Proud to be from a red state

It's a good funeral if there is such a thing; the type you would want. Most of the town crams into the small church on Main Street. If you don't get there 30 minutes early, you're standing in the back. Several scripture verses are mixed in with a couple of humerous stories, and a few laughs help hide a few tears. After the service, a long line of cars make the drive toward the Viola Cemetary. In a field just off the road west of town, several farmers are braving the cold as they repair a broken gate. When they notice the funeral procession approaching, they stop working. They remove their hats, lower their heads and pay respect to the life of someone they don't know.

That's Kansas.

Earlier in the day during the service, I glanced behind me to see just how full the church was. I saw aunts, uncles, distant relatives, even Curt Howell. Curt Howell? What the hell was he doing here? At the luncheon after the graveside service (Protestants always think you mourn better on a full stomach), Curt and I caught up with one another. Guess his wife is somehow related to one of my relatives. He has three young boys, lives west of Goddard and works at Cessna. This was also his first year working with the Goddard High School football team; he watched film and scouted for them. Next year he plans on being a full-time assistant coach. They're gonna need him because, according to Curt, the football team DIDN'T WIN A GAME THIS YEAR.

Go figure. Goddard's turned into a soccer powerhouse and a football shithouse. You can almost taste the irony, can't you, Jeff. Casey? Brian?