A Must-See in OKC
A stroll through Prosperity Junction takes you back in time to a place where pianos played ragtime tunes in local saloons, and steam whistles screeched loudly in the distance.
I went to the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum because of a quaint, simple gentleman who was manning the Tallgrass Prairie Visitor Center along the Flint Hills Scenic Byway in Cottonwood Falls, Kansas. I call him simple because he felt like the kind of man who had simple wants, simple needs, a simple and ever-so-lovely life. He was quite tall, a bit wrinkled, definitely weathered, salt and pepper parted hair, and he moved and talked slowly, peacefully. His tame pace and mild-mannered persona were relaxing to be around. Talking to him was like a few precious moments of meditation. Perhaps not the kind of thing you'd want to do right before a long drive, but certainly a welcome antidote for anyone caught up in the stressors we East Coasters so easily get sucked into. He was the type of person who could make you forget all about the pesky, day-to-day difficulties that distract and bombard our brains; "Why does my tire-pressure light keep turning on then off then on?" "My driveway needs repaving," "If my go-to sushi place forgets to put my sauces in the bag one more time!" "Are those people laughing at me?" "I can't believe the electric fence company called to reschedule on me again – now poor Fido has to be on a leash every time he goes outside!" and so on and so forth. Ok, a bit dramatic, but you know what I mean. Just a few words with this mellow man and all inner bedlam could be silenced.
To be honest, I really wasn't looking for any tips when I'd met him. When I'm traveling alone and meet kind folks along the way, I've found that they're often eager to suggest things to do, places to eat, points of interest you just have to see while you're in their small corner of the world. I find it endearing, though I rarely take them up on their advice. Mainly because I've got an action-packed itinerary of my own, and there's typically just no time for last-minute add-ons. But I do file away their input in my maybe-for-next-time mental compartment.
On this particular day in Chase County, Kansas, I was telling the temperate man wearing khaki slacks, an army green collared shirt, and a volunteer name tag, that my next stop would be Wichita, then Oklahoma City, where I'd spend the night and the following morning. I explained that I wouldn't have much time there because Tulsa, Catoosa, and Natural Springs State Park were the feature presentations of the day. I felt the urge to explain why I choose to cram so much into my precious vacation days, but I sensed that he just understood, or maybe it was the lack of judgment in his eyes and responses that told me there was no need for an explanation.
He went on to tell me about how there's just so much to see in Oklahoma City, mentioning a few of his personal favorites, "I don't know how you feel about Old West history and cowboys and such, but—" involuntary word vomit rose up and I blurted out, "LOVE 'em!" He giggled, "Well then you're sure gonna love the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum. It's right on..." he proceeded to give me location specifics and directions that went in one ear and out the other because that's what happens anytime anyone tries to explain to me how to get anywhere. But I didn't have the heart to tell him that. I listened and smiled, and decided—you know what, I'm squeezing this in. Cowboys? Western heritage? I've just gotta check it out!
Paul, James, or perhaps Thomas – I wish I could remember his name, had me hooked the minute he said "cowboys." And as much as he raved about this place, in the most moderate manner possible, words just couldn't do it justice. Most of the museum has pristine marble floors; an immaculately kept space. Like many museums, it's the kind of place where you automatically whisper, partly out of respect, partly because you sense you're in the presence of immeasurable greatness. And this place is chock-full of awesome artifacts, rich historical information, awe-inspiring artwork, and more than 8,000 different strands of barbed wire decked with all kinds of prongs, points, prickers, and stickers. You can walk through the charming recreation of a turn-of-the-century stock town (a portion of it pictured above). See the difference between saddles used in California, Colorado and everywhere in between. Photography is not permitted at most exhibits (I missed the memo until after the fact then quickly put my camera away), but the Visitor Services Center will be happy to provide you with supplies to borrow for sketching if you'd like, or you can bring your own. You can chat with passionate and knowledgable volunteer Welcome Hosts and Guardians of the West, many of whom are the most adorable 70-something-year-old veterans who are as eager to tell their stories as they are to hear yours. One sweet older man smiled at me every time I passed by, roaming from exhibit to gallery to exhibit and back again, picking up an assortment of pamphlets along the way.
He sat in a chair close by the main entrance next to a fellow veteran and as I was snapping shots of the magnificent End of the Trail sculpture, he asked me with a warm smile, "Would you like me to take your photo with it?" I replied, "Oh yes, please! That would be wonderful!" I handed him my phone without thinking that it might've been difficult for him to navigate. He reached into his pocket for his reading glasses, pulled them out slowly, then slid them up his nose and over his ears and proceeded to take at least fifteen photos of me. I could tell from his facial expression that he wasn't sure if he was actually taking them or not, but I refused to acknowledge it for fear of embarrassing such a sweet, gentle soul. I thanked him profusely, and he asked if I was enjoying the museum. "Oh, yes! I'm loving it so much! What a special place." He smiled and seemed modestly and pleasantly surprised that I loved it so much. He went on to ask where I was from, and what I was doing down south? It was the first time on that trip that it had been brought to my attention that Oklahoma was in the south.
Now, as I tilt my laptop screen down and peer over my knees to eye the giant map of America on my wall, it seems relatively obvious that Oklahoma is a southern state, but nonetheless, I'd always thought of it to be exclusively midwestern. He couldn't believe that I'd flown to North Dakota and driven all by myself, all the way down through torrential rains, tornadoes, and terrain changes. He had a look of concern, amused confusion, and perhaps a flicker of the thought crossed his mind that women do things today that they seldom if ever would've done 50-some-odd years ago. It was also evident that we both really enjoyed making each other's acquaintance that day in the museum's foyer. He was so kind and modest; he didn't want to take up any more of my time – he told me to be careful out there. I assured him that I would've been happy to chat him all afternoon about cowboys and American culture, today vs. yesteryear, but I did want to get to the Blue Whale of Catoosa before it closed for the day. I thanked him for the chat, for taking my picture, and for serving our country, and then I went and spent a small fortune in the museum's gift shop.
Fun facts I learned that day: the term "cowboy" came from labeling the men who were hired to herd the cows; they were the "cow-boys." But depending on where in the U.S. they were located, they went by different names. In Texas they were "vaquaros"; the Spanish word for cow is vaca. On the West Coast, they were called "buckaroos," and in the Midwest, these fellas preferred "drovers." And terms like "cattleman" and "rancher" became the label for people who owned cattle. Eventually, with the help of literary embellishments, and stars like John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, the term "cowboy" began to represent the rugged, red-bandana-wearin', whiskey-drinkin', fist-fightin', quick-drawin' cowboys that have been captivating America's imagination for nearly a century.