Choose the least important day in your life. It will be important enough. — Thornton Wilder, “Our Town”
I ran out of Pallucca’s sausage last week, so I drove my Trusty Pathfinder out to the Republic to get a refill. As I turned east off Mt. Carmel Road at what was once the Rose Bowl corner, I decided to drive my old paper route.
Back in 1959, my black Lab, King, loped along with me as I crisscrossed the streets. This time it was Arlo the Labradorian, his slobbering head hung out of the backseat window. (Note to others who have drooling car dogs: Turtle Wax Bug & Tar Remover is great for getting saliva stains off your exterior paint.)
I had lots of flashbacks, starting with folding newspapers into envelopes at our round, oak kitchen table and descending the back steps of our tarpaper-sided bungalow to mount my Western Flyer with a sack of news slung over my shoulder.
It wasn’t long before a Santa Fe freight sounded and rolled in and found me by the tracks straddling my bicycle — the soothing, resonant hum of the diesel locomotive followed by the rockabye (and an occasional disquieting squeal) of freight and hopper cars dragging along behind.
On Cayuga Street I passed the lot where old Goldie Graham once lived. Remembered the bachelor smell of his kitchen when I collected for the paper on Saturday afternoons.
Had to circle an extra block to finish my route at the old homeplace on Crawford as the street was closed years back for new Frontenac school construction which eliminated the hallowed site of the old, concrete football stadium and gridiron nestled among neighborhood homes.
Then came the vision of the turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, dressing, and pumpkin pie dinner after the annual Frontenac – Arma Thanksgiving football game.
A football rivalry to end all rivalries, the Arma – Frontenac game brought followers not only from both mining towns, but fans from all over Southeast Kansas to cram the stands or walk the sidelines behind the slack steel cable strung between rounded posts where many a dispute — and occasionally a fistfight — broke out between rowdy fans.
It was, to me as a boy, like ancient Rome — gladiators in the coliseum surrounded by fanatical spectators. A coliseum located just half a block from our house directly across from the high school where, after the pageantry and near mortal combat, we gorged like Roman rulers on mom’s Thanksgiving dinner.
As I drove past my old house, I had a melancholy urge to stop, knock on the door, and ask to visit the knotty pine dining room where we came together over 60 years ago, but resisted, and drove on to Pallucca’s. Out front, I had a vision of Millo ‘The Only One In Captivity’ Farneti, in a spirited argument with my dad about KU basketball.
After securing the sausage and two bags of Frontenac Bakery bread sticks, I paid Rosemary at the register and headed home. As I drove, I found myself recalling songs I listened to (and memorized) on AM radio as a boy. Soon I was serenading Arlo with Johnny Horton’s The Battle of New Orleans: “In 1814 we took a little trip along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip…”
Friday morning, I gathered at Pittsburg Public Library with fellow members of The Talking Heads exploration and discussion group. Our current focus is a Great Courses series titled “How Jesus Became God.”
In religious and historical explorations such as these, we frequently bring up the questions: “Why are we here?” and “Is religion borne of a desire for meaning or the fear of death? (always being aware of our biases and striving not to think in absolutes).
At one point I asked whom in the group still attended church … and why. The answers were varied — but contained no moralistic rhetoric. All spoke of connectedness and a yearning for transcendence and love — as well as the joy of seeing old friends.
On Saturday I went to the Gorillas playoff game. Afterward, I had supper with my uncle David Fowler and cousin Jeannie at Jim’s. A communion of good food, DNA, and loving, intimate conversation, it left me grateful and glad to be alive.
On Sunday, after Mass at Sacred Heart, a pork loin roast lunch, and a nap, I came upon a quote on the Internet that embodied my experiences throughout the week.
“We are here,” Buddhist monk and teacher Thich Nhat Hahn said, “to awaken from our illusion of separateness.”
J.T. Knoll is a writer, speaker, historian and eulogist. He also operates Knoll Training & Consulting Services in Pittsburg. He can be reached at 620-704-1309 or [email protected]
