But I said, wouldn’t they want to keep me happy, because if I was happy, I would be more likely to stay. Kati said they don’t care about my happiness, the administration never does. In my dream, I definitely did not get the job. My schedule was full of English classes, classes I did not feel confident enough to teach because they were different than the ones I had taught last year. In the dream, they just seemed really wacky, but I don’t remember exactly what they were. I asked the head of the history department why she didn’t want me, and she said she just didn’t get a good feel for me in the interview. I pressed her for a better reason, but she couldn’t give me one. Again, it was just a dream, a manifestation of my anxiety, and what I want most. If I don’t get the history job, I will have to re-double my efforts to find a history job elsewhere.
In the dream, it was suddenly the first day of school and I was trying to get to work, but I couldn’t get there. Everything kept tripping me up. I couldn’t find clothes to wear. They were still packed away in boxes, and I feverishly tore them open only to find summer attire. Unable to find anything appropriate, I wore torn shorts. It was all I had. Better than going to work naked. Then I got on the road, and there was traffic. Road construction diverted traffic and I couldn’t get through to where I needed to be. Somewhere in the dream, G3 also needed to get to school, but he couldn’t get there either. He had to take a subway, which didn’t make sense because we don’t live near a subway. But the subway wasn’t running, plus he hadn’t done his homework and didn’t want to get in trouble. The two of us, somehow, ended up together, not going to school, but sitting in the car frustrated and angry. G3 was sulking and Kati called me, yelling at me for not being serious enough about teaching. That’s when I woke up.
G3 was still sleeping when I woke up, so I got out of the tent and read for a while. When G3 did wake up, I suggested a hike but he didn’t want to walk. Our stay here was supposed to be about hiking and swimming, but G3 only wants to swim. That’s fine. He took his chair down to the water and was going to read while I hiked along a trail near the campground. Like yesterday, I was mindful that G3 was by himself, so I did not hike for long. I was out for just under an hour and a half. Again, I had just the cicadas to keep me company. The Rock Creek Trail wasn’t particularly interesting or pretty, but at least I got some exercise.
When I got back to the campsite, I was so hot and sticky and sweaty, that I was ready to jump in to the water, but first we need to eat. I boiled water for breakfast. We had cream of wheat cereal, hot chocolate, and coffee. We then went swimming. It’s nice to have a rather relaxing day—in the water—to break up the driving and sightseeing.
Well that was disappointing. We signed up for a Ranger Program to learn about wildlife in the creek, but when we got there, the pavilion was empty. I initially went to the wrong place, but realized it relatively quickly. I asked G3 to look at the map, since I was driving, and he directed me to the correct place. We were only 10 minutes late. We should have easily been able to catch the program, but there weren’t even cars parked in the parking lot. I wonder if it had been canceled due to the extreme heat.
G3 said he was only slightly disappointed. Since we couldn’t do the program, we drove to a swimming area that had a rock you could jump off into the water. G3 had been wanting to do that since we got here on Friday and he saw other kids jumping. Yes, I too jumped. It was fun, but not nearly as awesome as Houghton Falls in Wisconsin. That is the ultimate jumping and swimming spot. Here it is very crowded, more so than the lake where we are camping. And the rock isn’t as high, the swim not as intense as it is in Superior. But G3 enjoyed it anyway. He must have jumped three dozen times or more. While jumping he seemed to have made a few friends. I had been reading, but when I looked up at one point, he and a group of boys had moved to the side of the stream and seemed to be hanging out. I would say playing, but at 13, G3 would reprimand me for using such a childish word. However, they did look like they were horsing around and having a good time.
We stopped at the rock for what I thought was going to be a short swim, but G3 appeared to be having so much fun, I didn’t want to call him away. I just wished I hadn’t left the chairs at the campsite. There was nowhere for me to sit in the shade, so I ended up standing for nearly three hours. I did get to read which was nice. With all the driving, I haven’t had time to read. I made up for some of it today. It just would have been more comfortable sitting.
It is Sunday night, so most of the campers have cleared out of the campground. There was hardly anyone here when we got back to the campsite, and there was nobody in the lake. It was quiet and peaceful and so I went for a swim—alone. G3 had had enough of the water by then.
We are now sitting around the dying campfire. G3 is reading, and when I finish writing, I will do the same. The place definitely feels deserted this evening. Just us—and my friends, the cicadas.
The damn dogs barked until nearly three o’clock. They started in again at 6:41 this morning. But even if they hadn’t kept me up most of the night, I would not have slept well. The ground was hard and very rocky—not even slightly comfortable.
I went hiking this morning. Actually, it was more like a nature walk.The ground was gravelly, and there was no incline at all. G3 did not want to walk. He said he wasn’t feeling well, that his stomach was bothering him. Instead of accompanying me, he set up a chair in the shade and told me that he was going to read. So as not to keep him sitting by himself for too long, I kept my walk rather shorter than I would’ve otherwise. A chorus of cicadas kept me company on the trail. I have always found them to be soothing—the louder the better—their constant chirping peaceful.
Along the trail, I came across Buffalo Springs. It was named after the buffalo that used to keep cool in the water produced by the spring. In the 1930s the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC)—one of FDR’s programs designed to help pull us out of the depression—came in to plant trees and to construct a circular stone structure that would channel the spring’s water. Today, it almost resembles a small kiddie pool, however, signs tell people to keep out. The CCC spent seven years working in the park. Along with reshaping Buffalo springs, they built pavilions, trails, waterfalls, roads, and swimming holes.
Chickasaw National Recreation Area used to be Platt National Park. in 1976, Platt National Park was combined with Arbukle Recreation Area and renamed Chickasaw. It is located on Chickasaw land.
Following my hike, we went to the Chickasaw Cultural Center. I was really excited to learn about Chickasaw culture and history. G3 was not. Once again he slipped into complaining mode. As soon as I parked he said, “I don’t want to be here.” This time, I did not give him the option of sitting it out. I thought it would be good for him to learn something as well. Apparently, that makes me a mean mom.
The Chickasaw are originally from the Southeastern United States—their original land was in Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, and Mississippi. Their trade routes spanned the entire continent, reaching up into the Great Lakes and out west to the Pacific. By the middle of the 14th century, they had an advanced society. While they were known as the Spartans of the lower Mississippi, due to their fierce fighting skills, they also produced baskets and pottery.
In the winter of 1540, the Chickasaw had their first European encounter when DeSoto brought his men into their territory on a quest for gold and silver. DeSoto was a cruel man who learned the ruthless rules of being a conquistador in Peru where he accompanied Pizarro on his conquest of the Incas. Over time he captured and enslaved many Indigenous people. When the Spanish first arrived with their iron weapons and strange attire, the Chickasaw perceived them as being otherworldly. Intrigued, they watched them closely offering them food, hides, and services. However, there offings weren’t enough. Nothing was ever enough for the Spaniards. One day DeSoto’s men looted Chickasaw food. When several Chickasaw men tried to steal it back two of the men were killed and the conquistadors cut off the third man’s hands.
When DeSoto approached the Chickasaw leadership, he made ridiculous demands in them. The Chickasaw refused to subjugate themselves, choosing instead to watch the Spaniards even more closely, studying everything about their camp and their security. DeSoto was no fool. He knew what was happening and was on alert, waiting for an ambush. Still, the Chickasaw were patient and managed to catch them by surprise. Three hundred warriors snuck into camp at night, set it on fire and killed many horses and men. Their tactic had always been to strike hard and fast and then retreat. DeSoto’s biggest liability was his arrogance. He was defeated because he didn’t think he could lose. He never made it back to Spain. He never even left North America. He died of fever in 1542. So that the Indigenous people would not know of his death, his men dropped his body into the Mississippi River. In the end, his people viewed him as a failed conquistador. It would be another 150 years before the Chickasaw encountered another group of Europeans.
We arrived at the Cultural Center in time to watch a Stomp Dance demonstration. I enjoyed it. G3 was less enthusiastic. Stomp Dances were performed around a fire in celebration. Songs were unique to the leader of each dance. And the words were a prayer offered to their creator. But when Europeans first saw the dance they thought the Chickasaw were worshiping fire. In the dance, men stomp. Women shuffle, taking smaller steps than the men. Women tie turtle shells filled with river stones to their legs so they make a rattling sound as they move. Toward the end of the demonstration, the MC asked for volunteers. I nudged G3 wanting to go up with him—volunteers had to be in pairs—but he looked at me like I was crazy. I told him Grandpa would have been the first one up on the stage and Nonna would have joined him. “But he would have looked stupid and made a fool of himself,” G3 looked incredulous. “Yep,” I smiled, “And he would have enjoyed every moment of it.”
Next we walked around the demonstration village. I learned that before battle, warriors painted their bodies red and black, the colors of conflict and death. Women sang war songs and wielded iron hatchets. They were known as singing hatchet women. How cool is that. After walking around we were hungry. We ate lunch in the cafe because I wanted to eat ethnic food. G3 had a buffalo burger. He said it tasted like beef, but it wasn’t as good as the burgers at McDonalds or Culver’s . I had Indian tacos—served on frybread instead of a tortilla. It came with grape dumplings —dough in a thick grape sauce. It was too sweet, but I’m glad I tried it. We also had a side order of banaha, a traditional corn based bread. It is cooked in corn leaves and has a consistency similar to Korean rice cakes, only they are a bit more mushy and less chewy. They do taste like corn. G3 took one bite and was done. He didn’t like it. I didn’t love it, but I suspect that might change if I ate it more frequently.
Chickasaw are a matrilineal society. They believe that spring water has healing powers. As a result, water runs through the entire cultural center. River animals were important, providing more than just food. Garfish teeth were used as tools for tattooing. Their tails made good arrow points. In the creation story, crayfish helped create the Earth. Their tails were used as spear points.
I very much would’ve liked to spend some time in the Chickasaw Museum. But G3 was complaining so much, I opted not to. I couldn’t leave him outside because it was a hundred degrees. And there was no way I was going to spend money on admission for him him so that he could complain further. I am disappointed, but at least I got to learn something and experience most of the Cultural Center.
When we got back to the campsite we went swimming. It’s crowded. Too crowded, especially since I am not a fan of most people. But G3 and I had fun in the water. We played catch with a tennis ball and shot each other with water guns. We had stopped at Walmart for supplies and found water guns for just a dollar each. It didn’t take much for G3 to talk me into buying them. It was a fun purchase and considering the excessive heat, I’m sure we’ll get lots of use out of them.
While at the “beach” two women showed up with two boys. G3 turned to me and said, “Look lesbians.” I chuckled and said they could just be friends. G3 rolled his eyes, “They’re dressed like you. Only lesbians wear men’s swimsuits.” I would have objected further, but it appeared that both boys belonged to both women.
When we had enough of the water—or rather the loud obnoxious people in the water—G3 strung his hammock by the lake and made himself comfortable to read. I pulled my chair up near him and wrote for a bit before reading. G3 gave me The Shining. I admit, it’s better than I expected it would be.
We lost the tennis ball. Actually, I think it was stolen. But we found a frisbee. After we finished eating dinner at the campsite, after the crowd had subsided, G3 and I played frisbee near the lake.
We went to a Ranger program on spiders this evening at the amphitheater in the campground. It was interesting, I just wish the kids in the audience had been better behaved. Too many kids were talking and waving flashlights in people’s eyes, and of course, parents made no effort to remove their kids or get them them to be quiet and listen. As a result, I did not get to hear as much as I would have liked and I sometimes only caught a partial explanation of something. So I’m sorry, what follows is not very thorough because my notes were lacking. One of the defining features of a spider is they have their heart and lungs in their abdomen. Horseshoe crabs are arachnids and they are related to sea scorpions. A scorpion’s tail is actually an extended abdomen. The bite of a scorpion is painful but usually not deadly. They are in this park along with black widow spiders. When black widows bite, they too cause a great deal of pain but the bite probably won’t cause death. There is, however, an anti-venom for bites—just in case you need it. Brown recluse spiders are another spider whose bites are incredibly painful. Their venom will cause pain and swelling and then all the cells around the bite will die. Most brown recluse bites take place in non flush restrooms. They like hot poopy places. Daddy long legs are not spiders—which G3 schooled us about several years ago. They have only one body segment, no silk, and they can consume food. Spiders need to liquify their food and slurp it up,
This morning we drove south and left Kansas. En route we stopped in Independence—yesterday it was Independence, Missouri; today it was Independence, Kansas—to visit The Little House on the Prairie. As many of you know, in my childhood, I was a tad bit obsessed with Little House on the Prairie. Of all the authors I have read, I consider Laura Ingalls Wilder to be the most influential to me as a writer. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that the first book of mine to earn a publishing contract is a memoir. One that closely examines a significant—soon to be historical—event.
Laura only lived in the Kansas house for a little over a year between 1869 and 1870. In the book, she was about six years old, but in real life she was younger. Her father left Wisconsin—The Little House in the Big Woods—when he heard that land in Indian Territory would soon be open for white settlement. But, he neglected to wait for it to be a sure thing. When he arrived, the land was still occupied by the Osage. Laura writes about encounters with the Osage in the her book. Her father built the tiny cabin—the one currently on the site is only a replica, the original long since lost to history—by himself.
While living there, the family all got sick with malaria. I vaguely remember reading that scene. The doctor who treated them—Dr. George Tan—was the first African-American doctor in Oklahoma and Kansas.
The original cabin was built either on or right at the edge of the Osage’s diminishing reservation. The family lived there and attempted to make a go of life on the prairie until they heard a rumor that US soldiers were going to drive the white settlers off the land. They didn’t wait, instead they packed up again and returned to Wisconsin. The year after they left, the Osage signed a treaty with the US Government selling them the remainder of their Kansas land. They then relocated to Indian Territory, now Oklahoma. Congress only paid them $1.25 an acre. White settlers started legally purchasing and settling the land the same year. But since Charles had already left, he never filed.
While at the site, I spent a good twenty minutes or longer chatting about the Ingalls family with the young woman who worked there. It’s not often—maybe never before—that I encounter someone as interested in Laura as I am. She told me Laura wrote all her manuscripts by had. Her daughter Rose had bought her a typewriter, but she rebelled against all modern technology. She didn’t even like electricity. After Laura drafted her work, Rose did the typing. Before leaving, I purchased Pioneer Girl. It’s Laura’s original manuscripts that have been annotated by scholars. My reading project for the upcoming school year will be to reread all of the Little House books. When I’m done, I will tackle Pioneer Girl.
G3 did not enjoy the stop, not even a little. In fact, he grumbled about it. But honestly, the only living person who can genuinely understand my excitement is my mother. After all, she lived through my childhood obsession. When G3 was little—maybe 5 or 6—I read him the first two books and we watched the first year of the TV series. He wasn’t enthused. So we moved on to Harry Potter which he liked much more. Today, I wanted an hour for me. And G3 complained. He was bored. And Stephen King is a much better author so why do I waste my time with Laura. I got angry at him. This trip isn’t just about him. I told him after taking him to see presidents I deserved Little House. He said that was different because I like presidents too. I told him if he didn’t stop complaining he could live on bread and water until we got home. And as for King, it wasn’t a matter of who was the better writer. It’s a matter of Laura having encapsulated an entire era of American history in her writing. G3 finally quit sulking and sat in the shade to read—Salem’s Lot, by King—while I enjoyed a few moments alone with my childhood.
We ate breakfast in a cute county kitchen restaurant that looked exactly like something you’d expect to see in rural Kansas. I had hoped/expected the food to be good. It wasn’t. My omelet and hash browns were flavorless and G3 didn’t like his french toast because it was covered in a thick layer of egg.
G3 wanted to see the Center of the Universe in Tulsa. I was so upset with him, I probably wouldn’t have taken him, except it sounded kind of cool. It is a naturally occurring sound anomaly in one tiny spot on Boston Street. When you stand in that one place any noise you make is amplified and echoes back at you. We took turns standing and clapping, like little kids who have just discovered their hands.
Toll booths in Oklahoma are weird, so much different than toll booths anywhere else I have been. Going through the booth, I read a sign saying that if you were paying cash—which I was because they don’t have EZ Pass here—that you needed a cash receipt if you were getting off at one of two exits. I pulled up to the booth and asked the woman to explain why someone would need a receipt. She explained you pay the entire fare to her, but if you get off before the end of the toll road, you got half your money refunded. I told her my exit number and she said, “Yep you need a receipt.” Sure enough, two exits later, I handed the toll person my ticket and she gave me cash.
We got to Chickasaw National Recreation Area around 4:30. I went right to the Visitor Center to pick up a map and inquire about hiking trails, places to swim, and ranger programs. We will be camping here for the next three nights. Our site is right on Lake Arbuckles and we can swim right where we are camping. How convenient. Even though it is run by the National Park Service, it is a recreation area not a park. That means it is not as scenic as parks tend to be and the lake is just a place to cool off. There is nothing special about it. But when planning a trip, I always like to hit at least one National Park in each state—and this is the main one here. Once we had our tent set up, we changed into our suits and went swimming.
The entire place—especially the campground—is overrun with people. It’s the exact opposite of what we experienced in Kansas. The cicadas are loud—some of the loudest I’ve ever heard—but the damn people are louder. I hate rude people, and all to to often campgrounds are full of them. One sight has two dogs that haven’t stopped barking since we arrived. The family at the site next to us has two teenage boys and all four of them are loud. They shout to each other even though they are not far from each other. I suspect I won’t be getting much sleep tonight.
Truman’s house was closed the day it would have been most convenient to visit. Therefore, we bounced back into Independence, Missouri today.
We seem to be striking out on president house tours. After seeing Oppenheimer yesterday, we were extra excited about going to Truman’s house and learning more about him. Unfortunately, the tour once again focused exclusively on the house. Nothing about World War II. Nothing about Korea. Nothing about the Truman Doctrine or the start of the Cold War. Nothing at all about his political career prior to being president except one line on a sign about him having been a Senator.
Truman died in 1972. His wife, Bess, died in October 1982. The house is exactly the same as it was the day she died. She bequeathed the house to the US Government so the National Park Service took over upon her death. The calendar in the kitchen is still turned to October 1982. The days are crossed off up to the week after her death because the house keeper kept crossing them off until her last day.
The house was originally purchased by Bess’ grandfather in the mid-1800s and he built a couple of extensions in the following decades. The kitchen floor is linoleum that is peeling up off the ground because the Trumans didn’t want to pay for the glue needed to prevent it from curing. The wallpaper is also cheap quality. When Truman left the White House, he was living on $100 a month. Presidents didn’t collect a pension until Eisenhower enacted legislation for it, predominantly because he didn’t think it right that Truman should be strapped for cash. One woman on the tour was grating on G3. She must have asked about the history and significance of every relic in the house. BORING!
So I asked if Truman ever expressed regret for dropping the atomic bomb and killing so many civilians. The guide was not pleased with my question. In a dry flat voice he said simply, “No.” The teacher in me pressed for a better answer. He responded by saying Truman stood by his decision, justifying it by saying he saved many American lives. Japan was not going to surrender and an invasion would have resulted in thousands more American deaths. He said that Truman was not happy about sending troops to Korea because he knew it was going to result in more carnage. I would need to do some research to know if that were true.
When the tour guide said that Truman was the People’s president, G3 corrected him, saying that designation belonged to Jackson. But then G3 pivoted and asked, “If he mingled with regular people, were there ever any attempts on his life?” The guide said only one. Puerto Ricans attempted to kill him because there was some talk of revolution in Puerto Rico and the men were trying to make a name for themselves and their cause. Again, more research is required.
Truman and Bess met in Sunday school. Bess lived across the street from Truman’s aunt. One day while visiting, he volunteered to return a cake plate to Bess’s family. They spent two hours talking, and shortly thereafter, he had a standing invitation to Sunday dinner. They had one child—Margaret. For her eighth birthday, Margaret wanted an electric train set. She got a baby grand piano instead and was not happy. When she grew up, she wrote mystery novels. I wonder if her writing was good or if she snatched a publisher’s attention because her father was president. I am curious. I will have to read one of her novels when I get home.
Truman was the only 20th century president not to be college educated. He read a great deal and considered himself self taught. Allegedly, he was modest and one of the few presidents who did not develop an oversized ego in Washington. When he retired to Independence, he wanted to resume a simple life. His grandson, Clifton, didn’t even know he had been president until he started school and his first grade teacher told him.
For lunch, G3 and I had ice cream at a local ice cream shop. In Truman’s day, it was a drug store, and it was where Truman had his first job. The ice cream was ok, but nothing special. At the ice cream shop, we learned that a minor Civil War battle took place in Independence. That one isn’t in the history textbooks at all. The Confederates defeated the Union, and based on the interpretive signs I later saw throughout the city, it seems the people of Independence are proud of this Confederate part of their past.
G3 begged me to take him to the Barbie movie. The only thing on our schedule today was Truman‘s house. There was nothing else in Independence or even Kansas City that either of us had a burning desire to see or do, and considering it was 99° again, I gave in. G3 was extremely excited to watch it. I couldn’t believe that he wanted to see it that badly, but he said people are talking about it so much on line that he had to know what it was about it.
When I walked into the theater I told the guy behind the concession stand that G3 was making me take him to the movie. The guy laughed and sold me the tickets. Then, noticing G3’s Glacier National Park hat, he asked me if we liked it there. I said yes, and we ended up spending the next 10 or 15 minutes discussing national parks. He and his brother had recently been out to Utah and Colorado and had a great time hiking in and exploring the parks out there. He asked me what my favorite parks were, and after I rattled off a few, he said I had to get out to Zion with G3. I told him it’s on my list. That I would love to spend at least a few weeks in Utah. At one point, I mentioned I was a teacher and he smiled, telling me that he is in college now and is studying to be physical education teacher. I winced, saying I wouldn’t recommend the profession to anyone, but that I wished him well. I also told him that when I was in college I too worked at a movie theater one summer and that the best thing about the job was getting my dad in for free. Dad really did love that. And I realized that I never miss an opportunity to talk about Dad if I have the chance.
Possible Spoiler Alert — Though I do not mention anything specific about the plot:
At the start of the movie, about 10 minutes in, I texted Kati to say that I deserved the mother of the year award for taking G3 because I really did not want to be there. Kati texted back and said, “I think you deserve a winery, but it won’t be any fun without me.” Shortly after that text, G3 commented that in the movie it seemed that the Barbies were portrayed as a bunch of lesbians, especially since they had girls nights every night. I chuckled, and about two minutes later an Indigo Girls song played while Barbie sang along. I laughed, perhaps too loudly. Somehow, it seemed to give a bit of credence to G3’s theory.
The first half of the movie was silly and stupid. G3 and I made fun of it, but then it took a serious turn. Very surprisingly, I started to really like the movie at about the same time G3 started to seethe.
OK— Maybe A Stronger Spoiler Alert Is Needed
The movie is a metaphor, a commentary on how poorly men have treated women since forever. It was well done and I thought the message was fantastic. But I am an adult. I understand metaphor. G3 is still a child, an intelligent child, but still a kid who doesn’t comprehend metaphors as well as an adult should. He internalized it on a more surface level. For young girls, the surface message—as well as the message portrayed in the metaphor—is extremely empowering. For boys, the surface message was an attack. At least it was for G3.
As soon as the movie ended, before the credits even rolled, he stormed out of the theater. He was hurt and angry, and for a half hour as we walked around the city he ranted. I tried very hard to explain the movie from a female perspective, but he wouldn’t listen. He thought the movie was telling girls to push boys aside, cut them out of everything, to make them unimportant. He could not see that the movie was really highlighting that what he just expressed is how women are often treated by men. The point was women need autonomy and opportunity equal to that of men, but it was lost on him. So if the movie angers boys so much, puts them on the defensive, and makes them feel awful, will it in essence succeed in strengthening what it attempted to dismantle? From a certain perspective, I can see how that movie didn’t show boys why they should treat women better. It showed them why women should not be allowed to take over.
When G3 calmed down a bit I tried again, but he kept saying, “Women have equality now. No man tells you or Kati what to do.” And his lived experience is just that—two strong minded women who don’t listen to anyone and who combined do all the tasks that fathers usually do. He doesn’t see our anger and frustration when it comes navigating our way through a world that still favors men.
We returned to the campsite while there was still daylight. I took a walk along Pomona Lake, but G3 opted to stay at the campsite. When I got back, I lit a fire. It was still a billion degrees, but we’re camping and campfires are soothing. We sat far enough away that we couldn’t feel the heat. With the lake and the fire I was completely at peace—happy and serene. G3 was sad. He sat hunched in his seat and when I asked what was wrong he answered, “I feel like I’ve been canceled.” Men may not have treated women well, but is it right for a boy to feel bad just because he’s a boy? Because the men who came before thought themselves superior? I know some women and girls would say yes. But I don’t think it’s right to hold children responsible for the sins of there forebears.
I woke Gary up before the sunrise this morning. We planned on going to Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve today. The weather forecast said it’s going to be 104°, therefore, I wanted to be at the preserve and hiking before it got too hot. It was pretty drive through the endless farms as the sun was rising: giant white windmills and old rundown silos against a backdrop of pink skies.
We arrived at the Prairie just after 7 o’clock. It was 81°, but the clouds and wind kept the temperature comfortable. We walked for about an hour and a half. It wasn’t the most thrilling hike we have ever taken but we enjoyed the scenery and the quiet. No one else was on the trails, which made for a peaceful experience. We were most excited about seeing bison. They were off in the distance, too far to take pictures, but close enough to feel like we’re were indeed on a prairie. After our walk, we visited Spring Hill, the ranch house and barn that remain in the park. We have seen so many historic houses that there wasn’t much special about it.
Prairie is a French word that means meadow. Before the Europeans arrived, 1/3 of the continental United States, was tallgrass prairie. Only 4% remains. Before the White man encroached on the land, numerous Native American tribes lived on the prairie and hunted bison for everything from food to shelter. But bison weren’t the only large animals, elk and pronghorns also roamed the land. Historically, naturally occurring fires (caused by lightning) and grazing enriched the prairie grasses, ensuring a fresh, healthy supply for the animals. Since the prairie upon which the National Preserve now sits was utilized as a ranch in the late 1800s, the National Park has worked to restore the tall grass and native wildlife to the 11,000 acres that comprise the park.
From the preserve we drove to Topeka to visit the Brown V. Board of Education National Historical Park. I consider myself a reasonably well-educated person, someone who knows a decent amount of history, and yet I go to these historical sites and realize how little I actually know. The case—Brown V. Board of Education at Topeka—was an orchestrated one. The NAACP recruited 13 parents—12 mothers and 1 father willing to sue the Topeka Board of Education. No teachers were willing to sue. The Topeka African-American community found good teaches for their schools. Being a teacher was an excellent job that ensured a middle class lifestyle. It was a position of prestige and envy. Teachers feared that if schools were desegregated they would lose their jobs and not be hired by integrated schools.
Thurgood Marshall led the NAACP legal team. He had attended Howard University Law School and was a protege of the school’s dean, Charles Houston. Houston became known as the man who killed Jim Crow. Under Houston, Howard Law trained lawyers with the intent of sending them off to fight racial injustice in America. Thurgood Marshall was perhaps the most successful.
For Brown V. Board of Education, Marshall changed tactics. Instead of arguing for equality, he decided to go straight for desegregation, stating that segregation was psychologically damaging to students forced to endure it. When the case reached the Supreme Court, it was joined with 4 other similar cases—also represented by the NAACP—from around the country. In May 1954, the Supreme Court ruled in favor of desegregation and overturning Pleasy v. Feeguson. The first domino in the fight for Civil Rights had fallen. Successful, the NAACP went on to challenge other racially unjust laws.
Not surprisingly, there was a great deal of pushback against the desegregation of schools. Some states refused to comply with Federal law until Eisenhower forced them. A few districts even shut down public education together, channeling public money into private schools so white kids could still get an education. African-American students were forced to fend for themselves. Have things changed much? Yes and no, but I won’t bore you with my opinion. However, thinking about it makes me realize I might need to write an introduction—or epilogue—for my collection of essays on teaching that I am compiling into a manuscript. But I will need to do it tactfully, and tact has never been my strength.
After several days of educational activities, G3 and I thought it might be fun to spend a relaxing afternoon at the zoo. But it was 102 degrees and all the animals were sheltering inside to avoid the heat. I couldn’t blame them, but I wasn’t paying admission to see nothing. G3 suggested that we go to the movies instead. He’s been wanting to Oppenheimer. Yes, we wanted to give our brains a break so what do we do? We go to a historical movie so that we can learn even more. G3 suffered a bit of shock walking into the theater. He’s used to the nicely renovated theaters with comfortable reclining seats back home. But we are in Kansas. Kansas is not New York or New Jersey. The seats here are the old school creaky cloth seats—filthy and torn—that hurt your butt and back. G3 said he was afraid to sit because he feared he might contract a disease.
Oppenheimer was spectacular, one of the best movies I have ever seen. The script, the acting, and the directing were all phenomenal. G3 agrees with me, and he and I rarely agree on movies. There were a few scenes where I did need to cover his eyes—they weren’t appropriate for kids—which always frustrates him. I do need to see it again—or perhaps read the book—because there were some subtleties I know I missed the first time around. My only critique—I will issue a spoiler alert warning though I don’t think my critique would ruin anything—is that I thought Truman was painted as being incredibly arrogant and idiotic. Was that really his persona? Looks like I will need to go off and learn more about Harry Truman.
We got back to the campsite early. I had promised G3 a fire but it was just too damn hot—93 degrees at 8:20. But it didn’t matter. G3 had fallen asleep in the car and when I woke him up, he was too tired and groggy to stay awake. He crawled into the tent and immediately fell back to sleep. I am sitting by the water enjoying the oh so faint breeze, even though it isn’t nearly enough to keep me cool.
It was really hot last night. When I went to bed, it was still 87°. I have also never seen so many bugs or heard so many bugs banging against the tent. If Kati were here, she would have been absolutely miserable. G3 wasn’t very comfortable either with the heat. Plus he kept tossing and turning because the ground was very bumpy and he couldn’t find a spot to sleep that didn’t hurt. I woke up in the middle of the night, and he was curled up at my feet like a cat.
G3 woke up complaining and so far he has spent the whole morning complaining about everything. He complained that I gave him hot cereal for breakfast because he wanted something better. He complained that I brought dark chocolate hot chocolate, and left the milk chocolate home for Kati. He complained that I didn’t bring milk. It’s 100°. He complained that I made him eat everything in his bowl because at the campsite there was no where to throw away the uneaten food. He complained he wasn’t hungry and I forced him to eat, but he’s the one who asked for two packets of food. I hope his mood improves.
I’m really liking the Kansas highway signs. Kansas is the sunflower state. Therefore, the state highway signs have the number of the highway inside a yellow sunflower. Everything is so flat in Kansas that I’m going 70 miles an hour and I feel like I’m going three. And people are wizzing past me. The speed limit is 70 or 75 MPH depending on the road, but my car is used to the Northeast and starts shaking when I hit 65 MPH. I am loving the fact that there are many country stations here in Kansas. G3 is not nearly as enthralled, especially since the stations play the same songs over and over again.
I should’ve listen to G3 yesterday. He wanted to have ice cream for lunch, but I was trying to be the good mother and give him something more substantial to eat. If I had listened, I would not have gotten sick from food poisoning. Moral of the story, listen to your child and eat more ice cream.
We woke up at 6:00 to get an early jump on the day. I wanted to be on the road by 7:00 so we could be in Abilene where Dwight D. Eisenhower’s house opened at 9. Years ago, during G3’s Lincoln phase, when he was about 7 or 8, we went to Gettysburg. While there, we visited Eisenhower’s farm—the only house he and Mamie ever owned. The tour of the Pennsylvania house focused on Eisenhower the president. This house in Abilene focused on his childhood. Eisenhower grew up poor, on the wrong side of the tracks—literally. The section of town in which he grew up was poorer and more ethnically and racially diverse. This most likely impacted his actions as president later on.
Neither G3 nor I enjoyed this tour as much as we enjoyed other tours. The tour guide focused mostly on artifacts in the house, which never interests us as much as stories pertaining to the people who lived there. We did learned that Eisenhower’s parents purchased the house for $1000. Eisenhower had six brothers, one of whom died as an infant. It was a small house and the boys had to share a room. In order to get some privacy, Eisenhower closed himself inside a closet to read—and he read a great deal. And people think I’m weird for walking and reading.
Eisenhower was born in Denison, Texas. His father was working on the railroad. When his father was offered a job at a creamery in Kansas, he quickly seized on the opportunity to return to Kansas. In order to prepare for the job he needed to take a corresponding course. The books from the course are still in the family home. The tour guide attributed the Eisenhower boys’ success in life to seeing their father studying when they were younger. His brothers grew up to be a pharmacist, banker, lawyer, university president, and an electrical engineer.
The house had a radio. Needless to say, Ike’s mother loved listening to her son broadcast updates on World War II. In 1946, Eisenhower‘s mother won the Kansas Mother of the Year award. I suppose that’s not surprising considering her son just won the war in Europe.
While the house tour was not as informative as G3 and I would’ve liked, we did sit through a film about Eisenhower‘s life, and we did walk through the museum. I was surprised to learn that Eisenhower did not want to go into the army. His dream was to go to the Naval Academy in Annapolis. However, he received a West Point appointment instead. How different history may have turned out if he had gotten his wish.
Eisenhower was responsible for the storming of Normandy. On D-Day all the soldiers received orders directly from Eisenhower. On May 7, 1945, Alfred Jodl surrendered directly to Eisenhower. (Hitler had already committed suicide.) At the end of the war, Eisenhower witnessed the atrocities that took place in German concentration camps. He insisted that press and government representatives from both Washington and London go to the camps and document what happened. It was important to him that the world know exactly what Germany did.
Following the war, Eisenhower was first sought after by the Democrats to run for president, however, it was the Republicans who secured him a nomination. He ran against Adlai Stevenson. Stevenson won more of the popular vote than any other losing candidate in history (not sure if that is still true) but it wasn’t enough for him to claim victory. As many of you know, Eisenhower’s campaign slogan was “I like Ike.” Some people consider it to be the most successful, catchy, and well remembered political slogan of all time. I definitely think it’s better than “Make America Great,” though one could easily argue that Ike succeeded at that far better than the man who used it.
There is much we have to thank Eisenhower for. Many of the road trips we do with G3 would not be possible without Eisenhower. While in Germany, during the war, Eisenhower was impressed by the autobahn. (Germans did do something well.) As president Eisenhower wanted something similar. Therefore, he devised an interstate system that would allow us to travel across the country. Economic growth was outstanding during the Eisenhower years. There were plenty of jobs and Americans—mostly men—were paid well.
Eisenhower was also very important for civil rights. He appointed many judges who for years helped bring about change and grant more equality to African-Americans. He nominated Chief Justice Earl Warren to the Supreme Court. Warren went on the lead the Supreme Court to a 9-0 decision in Brown V. Board of Education—which desegregated schools. When the Governor of Arkansas balked at the order to desegregate and called in the National Guard to prevent it, Eisenhower called in federal troops to ensure it happened and to protect the Little Rock Nine.
When McCarthy went on his witch hunt, destroying dozens of careers by accusing people of being Communists, Eisenhower did not approve. As a result, he helped orchestrate McCarthy’s demise.
In terms of the world stage, Eisenhower is responsible for the idea that if one country fell to communism, then others would follow. This fear of the domino effect ruled American policy during the the Cold War. Although Eisenhower was opposed to communism, he did not like the idea of nuclear war. Even at the end of World War II, he did not agree with Truman‘s decision to drop the bombs on Japan.
On the tour, we met a couple from Indiana. While G3 and I go to president houses, this couple likes to travel the country to go to presidential libraries. The woman said they have only one left to visit. And because I did not write down which one they still need to see in my notes, I have no recollection of which one it was.
OMG! We stopped at Subway for lunch—in Kansas—and I have never seen people move more slowly. Coming from New York, I am used to speed. Here they were going so slow it reminded me of the Sloth scene in the movie Zootopia.
G3 really wanted to go to Nebraska. He didn’t want a gaping hole between South Dakota and Kansas. When he suggested we go to Nebraska, I initially said no, But then I thought about it consulted my National Park app. I figured if there was something worth visiting in the South-east corner we would go. There was. The Homestead National Historical Park is not far across the border. Since I couldn’t resist the opportunity to learn more history—to teach G3 more history—we turned the car north after Eisenhower‘s house. This national Park has added meaning for me because dad collected the State National Park quarters for G3 and this is the park on the Nebraska quarter.
While we were driving, I saw a historical marker for Pony Express. I was very excited to stop and read the sign. G3 made fun of me for stopping. It was just a marker—nothing more—indicating where one of the stops along the Pony Express had been. The Pony Express lasted only a year and a half—from 1860 until 1861. It ran from St. Joseph Missouri to Sacramento, California. The pony express was able to deliver mail in a third of the time that it took the stage coaches. By the end of 1861 it was no longer needed because the trans continental telegraph was able to deliver information far more quickly.
All stories have two sides. The history of the Homestead Act is no different. You can look at it from the white man’s perspective, as there being endless opportunity and free land for anyone willing to work it. Or you can look at it from the Native American perspective in which white people came in and stole land that they had lived on for centuries. Neither story is wrong, but we need to acknowledge both of them. We can’t just look at what the white man gained and ignore how we got it and who we hurt in the process.
Americans today like to believe that America was built on the ideals of independence and self-sufficiency. We think about people pushing West, claiming land, and making a go of it on their own—without help, especially from the Government. The truth is, that is just a myth. The Homestead Act was not simply about independence or being able to do things all on your own. Today, many Americans are against government assistance. They think it breeds laziness. The reality is that the Government was giving handouts all along—handouts that sometimes bred success. Without the free land doled out as a result of the Homestead Act, people would not have been able to make it on their own. They would not have had the money to purchase the land necessary to begin their own farms.
Abraham Lincoln signed the Homestead Act in 1862. It went into affect on January 1, 1863. The very first Homestead was in Beatrice Nebraska—the current site of the National Park. Local legend claims that Daniel Freeman was at a party on December 31 when he heard about homesteading. In the morning, he woke up and immediately went to register his claim. I always associated the Homestead Act with the late 1800s. If you had asked me a week ago when the last homestead was granted by the United States government, I probably would’ve guessed somewhere in the 1890s. I would’ve been wrong. The last homestead went to Kenneth Deardorff in 1974, the year I was born. He came home from fighting the was in Vietnam and wanted a fresh start. The only land left available was in Alaska, so that’s where he went. The Supreme Court won’t let Biden pay off $10,000 of my school loan, but I would happily accept a plot of land instead. Because I’m sure that 160 acres is worth more than $10,000.
According to the Homestead Act, in order to claim 160 acres of land, one needed to build a shelter and begin farming. After five years, if they were successful, they received the title to the land. The act did not discriminate—men, women, and minorities were able to apply for a homestead. Even so, I’m sure it is no surprise that the majority of homesteaders were white men.
Many homesteads did not succeed. Success of a Homestead was not just based on how hard somebody was willing to work. Luck played a factor. Weather killed many homestead aspirations. Lack of rain was deadly to crops. Also, not everyone had the means to obtain proper equipment to farm. Despite the failures, it is believed that up to 93 million Americans are descended from homesteaders.
Perhaps the most famous homesteading family was the Ingalls. They didn’t do anything special and Charles wasn’t particularly successful, but his daughter went on to write books about their life on the frontier, books that inspired a TV series. That’s America for you—put someone on TV and they are instantly famous. Moral of the story, write a book about your dad and someday he too may be famous.
America is so good at remembering Abraham Lincoln as being the good guy who freed the slaves. But we are unable to remember the things he did that harmed other people, specifically Native Americans. When the Homestead Act went into affect, Americans were told that the land was theirs for the taking. As a result, Americans invaded the west, ignoring treaties that had been signed with Native American tribes. What followed was the loss of even more land.
Arguably, more damaging than the fact that treaties were violated is the fact that the Homestead Act inspired the Dawes Act of 1887. It was conceived by Senator Dawes from Massachusetts and signed by President Grover Cleveland. Maybe they had good intentions, however, the consequences were dire. The Dawes Act divided reservation land. Much like the Homestead Act it gave 160 acres of land to each Native American. Cunningly, the good land was set aside because after the Natives took their claims, Whites could claim the rest. The result was a loss of up to 60% a reservation land.
At the historical park, G3 and I watched a video, strolled through the museum, and then took a short walk through the prairie. The National Park is restoring the land to its original state—before homesteading. We couldn’t take a long walk because it was 86° and we were melting.
At home, most traffic lights are on a timer. Apparently, that is not the case in Nebraska. I stopped at a red light and was there for about three minutes. Just as I was beginning to wonder if the light was ever going to change, the guy behind me knocked on my window. He explained that I needed to move up closer to the stoplight, otherwise I wouldn’t trigger the sensor that would turn the light green. I apologized and he said no worries, he could see that I was not from around here.
On the drive back to the campsite, G3 was hungry and looked online for a place to eat. He found a Mexican place in the middle of nowhere. We are in Kansas. My expectations were low. But G3 wanted Mexican, so we stopped. The food was surprisingly good.
I slept well last night. I fell asleep listening to the cicadas and woke up to birds. The highway noise didn’t bother me. And the RVs were so quiet, I wouldn’t have known they were there if I hadn’t seen them. No generators, no loud people. This morning, I still don’t see anyone, only another tent camper a reasonable distance from us. I love waking up near water—even if it is brown and looks stagnant. While G3 showered I broke down the tent. Too bad we aren’t staying another day. I really like it here.
While I was in the shower, G3 bought me a cup of coffee at the coffee shop. I thought that was really sweet of him. It turns out he bought me a cup of coffee because he got himself a mocha. He thought I would be less likely to object to him drinking coffee if he got one for me too. I chuckled.
G3 doesn’t want to leave the campground. A cat recently had kittens and G3 is happily sitting on the porch of the coffee shop petting them. He wants to take one home. I don’t think Kati would object, but I am allergic to cats.
When I could finally pry G3 away from the cats we drove 15 minutes to Hannibal so that we could visit the home of one of Missouri’s most famous people. Years ago, when G3 was about four or five years old, we went camping in Connecticut. While there, I was very excited to take G3 to Mark Twain’s home. In preparation of the visit, I taught G3 a bit about Twain and even read him a couple of chapters from Tom Sawyer. However, I neglected to tell Gary that Mark Twain’s real name was Samuel Clemens. When we got to the tour of the house, the tour guide said that we were going to learn about Samuel Clemens. G3‘s face fell, “Who’s Samuel Clemens? I thought this was Mark Twain’s house.” The tour guide laughed but cleared up the confusion and G3 was happy again.
Mark Twain is Samuel Clemens’ pen name. It comes from Twain’s days as a steamboat pilot. Before modern navigation tools, to know how swallow a river was in a certain place they would drop a rope, with a weight tied at the end, into the water. The rope had knots to designate various depths. The term ‘mark’ indicated 6 feet. ‘Twain’ meant two. Therefore, the knot at ‘mark twain’ meant twelve feet which was what a steamboat needed to pass safely. Safe water. It’s an interesting pen name for a man whose writing has become so controversial.
The house in Connecticut was palatial in comparison to Twain’s boyhood home. The house here in Hannibal is tiny—and after thirty years of wanting to see it, it was a bit anti-climactic. The town was not. Tom Sawyer was based entirely on Twain’s childhood. St. Petersburg is the real life Hannibal. Becky Thatcher was Laura Hawkins. Aunt Polly was based Twain’s mother and Tom’s cousins were Twain’s siblings. If it were not for Twain, Hannibal would probably be a rundown forgotten speck on the map. As it it, it is a quaint historical tourist town. I thought we’d be there an hour or two, I was wrong. We were there all day.
The tour of the house was self guided. I don’t like self guided as much as when tours are given by a guide. Self guided requires me to read. I do that all the time. I enjoy listening to stories and having conversations with someone who knows more than I do about someone or something. I also like being able to ask questions, and I always seem to have lots of questions. Even though the tour was dry—reading quotes and information on the walls—I did learn a few things.
Twain was born in Florida, Missouri and moved to Hannibal when he was four. His parents owned six slaves but needed to sell all but one because they were poor and needed the money. Twain’s father died when he was eleven. Twain was good friends with Laura Hawkins and they remained friends throughout their lives. She was proud to be known as Becky Thatcher and even had that name—and her own—carved on her headstone. My dad always liked Becky Thatcher. I think he would have found that bit of trivia interesting. Before becoming an author, Twain worked as a typesetter, steamboat pilot, silver miner, and reporter—experience that is all evident in his writing. While Twain was raised in a slave state, in a society that saw nothing wrong with slavery, his own views changed over time as he traveled and talked to people. In 1874, he met a formally enslaved woman and listened to her story about how her kids and husband were torn from her. He wrote and published her story in the newspaper. And if you’ve read Hick Finn, you know the novel is a commentary on the evils of slavery as told from a child’s perspective—a child raised to think slavery was proper.
At the Twain museum we saw the original Normal Rockwell illustrations for Twain’s two most famous novels. In 1935, Rockwell was hired to draw pictures for an upcoming publication of the books. Before beginning the work he traveled to Hannibal to get a feel for the setting, He also sketched pictures of the cave—while sitting inside of it—in which Tom and Huck find the treasure.
When we finished all the stops on the self guided tour, we walked around town. G3 wanted visit some of the shops. Walking into Nobel Wares, he had a near religious experience. The store sold mostly swords, but also historic guns, knight’s armor, shields, Roman armor and more. The swords were historical replicas—he recognized some from forged in fire and others from what he’s learned about Samurai swords. They were also replicas of swords found in literature—a half a wall was dedicated to swords from Lord of the Rings, including Bilbo’s Sting. G3 loves weapons. He collects them. Therefore, he couldn’t resist buying a replica of a Civil War Cavalry Saber. (Thanks Mom for giving him money to use toward purchasing it.) When he asked if he could see it, the guy in the store looked at me and said, “It’s a real sword. It’s sharp.” I said it was okay because he was trained in how to handle a sword. The guy looked skeptical until I explained about G3’s involvement with Taekwondo. The moment G3 held it he was enthralled. First we visited Grant’s house, then he buys a Civil War saber. This kid definitely has a different relationship with history than most of his peers.
Before we left the campground this morning, the woman in the coffee shop told me that if we were going to visit Hannibal because I like Mark Twain, then we needed to go to the Mark Twain Cave. It was the cave Twain played in as a child and later immortalized in Tom Sawyer. She didn’t need to say more. I decided we were definitely going. We’ve been to a lot of caves but none with a connection to literature. But first, G3 and I ate lunch—he had meat tacos, I had shrimp tacos—in a local restaurant. Big mistake. I was super excited for the cave tour but half way through, I got seriously ill. The cave started to spin, my stomach felt as if I were being stabbed with a burning knife, and I needed to throw-up. The guide had to call to have me escorted out and I spent the next half hour throwing up. My guess is I had a bout of food poisoning from the shrimp. I felt bad abandoning G3, but he didn’t mind. We were the only two on the tour so while I was puking my guts out in the bathroom he had his own private tour. The tour guide was really nice. When he and G3 got back he took me into the cave again. He knew how intrigued I was and that I knew more about the cave scenes in Tom Sawyer than most tourists. I know G3 paid attention on the tour after I had left because every time the tour guide asked him to complete a story or share a fact he was able to do so. In fact, I think he enjoyed being able to teach me something.
On the tour the guide pointed out Samuel Clemens’s signature. Hundreds of people signed their names through the years but only two famous/infamous people. Now adding your own name is a Federal offense. Twain is not the only well known historical figure to walk in the cave. On September 22, 1979–and the signature has been authenticated by specialists—Jessie James wrote his name on the cave wall. He hid out in the cave 16 days before robbing a train in Independence. Being able to see his signature on the wall is not part of the tour—you need to be skinny-ish to fit through the lemon squeeze. Since it was just G3 and I, the guide took us. G3 thought it was really cool to stand where Mark Twain and Jessie James stood.
Missouri is apparently known as the cave state. There are more than 7000 caves in the state. The floor of the cave is glacial clay, a substance left behind when glaciers melt. In Twain’s day kids used to play in the cave all the time—without parental supervision. Before air conditioning, town hall meetings were held in the cave because it has a constant temperature in the 50s. The section of the cave known as “Aladdin’s Palace” was named by Twain. Injun Joe—like many of the other characters in Tom Sawyer—was based on a real guy. The real person was nice—nothing like the character and he resented Twain basing a bad person on him.
After the cave, I went another round in the bathroom. I dreaded the the long drive to Pomona State Park where we are camping for the next few nights. I feared I wouldn’t make it, but I did. We got here at sun set and had to race, again, to set the tent up before it got dark. G3 did most of the work since I was still not completely well. The campground is huge and mostly empty. There are a few RV’s but no other tent. The tents are removed so we are all alone—a little eerie. Once again we are right on the water—Pomona Lake. When I commented about how empty the place is, G3 laughed, “What did you expect. There are about three people living in all of Kansas.” An exaggeration yes, but most of what we saw was flat farm land. Few houses. Few people. Exactly what I had expected. I only hope we don’t encounter a tornado.
It’s late. I am tired. I need to go to sleep. Good night!
G3 wanted to visit the arch in St. Louis. When I travel, I don’t like to plan too much. Plans can be like prisons, locking you into something. I like the freedom of being on the road and being able to change direction and go off course if something better reveals itself. Therefore, I didn’t book tickets in advance to go to the Arch. Last night, I decided I should probably check to see if I needed advanced tickets. I do. Luckily, I was able to secure them for today. Unfortunately, the earliest time slot available was 5:00. I took what I could get and this morning, instead of heading to the Arch, we detoured to President Grant’s house. It’s the third Grant house we have visited, so G3 wasn’t as enthused as he usually is.
Grant’s parents named him Hiram Ulysses Grant. It was when he enrolled in West Point that some clerical error ensured that history would remember him as Ulysses S. Grant. White Haven, the house in St. Louis, belonged to his wife’s family. Interestingly, it was a plantation. Julia Dent’s father owned slaves. When Grant first proposed, Julia wasn’t keen on marriage. She wasn’t in love with Grant and she knew his abolitionist ideas would not appeal to her father.
After being rejected, the Army sent Grant south to fight in the Mexican—American War. He was opposed to our involvement. He believed it was an unjust war, one in which a strong country was taking advantage of a smaller, weaker one in order to obtain more land. He was not wrong. Following the war, he returned to St. Louis and proposed again. This time Julia said yes.
They married in 1848 and not long after Grant’s first child was born, he was stationed in California. He missed his family greatly. One day, he was accused of being intoxicated. He resigned from the army shortly afterward. There are conflicting reasons as to why. One account says he was forced to quit because of his drinking. Another account says he missed his family. Returning to St. Louis, he tried many different jobs, but didn’t succeed at any of them. Eventually, he moved to Illinois to work as a tanner in his father’s business. He hated it. The job repulsed him and prompted him to stop eating meat.
When The War Between States broke out he reenlisted. A series of victories made his name well known in the north and caught Lincoln’s attention. His victory at Chattanooga made way for an invasion of the South. Or course you all know Lee surrendered to him at Appomattox. Following the surrender, he let Confederate Soldiers return home with their horses.
After the War, the reunited country elected him as president. In office, he fought for racial equality. He pushed to get the 15th Amendment—which gave black men the right to vote—ratified. He gave the Federal Government power to oppose the KKK. Sadly, scandals weakened his popularity making it nearly impossible for him to continue advocating for former slaves.
When Grant left office, he and his family moved to Manhattan. It wasn’t long before he found himself impoverished after his son’s business partner made a bad investment. Unable to make good on a loan from the Vanderbilts, Grant’s son and his business partner ended up forfeiting all the family money and assets—including White Haven. Poor and dying of cancer, Grant needed to find a way to provide for his family. Mark Twain offered to help, promising to publish Grant’s memoirs if he were to write them. Grant wrote two volumes in less than a year. Days after completing them, he died. But they sold well, ensuring that his family would have some income. Today, July 23, is the 138th anniversary of Grant’s death.
How do you get your history loving mom to buy you ice cream? You do a Google search looking for food native to St. Louis. In the search, you discover that—by some accounts—Charles Menches made the first ice cream cone on this day in history—today, July 23, 1904—at the St. Louis World’s Fair. I never eat sugar cones—never. You can ask my family and they will tell you I always have my ice cream in a cup. But this afternoon, even I had to have my ice cream on a cone. We went to Cups and Cones, in a residential area of St. Louis, The ice cream was expensive, but good.
We ate the ice cream in a local park. After we ate, G3 challenged me to a game of tetherball. I prove that I am a total spaz playing the game. He laughed mercilessly at me and won each match.
On the way to the Arch, we passed the Old Courthouse. It was made famous in 1846 when Dred Scott and his wife Harriet sued for freedom. They were slaves from Virginia who had lived for nine years in Illinois and Wisconsin—a free state and territory. They initially won the case and were declared free. However, four years later, a Federal Court overturned the verdict. The Scotts’ appealed all the way to the Supreme Court where the judges ruled—not surprisingly—in favor of white supremacy. The case pissed off Northerns and abolitionists and helped bring about the Civil War.
The Arch is a monument to Lewis and Clark and Westward Expansion. (A monument to our cunning and cruelty when it came to stealing and swindling land from Native Americans and Mexicans.)To enter the Arch we needed to go through airport type security. Once in the museum. we watched a documentary on the making of the arch. If I was as interested in engineering as I am in history, I probably would have found it intriguing. But I couldn’t push through the boredom. I took a page from Kati’s playbook and took a nap.
G3 was very excited to go to the top of the arch. To get there, we had to ride up in very claustrophobic pods. We rode with a young couple from Savannah Georgia. The guy noticed G3’s Glacier hat and said he had been there years ago with his family. They used to do a lot of road trips which he loved because he got to see many states. Somehow, New Mexico came up in conversation. I mentioned that G3 hoped to go to Philmont with the Boy Scouts in a couple of years. The guy said that he was an Eagle Scout, but he had never been to Philmont. Out of curiosity, I asked him what he did as an Eagle project. He told us he made picnic tables for a wildlife preserve in Georgia.
The views from the top of the arch were amazing. G3 enjoyed being able to look down and take pictures. Of course, the St. Louis side is nicer, prettier than the Illinois side. The Mississippi River just looks icky—brown and dirty. Not very appealing at all. G3 and I reminisced about the novel Percy Jackson, which we both read years ago. In the novel, Percy Jackson gets into a fight with monsters and somehow ends up jumping off the arch and landing in the Mississippi. G3 was trying to figure out how he would’ve ended up in the water because when you look down it’s obvious that there is no way anyone would fall into the water. A fall would result in death, splattering on the grass below.
We are staying at the Meadow Campground and Coffee Shop, a quaint, privately own campground. It is about five minutes away from Mark Twain’s house. We got here just after the sunset, and we raced to put up the tent before we lost all daylight. There are mostly RVs here, but we have a tent site right on the water. It’s nice, but a little buggy. Even though it was late, G3 wanted a campfire. I happily started one, but five minutes after the wood started to burn, G3 said he was bored and disappeared into the tent. I am enjoying the solitude and the sound of the cicadas. Unfortunately, we are right beside the highway so I can also hear the cars and trucks zooming past.
Again, sorry for the typos. I am tired and can’t keep my eyes open to further proofread.
And so begins our summer 2023 road trip. Gary and I got up early this morning and we were on the road by 5 o’clock. It’s just the two of us this time. Kati stayed home to take care of things that need to be done for us to move, things that need to be done to settle her dad‘s estate, and to take a professional development class for work. We started the trip listening to Billy Joel—a tribute to dad. He often started off our vacations when I was a kid by playing Billy’s Greatest Hits. Volumes I and II take me back to sitting in the backseat of he car, excitement and anticipation bubbling in my stomach. Traveling was, and still is, my favorite activity—the time of year I am genuinely happy. The songs on Volume III remind me Dad and Mattituck. It’s been three years since Dad died and two since Mom sold the house, and still I found myself crying as I listened to a couple of the songs. The memories hit hard and fast and I wasn’t expecting the lyrics to jerk me back in time so forcefully.
G3 must not have slept much last night. He slept all through Pennsylvania, waking up only for breakfast. He also slept through much of Ohio. He did, however, become semi-alert when I put Melissa Ferrick on, and then only to vent about how awful her music is. He complained about her voice, he complained about her lyrics, and he complained about her guitar skills. I think he just hate lesbian musicians because he also always complains about the Indigo Girls. Or maybe it’s just women that don’t appeal to him because he wasn’t happy with Mary Chapin Carpenter either. Despite his displeasure with my choices, he opted to play my Korean music which completely confused me because he couldn’t possibly understand any of the words. But apparently not as understanding male singers is better than suffering through anything sung by a woman.
I didn’t want to spend the entire day driving without at least one productive stop so I took G3 to Marion, Ohio to pay a visit to Warren G. Harding—or rather Harding’s house. Years ago, Kati worked with a woman who was Harding’s grand niece. Since she is a bit of a history buff, she was always proud of that connection to a president. We arrived early for the tour so G3 and I played horseshoes—where Harding once upon a time played—and he beat me every game. He even managed to get a ringer.
When he was 25, Harding married Florence. She was five years older than he was, which was unusual for the late 1800s. Florence was also divorced. Her first husband was an alcoholic and abandoned her and their son. Florence’s father disowned her after her first marriage—he was a bit of a control freak and balked at his daughter not taking orders from him. He did take her back in when her first husband absconded, but he assumed custody of Florence’s son. When Florence married Harding, he disowned her again and refused to relinquish custody of her kid. Her son grew up to be an alcoholic, like his dad, and died young from pneumonia.
Harding supported equality for women. Not only did he vote, as a senator, in favor of women’s suffrage, when he went into politics he let his wife take over the business of running his newspaper. He was the first man elected president after the passage of the 19th Amendment. Even though evidence suggests that women voted in line with their husbands, the fact that he was pro women’s rights probably made him appealing to women voters. (Although history also has a few voices claiming that women voted for him because he was attractive. Personally, I don’t see it. But what do I know.)
Harding ran his 1920 campaign from his front porch. Instead of touring the country, he gave speeches at his house. People would take the train to Marion, walk two miles in the heat, listen to Harding speak for an hour, and then turn around and walk back to the train station. Harding was a gifted orator and he could be quite charismatic, appealing to men and women. He won both the popular vote and the electoral vote on his 55th birthday. His inaugural speech was the first to reach thousands with a microphone. He dedicated the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington. Before him, no other president insisted on a budget. When he did, he helped cut taxes by 25% by eliminating wasteful spending.
In 1923, Harding became the first US president to visit Alaska and Canada. On that tour he fell sick. His doctor originally thought it was food poisoning. It wasn’t. Though he was unaware of it, he was suffering from Congenial Heart failure—which is why he slept sitting up the last six months of his life. He took to bed at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco and died a few days later from a heart attack. According to legend, the clock in the living room of his house is haunted. It stopped at precisely the same time he died—thousands of miles away.
While he was on his goodwill tour, his Vice President, Coolidge, was vacationing at his Vermont home. Coolidge’s dad was a local judge. When word reached Coolidge that Harding was dead, his farther swore him in as President. (We learned that 4 years ago when we were visiting Coolidge’s house.)
Sadly, for years Harding’s legacy was marred by scandals. In one scandal, he was allegedly aware of money being embezzled from the Veterans. According to the tour guide, he was cleared of involvement in that scandal, and others, once his papers were discovered years later.
It was a long day of driving and since I didn’t sleep much last night—excitement to get on the road kept me up—I need to go to bed.
Elizabeth Jaeger 