Hometown
Saturday, November 22nd, 2008
“Kansas City, Kansas, proves that even Kansas City needn’t always be Missourible.”
Ogden Nash, Spring Comes to Murray Hill
His memory hadn’t reached a deteoriation deeper than the city’s. No matter how far his mind strayed away from this place, the details were familiar. Size was the only aspect affected by time. He remembered these streets as a mini-metropolis expansive enough to seldom see familiar faces and to leave certain treasures hidden behind its tree lines and edifices. But now he felt anything worthwhile could be seen on a short drive – a single outing – and that there would be more here to find depressing than to raise the spirits.
He saw it as a depressed business strip on the plains that came to an abrupt halt the way a landing strip might – a town that could be passed through in a few brief intersections and then on into dark-rolling country fields. The city’s harshness evidentally came to full display about the time the color in the blowing leaves deadened and the trees stood cold and ashamed along the byways. The poorness could be felt as he walked the street and shopped the stores remembering how the cold had made him feel poorer.
Around him the inhabitants were still feeling it in similar places – in holely socks, in the bare skin where shirts came untucked, in thick sweat shirts worn instead of jackets, in hair that needs to be cut, in old, tired faces tight and bitter with wrinkles after exposure to the elements during a working lifetime.
On Saturday mornings, the people huriedly dress and leave the house to shop with empty pockets. The supermarkets and department stores are filled by patrons with unruly hair, many who seem to be wandering in their own existence in which they do not owe consideration to anyone else. Their inability to affect change comes across as contentedness or lack of motivation. The slovenly are unapologetic and in fact are happy to be that way. The lost mumble to themselves or are assisted by family – old men two times taller than their ancient mothers help them stoop to take items from shelves. The more common people break eye contact and shop fast. They are friendly and polite who keep close eyes on their children. They are good friends and even better neighbors, though out in public they watch quietly.
The city’s death came fast two decades ago. Recession tooks its toll and the old people in the community died tired, depressing deaths. Businesses closed, jobs left, the infrastructure crumbled and even the most disinterested youths could feel the world dieing around them.
Violence is common in the lower-numbered blocks in the summer. There are reports every night on the local news broadcasts as the warm temperatures make inner-city murder more convenient. The EZ Loan and liquor stores are as prevalent as fastfood shops. The churches are still here, the Baptists and Catholics and Lutherans who grew up in these parts refuse to give in, to give ground, to let anything overtake their holy stakes in the ground. The shops are antique and discount stores, Goodwills, Salvation Armies, and flea markets. They all within a few blocks and then there is nothing westward, just long lanes of asphalt road that carry people away to the high plains of Kansas.
Eastward the Missouri River bluffs come first and then the downtown skyline of Kansas City and below those slanted building tops the cosmopilitan urbanity with burgeoning bars and night life, its art museums and ballet performances.
The runs of store fronts and churches seemed endless when he was a boy. The buildings were healthier. The people were more alive. The community pulse hadn’t been lost. But it’s went quickly. Some facades had been updated and painted, but for the most part the area was untouched. The same broken parking lots; the same broken spirit. He wanted a better day, so he closed his eyes and remembered this place at it was before he’d left it for the world.
