There is a classic Beatles song — “In My Life” — that speaks of “places I remember, all my life, though some have changed, some forever, not for better …”
There is a day in my life when I put all of the daily demands and distractions aside, and travel to a tiny town to visit my father’s grave. That town is Tipton, and that date is Aug. 14. I have done this just about every year for the past 23. First and foremost, I do this to honor his memory, but also as a sort of therapy for myself so that I am reminded of my life’s journey, and how important it is never to forget my roots.
This journey begins on Interstate 70, but when I get to Colby, I turn onto U.S. Highway 24 and take it through Hoxie and other small towns until arriving in Osborne, whereupon I take the back way to Tipton.
The pace of life is different along that road, and in my mind the “mile markers” that I see every year are comforting in a way. Those mile markers might be an old combine that has not moved in 20 years, or a barn that has seen its share of Kansas weather over the decades.
While it is often said that the only constant is change, and certainly in our turbulent world it is difficult to find stability, there is a certain peacefulness that I feel when going through these small towns, from interacting with folks at the local grocery store or gas station.
Kansas is often referred to as the heartland of America, and it would also be fair to say that many of the people in the small towns are good-hearted folks who show respect and kindness towards others.
Perhaps it is an overused phrase, but time seems to have stood still in these towns. That is apparent in Tipton. The Catholic church and the Catholic high school are old buildings, but they are immaculate.
The same is true for many of the town’s other buildings and homes. There is a strong sense of community pride in this dot on the map. While many small towns in the Great Plains have had their share of challenges, Tipton is different. It will never be a metropolis, but the sense of community there has stood the test of time.
Before I went to my father’s grave on the 14th, I drove a few miles outside of town to the site of the old homestead. It is at the corner of two lonesome roads, and the house is no longer there. It was a classic two-story frame house, probably built in the 1920s by my grandfather and his family. The surrounding area is a mix of grazing land and crop.
When I got to the site, I parked the car, and just sat in silence for a while, reflecting on a lifetime of memories.
From this starting point in the 1950s, I never could have imagined where my life’s journey has taken me. That said, the roots are deep in Kansas, and that will always be the case.
Like the church and school, the Tipton cemetery is well maintained. It has been there for many decades, and the portion of it where family members have their final resting places is toward the back.
Time does stop when I kneel next to my father’s grave. He was a lifelong farmer who also had a tremendous skill (self taught) for creating beautiful things from wood. For years, he exhibited his creations at arts and crafts fairs in Oklahoma and Kansas.
I remember speaking about his gnarled hands — made so by a lifetime of hard work on the farm — during his eulogy, while noting that those hands also made things of great beauty.
When I make this journey each August, I am never in a hurry to get there, and I am always slow to leave. I like to soak up the people and the scenery that I see along the way. And I like the chance to reflect on the things that are most important in this life. It is good for the soul to do so. Perspective matters.
About the author: Ben Palen is a Kansas native and a fifth-generation farmer and agriculture consultant in Colorado and Kansas.
