white with foam

Last fall, my sister Mary moved from the Fairview neighborhood in Olathe to a house well over twice as big in a subdivision called Persimmon Hill. There she has the luxury of naming rooms by function: the Workout Room, the Loom Room, the Spare. Her house in Fairview was so close to the tracks that all conversation paused when a train went by; in Persimmon Hill, it wasn’t long before a neighbor asked if she’d be cutting her lawn anytime soon.

The new redheads on the block soon caught the eye of another neighbor: Jim, two-three doors down and recently widowed. Jim is all Kansas: a barrel-chested, early-rising hard worker. He’s good people; naturally, Rachel, the youngest of Mary’s girls, who’s twelve and around whom the world revolves, distrusts him for that. After dinner we sat out on the porch, the grownups, with dark beer and cigars, trading stories as the grill cooled and the humidity softened. Rachel, who wanted to join us but wanted her freedom too, flicked the lights on and off or flitted around inside, restlessly. Her word for that, when it’s done online, is creeping.

A languid schedule obtained the next day. I was anxious to get to Mom’s — actually, to her car keys — so that I might tour the city with my camera, an itch that got itself scratched in due time. Photo safaris are like fishing: you study the vacillations of your prey and put yourself in their general area, and with patience, luck, and a lot of casting, you might have a good day. It also helps to make yourself sincere, like Linus awaiting the Great Pumpkin.

That was my frame of mind as I cruised the south city and first-ring suburbs that afternoon. For better or worse, I found myself guided by the GPS of where I used to could go by bicycle: Johnson Drive down to 95th, Metcalf to Holmes, and ended up after an hour or so in the stocked pond, as it were, of Metcalf South, where Mom used to buy my Toughskins. Today, Met South has two anchors, an arts theater, and precious little in between. And yet they keep it neat as a pin, as if Hickory Farms and the Orange Julius are merely vacationing. It’s very strange.

I had just enough time to get back to Mom’s and shower off the top filmy layer before heading down to Rosedale Barbecue for dinner. And yes, I did give her gas money. It was a crew of old friends: Rob, who came during the “eye of the storm” of a massive software upgrade at work; Elizabeth, the best storyteller in all of Overland Park; and Tim, all the way from Eudora, along with their respective spouses Candi, Chucho and Kendra. Among KC barbecue joints, Rosedale is a sentimental favorite of mine as it was the one my Dad liked best. It’s divey, but clean. Burnished. Plus, they were having a Memorial Day sale: a full rack, fifteen bones, for $11.95. Some of the couples shared full racks.

Come to think of it, the fishing conceit might apply around that table, too. Even though the format discouraged good one-to-one, I still got such a kick out of being there with some of my oldest friends. We’ve been in that boat a long time, and each of us has our tales and our trophies from the dark waters that surround…okay, maybe not so much.

Next: two surprises from unexpected corners. Meantime, a few more photos are available here, on Flickr.

Tags:   Kansas City · Rosedale · Shawnee Mission2 Comments