Nobody’s Child #31
A Kansas City Story
In the summer of 2003 my son had just turned 7 and the divorce my wife filed for in the February was not yet finalised.
No plan or schedule was in place for my son to spend time with his father.
So on a day to day basis, through multiple email and/or phone conversations, I would ask for time for us.
Sometimes we got enough time that we could try something a little different:
The destination was my son’s idea, the notion mine.
On Sunday evening we had dinner on a rump of a hill overlooked by the statue of the Indian Scout behind us. Sitting on our fold up chairs we faced the city, looking down on its skyscrapers, monuments, interstates, railways, and rivers.
Distant digital clocks told us the time, and that the temperature was down to 89 degrees.
From the KFC disposable lidded plates I had hoarded from months back we now ate the salad I prepared, with Pitta pockets. And the corndogs I had just heated up with saved sachets of ketchup. Sometimes hoarding has a moment where it pays you back like that and everything everybody else says about it is never more wrong.
It was so cinematic the extent of the view, its dimensions, its depth and the foreground of the top of the hill where mid-course Mr. Moo ran around flying the most elaborate paper airplane we had yet made together.
I wanted to photograph the scene in Panorama and then blow up the photo so that Mr. Moo was lifesize. Of course I would need a school hall to display the photograph but Gursky gets attention for less.
My one sole beer unaided by any of the ubiquitous coolers of the region was warming rapidly yet still cool enough to be advert material as it sat in my holder within the nylon arm of my chair.
The wind had Mr. Moo and the plane moving like two butterflies against the backdrop of the city softened by the golden light of the evening. And like a cliche that beer was the best single beer I have had for a very long time.
Mr. Moo has a way of shrugging when his throws are great. It’s a delightfully humble almost embarassed gesture of success and happiness. Being that happy means I must be missing out so I call him back to finish his dinner.
Mr. Moo holds his filled pitta sandwich with two hands, as his feet are tucked under the chair. The sweat on his face doesn’t deter him from eating enthusiastically, as he stops only to laugh at my attempts to direct our orange airplane of card back into the wind. Perhaps the chunks of apples and cheese helped.
And of course being a most wonderful way to spend time in the city, we were the only ones out of two million who were there.
In the distance below a lone figure threw some bread to the ducks. And then it was time for me to bring Mr. Moo back to his mother.
See Also:
#30 My Kansas City Story, A Summary
All Posts in this Kansas City story
Eolaí gan Fhéile:
What a lovely memory!
Sure that’d be a grand day.
A perfect day with your boy. This is very moving, Eolai. I’m so sorry you’re having to deal with this enforced separation. It is the height of spite to separate two people who obviously love each other as much as you and your son.
This must be a horribly anxious time for you. Is there any word from him yet? Have you any way to get in touch with his mother? Are her parents contactable?
You’re in my thoughts, sweetie. Sending you a far-flung hug and the wish that your ex-wife backs down and realizes a boy needs his father.