Hunting for Ghosts

Woodson County courthouse, Yates Center, Kansas.

I stood looking at the imposing red brick courthouse, probably, possibly, where my father stood nearly 95 years ago during the Kansas-life he had, and I never knew about. He was a kid fresh into his teens in 1916, anchored by so many loose ends in his life we can’t begin to imagine—or long for. The building stands in the near-geographic center of Woodson County, Kansas, where my genealogy research has most recently taken me.
Looking east, the direction from which he had somehow managed to navigate, colorful buildings built in the late 1880s, restored numerous times, blocked my view of the rising sun. Looking west, were his future with disappointments he’d yet to discover, lay, dark clouds and unrelenting winds welcomed me to late-November Kansas.
The streets are, were, uneven, made of solid, unspeaking bricks, darker in color than those used to build the courthouse building, designed to keep secrets intact. No stop signs around this square to impede traffic or progress, one might guess. Angle parking on both sides of the street still left plenty of room for modern cars to make U-turns. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what might have been when the dirt streets were crowded when long-horned cattle passing through from the no-longer existing railroads to the tall grass prairies north and west of Yates Center.
My camouflage, head to toe, seemed a bit off the mark—again. First, my car was the only one of its kind in this land of seriously big pickup trucks and SUVs I'd need a step ladder to get into. I’m no slave to fashion, so when I entered the Feedbunk, the only place around to get breakfast, I donned the obligatory baseball cap, however, mine advertised striped bass, not some cattle feed or farm implement. I had on my best Justin boots, only to learn natives dress in real camo and wear Nike and New Balance. Since I was relatively free of mud at 6:30 a.m., they probably sensed I was an outsider. (Full disclosure: I’m something of a city guy so I had to ask what a “Feedbunk” was. The waitress looked at me like I might be from outer space and said, “Well, honey, it’s where we put the feed for the cattle,” which I guess is better than calling your restaurant the Food Trough.
I ate at the Foodbunk two mornings, noting that the same guys sat in the same spots, wearing the same clothes both mornings. The things that changed were the conversations, which extended from one table across the aisle to another, booth to booth. I noticed the waitress never offered the locals a menu. She’d just ask, “Are ya eatin’ this morning?” then bring a customer a plate of food.
Conversations ranged from lost dogs, “Yer dog ever come home, Bill?” “Yep. Never did tell me where he’d been for three days,” to hunting; “Yer nephews get any birds yesterday?” “Those two fools? First the young one shot up a trash bag that was blowin’ across the field, then the otherun shot two crows, then they complained ‘bout not seein’ any pheasants.”
I’m not sure if the conversations were real or just for my entertainment. Doesn’t matter, really. As writer William Least Heat-Moon says, “You can worry about every twist in the road, or you can sit back and enjoy the scenery.”



Where my dad’s dreams of being a cowboy began 95 years ago.