From sea to shining sea, she brings a bit of Kansas along on her many travels
I’m often asked why I live in Kansas. The answer used to be that we moved across the state line to enroll our girls in accredited public schools. The offspring moved on, but we’re still here.
Also, there’s no reason to move. My husband is still working and paying bills, and everyone knows where we live. We have room when the kids come home or friends pass through. We know many people our age who have whittled down their belongings and situated their leftovers into sunlit, single-level abodes near golf courses — or grandkids.
Since we don’t play golf or have grandkids, we keep dusting our keepsakes and finding places to go that are not close by for a few days here and there. This is being posted at the end of the summer, but it’s our year-round checklist for treks out of town to spread a little Kansas elsewhere.
Having raised two daughters who seemed hell-bent to get outta Dodge, or in this case, the whole Midwest, we wanted to see more hubbub, ourselves.
Every year since the 1980s, we’ve driven to Hatteras Island on the Outer Banks of North Carolina and rented the same cottage. Our parents and sometimes a sister or two have come along through the years. We like to air out the beach towels, play Scrabble after dinner (losing to the kids every time), and though they don’t kick in until later, form lasting memories.
Every summer I fly solo to New Orleans to hang out with my daughter Sophie before and while she starts school. (Yes, teachers have to be in the building the week after July 4). We run in the park every morning, eat a lot of fruit and ice cream, invite friends over for drinks or food, visit favorite bookstores in town and haunt the French Quarter on quiet, humid weekdays.
While longer overseas travel is in the offing, the hubby and I drive monthly out of town to see his mom. A few times a year we take aim at his very full, planned-ahead schedule. He front-loads the work week so we can catch an afternoon nonstop to northern California on a Thursday, for instance, and spend a weekend driving the country roads of Sonoma, Napa and sometimes Marin counties. The idea is to use a paper map and avoid traffic, crowds and wineries. (We’re driving, not drinking). We plug in our favorite tunes to accompany the scenery, and find roads that lead to good views and eats.
Years ago while visiting our daughter Phoebe in California, we made friends with Pete, an East Bay mechanic, after our car’s clutch cable broke and rendered us at his mercy. Eventually he came across the byproduct of a client’s divorce: a spiffy but souped-up ‘71 Porsche Targa. It was a tribute to someone’s midlife crisis, loud and obnoxious. We bought it and left it with Pete while he beautifully restored it to its original noisy grace.
After a few trips, we got familiar with the Southwest nonstops between here and Oakland. We’ve got no reason to buy a second home on any coast, because we have a parking space on the west, a rented cottage on the east, and a daughter with a couch on the Gulf. Until climate change swallows the Outer Banks, prohibits carbon-fueled driving on wine country roads or floods New Orleans, we are set.
No matter where we visit, here or abroad, once we tell people where we’re from, Kansas always gets a rise out of someone. We may not end up living here forever, but for now, there’s no place like home.
Contact Ellen at murphysister04@gmail.com.
