Thirty pounds dropped and twenty left to drop. How did I get so fat? From not smoking? From eating mountains of ice cream? From being lazy?
 |
| Downtown Kansas City. Photo courtesy Jesper Rautell Balle. |
All of the above, but with the help of my health coach, a retired physician and friend of half-a-century, at least I seem to have broken my addiction to vast amounts of food. I’m off to travel by Amtrak May 2 – 16, where my sister will pick me up at the once-fabulous Union Station in Kansas City, now filled with few travelers and too much “stuff” set up to fill space. Will the era of glam train travel ever return? The ride south is good this time of year, though in the interest of saving money, I’ll be riding in the coach section for seven hours, hopefully not next to someone with a limburger and onion sandwich. The Southwest Chief will slice through a small portion of Iowa before heading to Missouri, land of conservatives, and, I’m loathe to report, the home state of one Rush Limbaugh who was hatched there. God help us all and save Obama from the nasty likes of Rush and Glenn and Huckabee, and Palin. Nor do I want to spend time with Trump as president. It would be hell worrying about his combover, though I would like to interview his hairdresser. What magic he/she hath wrought. I’m here to tell ya.
I write a weekly column (City Mouse) for my old hometown Iowa newspaper, no small thanks to a great publisher/editor who knows talent when she sees it. Within those twelve pages, I like to think I shine like a beacon of hope to Iowa Democrats who keep their lips tightly zipped in small towns where being a Republican is almost as good as being God.
Fortunately, I spent my first 15 years in the town, happy as a hen, before we moved to Kansas City and I realized there are folks in the world who care about fairness for all … all, not just some.
Those days in K.C. were the beginning of the civil rights movement. I still recall being slightly shocked by the sight of a couple (he black; she white) strolling hand in hand across the campus of the University of Missouri. Boy, was I green. My family lived in an Irish Catholic neighborhood, populated with Flanagans, O’Tooles and such, so I was sent a block down the street to attend a school for young women, St. Teresa’s Academy. During my coming trek, six of us will be meeting for lunch, grads of ’54, a smallish class of 35 privileged girls whose goal it was to either join a convent or have an engagement ring by the end of our senior year. Three grads actually did join a convent (but left later), one married a priest (who had left his priestly post), and three died before they reached age 30. But most of us married young and had kids and now are grandmothers and great grandmothers. St. Teresa’s is still operating and I noticed that on their quest for alum monies, they spelled my name “Muriarty.” It could be worse. Once I received a letter addressed to Judith Mortuarty. Murarity, Moriarti, you name it.
The big thing on my K.C. list of things to excite is a visit to the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art, a splendid Beau Arts pile that has recently added a marvelous wing for contemporary art. It was highly praised by New Yorker Magazine architectural writer, Paul Goldberg, as “the finest addition to a museum anywhere.” Their downtown is awash with grand new buildings, but if you pay attention, that area is, like many others across our land, primarily a place to be entertained. Jobs are few and far between and most of the small venues are long gone. The suburbs reign. Gone too is Jones Department store where, at the tender age of 15, I sold Easter bonnets to Easter brats.
Until we meet again. I’m going to Kansas City, Kansas City. See you on 12th and Vine, where I once rocked out at The Orchid Room to Big Bob Dougherty and the likes of Jay McShan. Perchance I’ll have a cocktail in the Drum Room. Or two or more.
