I’ll readily confess my lack of enthusiasm when Jeanne, miles off in Missouri during one of our motor adventures of exploration, suggested we head in to Kansas City. We’d had an interesting time, visited a 19th century school-church-cemetery, and Watkins Wool Mill museum. We’d pulled into the urban hell surrounding the Jesse James Museum and farm, noted the $8 plus change fee for entry, and retreated as befits citizens who donealready seen and heard the endless yarns of the James-Younger gang.
But, there’s a nice book store, Prospero’s, we could visit if we wished, I figured. And a Vietnamese restaurant I hungered for during the weeks I was across the street in the KU Hospital for the Not-Necessarily-Sane a few months ago as a consequence of a condition appropriately labelled, Guillam Beret Syndrome or something of that nature.
But Jeanne had cemeteries in mind. Particularly the Huron Indian Cemetery sitting on prime development soil occupying an acre or so between the KC Police HQ and the KC Library.
Turns out there are somewhere between 700 and 1000 graves in that acre of ground. It’s been fought over by two branches of the tribe, one wishing to sell for development, or for a casino, the other wanting to hold it sacred as a burial ground. Salivating developers spent nearly a century hoping if it were vandalized enough, if enough stones were lost, broken, stolen, they could build their offices, bars, porn shops, or fast food joints where those 1000 bodies lie.
We didn’t go to Prospero’s, but we did have some great Vietnamese. And we found a place I plan to return to sometime and sprinkle some tobacco around that acre of dead folks, just in case it matters.
But hell, that’s just me.