In 'Little Apple,' change etches hearts

When the World Trade Center towers crashed to earth last September, the ground beneath this small city in the middle of the American heartland shook like few others. It was as if a big-city relative had just phoned home with terrible family news.

"People here in the middle of Kansas felt it," remembers Jon Wefald, president of the state university here. "They realized - just as if they lived in New York - that America had changed forever, that our way of life would be markedly changed from this day on."

It wasn't just the shared name, decided upon by New York land speculators back in 1855. For a town whose population - 44,831 - equates to a few square blocks in the more well-known Manhattan back East, it has some important windows on the world: Kansas State University, with hundreds of foreign students and professors, and nearby Ft. Riley, many of whose US Army personnel have served abroad or at the Pentagon, where terrorists struck as well.

On the surface, Manhattan hasn't changed much since 9/11. How the K-State Wildcats - both men and women - would do in the Big-12 basketball tournament last week (so-so, as it turned out) was a major concern. A recent front-page headline in the local newspaper read: "KSU seeking buyer for slice of bull barn." A letter to the editor thanks the community for the turnout at the Boy Scout Troop 228 chili feed.

Yet, underneath, there's also evidence that the community has changed in ways both subtle and profound. The palpable fear of those immediate days after 9/11 has waned, replaced by a lingering sense of vulnerability, a spirit of community, a new sense of personal priorities.

"There's an awareness that will always be etched in our hearts," says James Spencer, assistant minister at the Pilgrim Baptist Church here.

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"The Little Apple," Manhattan calls itself. The nickname - trademarked - goes back 25 years to when then-Mayor Terry Glasscock presented New York's Mayor Ed Koch with a photo of Damon Runyon's birthplace. That the writer of the Broadway hit "Guys and Dolls" came from here seemed enough reason for a sister-city relationship.

In many ways, the values upon which this Manhattan was founded are as enduring as the native limestone blocks used to build many homes, public buildings, and churches. At the 121-year-old Pilgrim Baptist Church, the men's choir - six powerful, joyous voices - still sings "Jesus Met the Woman at the Well" as if it had been written just this morning.

It's still a small college town in mid-America, where hot issues are rezoning so Wal-Mart can expand, declining grade-school enrollment, a proposed half-cent sales-tax hike for economic development, and a recycling fee.

It's a fairly conservative, pro-Bush place, typically Midwestern with wide, tree-lined streets and a hillside emblazoned with a big white "KS." But there's no great amount of flag-waving. Over a cappuccino at the Espresso Royale Caffe just off campus, one still can read handouts from the Kansas State Socialists.

"It's a cliché, but it's a really great place to raise a family," says Mayor Bruce Snead, who's paid $100 a month for the job and works full time as an environmental engineer. "You can contribute if you want to. You can make a difference here."

Yet a constant concern remains over vulnerabilities 1,313 miles from ground zero in New York: a nearby nuclear power plant and dam, cropdusters parked at rural airports, and even the possibility of anthrax attacks. A spate of bomb threats - one at the countycourt house, three at the high school - were hoaxes, but troubling nonetheless.

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