Lawrence: A Tribute Resurrected

When I created this blog, I made a pact with myself to never apologize or make excuses for not posting. So I won't do that. But the truth is, I once (not so long ago) had endless hours to cook and write, and these days I spend most of my time and energy making paninis for other people. (No complaints, mind you!) I can't thank you enough for reading. It means more to me than I can say.

Today I offer you a guest post of sorts, from myself circa May 2010. At the time, my fancy friend Avery ran a blog out of New York for the Dakota Collective fashion line and asked me to supply a personal essay. Naturally, I decided to wax poetic about my idyllic Midwest hometown. I came across this piece the other day and still kind of like it. It's a different season (literally and metaphorically), but my sentiment remains. As Ken moves home to Lawrence today and I plan for a trip back in a couple weeks, please indulge my expatriate nostalgia.

The beautiful photos were supplied for the original post by the beautiful Sarah Foil Harnett.

I rise early on Saturday morning, the spring sun competing with the persistent chill of Kansas winter, and step onto the front porch of my beloved old rental in the heart of KU’s student ghetto. Two years out of college, I still adore the neighborhood full of big beautiful houses and spontaneous, noisy co-eds.

I wind my way through historic streets made famous by William Quantrill and his bloody Civil War massacre—a failed attempt to bring slavery to this inherently free state. The story is well-known among Lawrencians, who uphold a deep-seated tradition of contempt for Missouri and eagerly support the local Free State Brewery (perhaps for reasons other than the name). On this morning, inhaling air so sweet each breath feels like an indulgence, it is impossible to imagine such a restless time.

Peace-loving protestors, petitioners for the homeless and a bluegrass boy finger-picking a stand-up bass garner a polite smile before La Prima Tazza’s open door lures me in for iced coffee. As I make my way to the farmers’ market on New Hampshire Street, the sense of community and collective love for this weather, and the way it brings our town to life, are tangible.

I join fellow landlocked locavores, so proud of our little big city in the middle of the Midwest. We are utterly content, surrounded by the vendors’ bounty of juicy tomatoes, golden summer squash and crisp asparagus in neat bundles. Bicycling, granola-eating, Birkenstock-wearing folks creating an oasis on the Great Plains—a blue town in a decidedly red state. We take care of each other while keeping a passionate ear toward Uganda, Wall Street, Iraq.

Artists and musicians thrive here, a town chock-full of venues and enthusiastic audiences that draw incredible international acts yet love and support local talent. And, while it takes a season or two for fashion trends to make their way inland, we relish a freedom of expression and access to brilliant second-hand finds not typical of our small-town neighbors.

Sorority girls in leggings and Greek letters saunter beside dreadlocked mothers toting happy babies. Vibrant retirees, drawn to Lawrence by the same depth of art and education that inspired William S. Burroughs and a young Langston Hughes, lead spaniels on short leashes.

We all will stroll beyond New Hampshire Street, finding other excuses to linger in the cherished sunshine as we go about our day, and go on about our lives. Perhaps we’ll move away someday, simply to “get out of Kansas.” But Lawrence—and the memory of these Saturday mornings in spring, when everything in our offbeat little world is warm and lovely and fresh—this will never leave us.

With love.