Day 7

This morning we drove south and left Kansas. En route we stopped in Independence—yesterday it was Independence, Missouri; today it was Independence, Kansas—to visit The Little House on the Prairie. As many of you know, in my childhood, I was a tad bit obsessed with Little House on the Prairie. Of all the authors I have read, I consider Laura Ingalls Wilder to be the most influential to me as a writer. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that the first book of mine to earn a publishing contract is a memoir. One that closely examines a significant—soon to be historical—event.

Laura only lived in the Kansas house for a little over a year between 1869 and 1870. In the book, she was about six years old, but in real life she was younger. Her father left Wisconsin—The Little House in the Big Woods—when he heard that land in Indian Territory would soon be open for white settlement. But, he neglected to wait for it to be a sure thing. When he arrived, the land was still occupied by the Osage. Laura writes about encounters with the Osage in the her book. Her father built the tiny cabin—the one currently on the site is only a replica, the original long since lost to history—by himself.

While living there, the family all got sick with malaria. I vaguely remember reading that scene. The doctor who treated them—Dr. George Tan—was the first African-American doctor in Oklahoma and Kansas.

The original cabin was built either on or right at the edge of the Osage’s diminishing reservation. The family lived there and attempted to make a go of life on the prairie until they heard a rumor that US soldiers were going to drive the white settlers off the land. They didn’t wait, instead they packed up again and returned to Wisconsin. The year after they left, the Osage signed a treaty with the US Government selling them the remainder of their Kansas land. They then relocated to Indian Territory, now Oklahoma. Congress only paid them $1.25 an acre. White settlers started legally purchasing and settling the land the same year. But since Charles had already left, he never filed.

While at the site, I spent a good twenty minutes or longer chatting about the Ingalls family with the young woman who worked there. It’s not often—maybe never before—that I encounter someone as interested in Laura as I am. She told me Laura wrote all her manuscripts by had. Her daughter Rose had bought her a typewriter, but she rebelled against all modern technology. She didn’t even like electricity. After Laura drafted her work, Rose did the typing. Before leaving, I purchased Pioneer Girl. It’s Laura’s original manuscripts that have been annotated by scholars. My reading project for the upcoming school year will be to reread all of the Little House books. When I’m done, I will tackle Pioneer Girl.

G3 did not enjoy the stop, not even a little. In fact, he grumbled about it. But honestly, the only living person who can genuinely understand my excitement is my mother. After all, she lived through my childhood obsession. When G3 was little—maybe 5 or 6—I read him the first two books and we watched the first year of the TV series. He wasn’t enthused. So we moved on to Harry Potter which he liked much more. Today, I wanted an hour for me. And G3 complained. He was bored. And Stephen King is a much better author so why do I waste my time with Laura. I got angry at him. This trip isn’t just about him. I told him after taking him to see presidents I deserved Little House. He said that was different because I like presidents too. I told him if he didn’t stop complaining he could live on bread and water until we got home. And as for King, it wasn’t a matter of who was the better writer. It’s a matter of Laura having encapsulated an entire era of American history in her writing. G3 finally quit sulking and sat in the shade to read—Salem’s Lot, by King—while I enjoyed a few moments alone with my childhood.

We ate breakfast in a cute county kitchen restaurant that looked exactly like something you’d expect to see in rural Kansas. I had hoped/expected the food to be good. It wasn’t. My omelet and hash browns were flavorless and G3 didn’t like his french toast because it was covered in a thick layer of egg.

G3 wanted to see the Center of the Universe in Tulsa. I was so upset with him, I probably wouldn’t have taken him, except it sounded kind of cool. It is a naturally occurring sound anomaly in one tiny spot on Boston Street. When you stand in that one place any noise you make is amplified and echoes back at you. We took turns standing and clapping, like little kids who have just discovered their hands.

Toll booths in Oklahoma are weird, so much different than toll booths anywhere else I have been. Going through the booth, I read a sign saying that if you were paying cash—which I was because they don’t have EZ Pass here—that you needed a cash receipt if you were getting off at one of two exits. I pulled up to the booth and asked the woman to explain why someone would need a receipt. She explained you pay the entire fare to her, but if you get off before the end of the toll road, you got half your money refunded. I told her my exit number and she said, “Yep you need a receipt.” Sure enough, two exits later, I handed the toll person my ticket and she gave me cash.

We got to Chickasaw National Recreation Area around 4:30. I went right to the Visitor Center to pick up a map and inquire about hiking trails, places to swim, and ranger programs. We will be camping here for the next three nights. Our site is right on Lake Arbuckles and we can swim right where we are camping. How convenient. Even though it is run by the National Park Service, it is a recreation area not a park. That means it is not as scenic as parks tend to be and the lake is just a place to cool off. There is nothing special about it. But when planning a trip, I always like to hit at least one National Park in each state—and this is the main one here. Once we had our tent set up, we changed into our suits and went swimming.

The entire place—especially the campground—is overrun with people. It’s the exact opposite of what we experienced in Kansas. The cicadas are loud—some of the loudest I’ve ever heard—but the damn people are louder. I hate rude people, and all to to often campgrounds are full of them. One sight has two dogs that haven’t stopped barking since we arrived. The family at the site next to us has two teenage boys and all four of them are loud. They shout to each other even though they are not far from each other. I suspect I won’t be getting much sleep tonight.