The Enchantment of Kansas Place Names

by Barry Baddock

When I was a boy in the 1950s Britain, my entire generation was heavily influenced by American comics and TV shows and by Hollywood. 

At school, we had, too, the huge, battered and unforgettable Atlas of the Americas. It showed each of the 48 U.S. states on a pair of facing pages. I was entranced by the vast symmetrical spread of Kansas, bright with yellow prairie. And the wonderful names! Council Grove, Medicine Lodge, Junction City, Fort Hayes, Emporia, Syracuse … Their gorgeous euphony took hold of me. 

I was never really attracted to cute portmanteau names, like Wakeeney (= Warren + Keeney, the town founders) or Kanorado (= Kansas + Colorado). Best were place names which conjured up hard-skinned pioneers, saloon bars, hulking gunmen with kerchieves, wagons on dusty trails, Indian tribelands and wide blazing sunsets.

Decades later, I had the great good luck to get a job at the university in Lawrence, Kansas. This was in the early 1970s, when hitch-hiking was in vogue. So, thumbing rides, filled with wanderlust and intoxicated with joy, I found myself travelling through the very townships and prairie counties whose names had enchanted me in the long-ago. At last, as a grown man, I found that Dodge City really did exist beyond the world of American comics and Wild West movies. 

     When I hitched into Kingman one night, I easily recalled the name from the old school Atlas. I spent that night in the town’s jailhouse. It was not for any act of felony, nor was I imprisoned as a vagrant. Quite simply, I’d been told that, if you were hitchhiking and short of a bed in Kansas, seek out the police station. Likely they’d accommodate you, free of charge, in the jail cell – provided it wasn’t occupied. And that’s exactly how it worked out for me. For my night in easy custody, the wife of Kingman’s police chief (captivated, I think, by my British accent) brought me cookies, ice cream, tea and blankets. 

     To a boy who grew up in an island nation, those Kansan names called up huge vistas and the tinge of adventure. Cheyenne, Comanche, Pawnee Rock were names redolent of Indian tribal warriors. Wild Cat, Big Creek, Buckeye blended daring, grace and vigour. And how can I forget Neosho, secret lair of seers and wizards? Carry me to Smoky Hill's soft haven! West, west to Great Bend! See Pottawatomie and die. Lay me to rest in Prairie Dog. 

But what of the provenance of all those names? Which were the spontaneous inventions of stern-faced pioneers and their wives, toiling alone? And which were debated and decided by embryonic town councils around a table? Who named Hog Back -- and why? What were the origins of such enigmatic names as Painterhood, Paw Paw, Centropolis, Bachelor? What ideas, what motives, lay behind the choice of Soldier, Eureka, Stranger, Vesper, Battle Hill and Lost Springs? What event, what dream, inspired Mirage and Kill Creek? And mysterious, never-to-be-forgotten Seventy-Six?

Catherine, Sylvia and Emma were possibly to commemorate lost mothers or to honour faithful wives. The likes of Walker, McAdoo, Logan, Jackson, Meredith were, I expect, named after a leading figure or founder of the original township. In other instances, the name recalls some revered or iconic individual: Ivanhoe, Nelson, Lincoln.

Some names were the choices of European migrants seeking to evoke memories of their lost home: Toronto, Vienna, Dresden. Many such names originated in Britain: Conway, Dover, London, Oxford, Darlington.

Then – a favourite of mine -- there is the plethora of charming names which allude to a prominent physical feature: Spring Creek, Fragrant Hill, Willow Springs, Sawlog, Greenleaf, Lone Elm, Big Timber, White Mound.

Finally, there are the names which – perhaps yearningly -- denote aspiration: Protection, Liberty, Hope, Superior, Paradise, Independence, Harmony, Happy. To me, each of them seems to have been a beacon in lives marked all-too-often by hardship and loss. Their bright seductive flame tugged at ​my heartstrings long ago, and left its mark forever.