I doubt that many people are likely to pick up this little book with an expectation that they will actually learn about three people who were physically born in the Union Station in Kansas City, Missouri.
Rather, it is about two sisters and a brother who grew up in Kansas City during interesting times. The youngest, the boy, was the only one born in Kansas City. The oldest sister was born in Nashville, and the younger in Independence, Missouri.
But, in a psychic and emotional way, a cultural way, the three were born into their generations in such a way that the Union Station could be thought of as the epicenter of their small bang. It was (and is) a remarkable majestic space. Kansas City was no village during this time, but many a traveler was taken aback when he observed that such a terminal served a “medium” sized city.
The three executed many comings and goings from this magnificent place. And each time they did, they felt the type of transport that one used to feel when he exited an adventure movie and was still connected to the protagonist. They looked straight ahead, perhaps turning slowly a bit to the left and right to see if a spy might be about. They tugged at their coats and might turn their collars up, more to evoke mystery than buffer wind.
They were different people at the Union Station. And they had been there so many times that they did not act like kids or twerps. Their heads were not on a swivel looking at giant clocks and gawking at chandeliers.. They had seen these many times ... many, many times. They were not surprised to have a sturdy steel stool placed in front of them so they could reach the high steps of a passenger coach. Nor were they startled to have the cab door held for them. They expected these things to occur.
And so much more than they themselves, their father was the master of the Union Station domain. He was arriving and departing from there almost every week. Even in this vast space people knew him by name and greeted him. He always responded to them in a friendly manner irrespective of their place on the food chain of commerce.
Our father’s world was not one of barbecues, lawns, and bermuda shorts. He read papers and books by Churchill. He wore ties and shirts cleaned at the laundry and hats appropriate for the season. I don’t think I ever heard him mention football. He knew of golf and was even a good player himself.
So we did not arrive moist and bloody at the Union Station in Kansas City, but in large measure we were born there.