This is my real life, 4-part, journey to the second presidential museum I ever visited, the Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Museum:
The billboards along I-70 intermittently advertised adult stores and decried the immorality of abortion, neither one of which directly related to our destination: the Dwight D. Eisenhower Library and Museum. My roommate (Matt Gieschen) and I flew down the interstate, blanketed by overcast skies. It had rained earlier and was predicted to rain later. But that was in Lawrence; 100 miles east ago and storms move eastward, generally. Then again, in Kansas, one needs to pack swimming trunks and a parka on the same weeklong trip. It was as likely to rain on our trip as it was to become sunny as it was to tornado or rain fire and frogs. Which is all to say TV meteorologists in the area are either grossly underpaid or grossly unnecessary. A temperament regarding the uncontrollable elements of nature can develop amongst Kansans; and a similar temperament is necessarily for anybody wading through and rising above the uncontrollable elements of war and politics. Such is the case of former President, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and I guess that’s why the man got his own museum.
Ostensibly, the United States Interstate Highway System—championed by then-President Eisenhower—was built over several years to connect the country’s major cities, but I can speculate that the President had a hand in making sure his hometown of Abilene was also placed roadside. Having a map, though never needing it, Matt and I exited the interstate and followed the main road into the downtown area of Abilene. A few summers ago, I had worked for the Kansas State University agronomy department and driven around Kansas, often driving through towns that may have been completely abandoned. Abilene, though, is one cosmopolitan step higher, advertising a “historic” downtown area, and possibly a number of other attractions that have stabilized the city’s population around 6,700 since 1960. We drove past a number of places that would have entertained us for lunch, but one stuck out for Matt—as he ferociously vouched for it, despite having never actually eaten anywhere in the town. And so we ended up at Kuntz’s Drive-In.
The Kuntz diner (pronounced with a hard ‘u,’ like “moon,” not “fun”) was a rustic drive-in that likely inspired the uber-chain Sonic--which now looks fancy and modern, what with its intercom system and all. Eating in one’s car never appealed to me, so Matt and I got lucky that there were also tables under the elongated, tin, canopy. Really, I’m not much of an outdoorsman, so this didn’t appeal to me either, but Matt was having fun living out “American Graffiti” memories. Our waitress vastly over-estimated my grasp of eatery after throwing about food descriptions like a Southern auctioneer; but I managed to catch some phrases such as “battered,” “deep-fried,” “extra bacon” and, I believe, “double-buttered.”
-Uh, I’ll have that last one, I stammered.
-And I’ll have the pulled-pork sandwich, said Matt with far more confidence.
Any sense of surviving the day without a clot of cholesterol the size of a golf ball lodged in my pulmonary artery went by the wayside when we were then told the large fountain drinks were 99 cents—a penny cheaper than the small size. About twenty minutes later, I had literally lost my straw in the 44-oz cup and Matt was trying to get his change from our second waitress.
-The total is twelve bucks, she said.
-Here’s a fifty. Keep four.
-Okay, here—
-No, I said you keep four, I get the rest.
-Wait. Okay.
-Twelve plus four—
-Wait. Let me think.
-If you give me that ten back…
-What? No. Nineteen plus twelve…
-What?
-Make sure to carry the one, I said—not helping at all at this point.
-Almost…lets start over.
-No, this one.
-Okay there.
-Thanks.
-Thank you.
When we finally got to the Eisenhower Presidential Library and Museum, we learned it wasn’t so much a library and museum as it was an “Eisenhower Center”—or, equally accurate, a district of Abilene. The 22-acre site was comprised of two parks and five buildings—separating the Library, the Museum, the Visitor’s Center (gift shop/auditorium), meditation place and Ike’s boyhood home. The museum and the library were two large, complimentary, buildings facing one another as if rivals built for similar, yet mutually exclusive, visitors. In between the two structures, stood a statute of General Dwight Eisenhower with his hands on his hips, in full 1940s military garb and appropriately not facing either of the buildings but sporting a modest smile. Standing at the statue, I looked where Eisenhower was looking and saw nothing but green grass for fifty-by-seventy yards. Wow, I thought alongside the 34th President of the United States, this would be a bad ass field for ultimate Frisbee.
The epitaph, “Champion of Peace” was carved at the feet of Eisenhower and I began to get the sense that Eisenhower didn’t just campaign for peace but rather was the biggest victor when peace came. And behind Eisenhower, was another field, and behind that were five large, monoliths—seemingly lifted from the Stanley Kubrick film 2001:A Space Odyssey. This pavilion or memorial had various quotes inscribed; though with a balance, theme and purpose I could not figure out. Baffled by the structure’s dignity, Matt and I myself walked over to the library, knowing of an exhibit that would act as a minor distraction to the rest of our trip.
The exhibit, housed in a single room, was “the Eight Wonders of Kansas” and, as Kansans ourselves, was everything we feared. I wanted it to be good. I wanted to say it was exciting, educational or otherwise worthy of anybody’s time in a successful effort to strike back against every Wizard of Oz joke any of the current 2.8 million Kansans have had to endure when wandering outside of the state’s border. Instead, I could only roll my eyes at the unashamed desperation. Specifically, the “Eight Wonders” were lifted from the eight cultural elements that (apparently) drive tourism: architecture, art, commerce, cuisine, customs, geography, history, and people. Each of the Eight Wonders had eight examples and each of them was described as “historic” or “unique” possibly eight times. Matt became excited at the sight of a display for Wheat State beer, but became reciprocally disappointed when the bottles had long since been emptied and locked behind glass. Drenched in Kansas pride and without any beers, Matt and I reaffirmed the day’s purpose and went to the Visitor’s Center’s auditorium for the next showing of what had to be the most concisely titled Presidential documentary ever: “Dwight Eisenhower: American.”
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