Overland Park was a recently incorporated suburban outgrowth of the ‘Greater Kansas City Metropolitan Area.’ As a nephew phrased it during his youth (I watched long after my own), it was inside the ‘country,’ where “they’re still building houses.”

Among my favorite places, in any season, was South Lake Park, near the Overland Park original town center, from before incorporation. In my youngest days, either parent might drive me there to fish with my best friend of youngest years. As we grew, we might be supervised fishing for a couple hours. Older still, we were perhaps dropped off and left a bit longer. Of independent age, we rode bikes, and on one or two occasions walked the miles from home to the park.

In the above picture, much went on through seasons of the years.

The dam was tree-lined before more modern, sensible landscaping. We were dropped off to skate when the lake froze over one year. The city had released the news that ice had passed the thickness measure, and the lake would be open. There was always a great turnout. I wasn’t very adept at any spins or jumps, or other tricks of skill, but ice skates or roller skates elsewhere could find me digging in for speed in straights and turns around other skaters.

This day, surrounded by perhaps a hundred skaters on the tiny lake, a young wife of some romantic couple had successfully demonstrated graceful turns, spins leaps, on that day often returning to the arms of her husband. One fateful attempt near the dam, and its trees, had her gliding path interrupted by a stick, or pine boughs; momentum focused on her ankle, and she went down with a massive thud.

The city kept an ambulance on location for just such events. Onlookers gathered from around the lake, drawing in closer as the paramedics approached and tested her leg and head for injuries. With the weight of everyone gathered, myself only fifteen feet distant, there was suddenly a lurch and a huge set of cracks appeared in the clear, thick ice. That same instance, the crack appeared to spread across the lake like a lightning bolt shoots through the sky.

Everyone scrambled. I leapt in about 3 strides to the tree-lined shore. Adults and children everywhere scurried as rapidly as their skates could take them, to shore, and to safer distances. Ice was thick that year. The massive crack still did not dump anyone into the chilled water. The woman was taken away for treatment and all was well.

In the first photo, there is a newer dock in the same place as an old fishing dock once was. Perhaps it’s the second or third generation of the structure. Fishing was great, because you had choices of dropping the line and fishing right around the shaded water under the dock, or cast along the shoreline, missing the tree branches, or even cast further out into the deeper water for those larger fish.

One summer afternoon, Mom stayed in the shaded area, under trees in view of the lake, while I fished for an hour or so. That was the plan. While I was baiting my hook, a young child came running out onto the dock, kicking through my unnoticed (to him) fishing line, while I fumbled with the treble hook and a worm. In a jerk of the line, I suddenly had one barb of the treble hook embedded deep in my skin.

Mom took me home. She called Dad at his office. He told others at work, and received advice from all who heard, before stopping by the library for resources on his hurried way home (no Google, and no YouTube back in those analog days). With a photocopy of instructions in hand, Dad arrived home, and proceeded to adjust the hook’s position – OUCH! – and tie a string around its curve – OUCH! – and then tugged, trying to pull the barbed hook out from the direction it entered – OK, this was MUCH WORSE PAIN than the original snagging pain from when the hook entered.

The published method, suggested by a friend at work, and illustrated on the photocopy from the library … didn’t work. Just caused a lot more pain. Dad had fished throughout his life, but had never gotten a hook in himself.

The next decision was to take me to the emergency room. I had to wait to be seen, after a football player my age was rolled in on a gurney, with a bloody knee injury. I think I actually nodded and waved him on, as if I had medical triage knowledge of the obvious patient needs. My turn for treatment progressed rapidly soon after. A numbing local anesthetic was injected. The barb of the hook had sunk in and anchored to deeper skin, and perhaps bone, so a scalpel quickly incised down to free me of the temporary body piercing.

Adventure can start so peacefully and normally.

Things have changed at the old park, but many people continue to enjoy new experiences as generations hand off the encounters to those following. Perhaps you have a favorite place that holds memories for you. Would returning there bring back visions that haven’t changed much? Or has time perhaps imposed great transformations you don’t recognize? Try a visit, in person, or digitally.

Here’s one last pic. I pieced together a panorama from nine black and white film shots, teasing at the remembered views of my South Lake Park, as I might similarly have seen them those years ago.