April 21-22, 2018
Kansas
We left the dinosaur tracks behind and headed toward Kansas’s Chisholm Trail, stopping at the historic watering holes of Hays and Abilene. This was truly the wild west 150 years ago, when gun-slinging cowboys herded 5 million Texas longhorn cattle through this flat and fertile land, infuriating both the local cattle ranchers and civilized society.
“In 1866, cattle in Texas were worth only $4 per head, compared to over $40 per head in the North and East, because lack of market access during the American Civil War had led to over stock of cattle in Texas.—Wikipedia, The Chisholm Trail
https://www.kshs.org/p/kansas-historical-quarterly-the-chisholm-trail/12670
We didn’t see many cattle, as we passed through vast stretches of wheat fields and windmills. Finally we pulled off to a side road, without any promise of a real town or a restaurant, and stumbled upon Lulu’s, whose hand-lettered sign offered no hint of the vibrant establishment inside. We sat a few tables away from a dozen motorcycle dudes in full leather and tattoos. Audie, our waitress, said the place was “blue collar, but family-oriented.” Pointing to the vast dance floor, she recommended coming back for the live bands, alternating country and rock music, on weekends. There was a horseshoe pitch out back, she added.
We reluctantly pushed off, because we needed to get to Abilene by nightfall. But there was one more unexpected stop that we couldn’t resist. “Vitame Vas! Wilson, Czech Capitol of Kansas,” said the sign along the highway. We turned off for a quick visit, eager to reconnect with our Czech memories from living in Prague from 1998-2000.
Sure enough, in the middle of once-thriving Wilson, next to the remains of a giant grain elevator and the weedy railroad tracks, we encountered the world’s largest Czech Easter Egg.
Hoping for some immigrant stories to go with it, we followed the weather-beaten signs to the Czech cultural center. Alas, it was nowhere to be found among Wilson’s modest houses and shuttered storefronts. So we stopped at the sole establishment that seemed open, a bakery and café with a homemade sign indicating its name was Made From Scratch. The waitress was friendly, especially since strangers didn’t stop in Wilson very often. But she had bad news for us. She guessed that the Czech cultural center burned down years ago. Seeing our disappointment, she motioned to an old guy at the bar, with a flowing beard. Joe pieced together some directions for where it might be. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Boston,” we said. “Take me with you,” he said.
We cruised around town, peering in the window of one possible place, hoping to try out our Czech. But no one answered the bell. Even the Chamber of Commerce was closed.
So here in Kansas was another haunted rural outpost, like Green River, UT, that once bustled with promise. Wilson had its days of agricultural glory and hopeful, hard-working immigrants. On a sunny Monday in mid-April, there was little left to see or do there.The town seemed deserted and the businesses closed. Yet still the remaining townsfolk displayed a unique contribution to America’s greatness: a gigantic, perfectly painted Czech Easter Egg. Wishing we could come back in July for the promised after-harvest Czech festival, we left, saying “Dobry Den!” and “Na schledanou” to no one in particular, out the car window, in case someone might hear us and take heart.
