Inviting Bluebirds of Happiness to Move In

                                                                             

Humans naturally seek happiness—some carry lucky charms or practice mystic rituals to attract it. Others find inviting blue birds to the yard does the job. Apparently, such choices aren’t unique to modern humans. For eons, world cultures have honored timid, sky-colored creatures as omens of good fortune.

Nearly 2000 years before Christ, Chinese storytellers wrote about a bluebird that delivered messages from the Queen Mother of the West, an immortal. Native American societies also celebrated these brilliantly-hued beings. Some tales associate them with the rising sun. In fact, the Navajo still sing the bluebird song as part of their winter Nightway Ceremony. European cultures, as well, included these beauties in literature involving a fairy-tale search for the bluebird of happiness.

Considering their history, it’s not surprising these pretty birds are beloved. Unfortunately, like many species, their habitat’s changing and invasive species increasingly compete for food and nesting sites. Residing on the prairie is even more difficult for this cavity dweller who seeks hollow trees or posts to set up housekeeping.

To complicate matters, the azure darts are finicky. They require nests a 100-yards distant from other hopeful parents and cleared landscape around their homestead. Healthy sparrow, sharp shinned, and Cooper’s hawk populations lurk close by, so a view increases survivability for adults and offspring. However, it makes it difficult to attract the picky rascals to nest near humans.

Despite these creatures’ suspicious natures, shrewd birders can entice them to live close enough to watch their broods mature. Visit a garden shop or online site to learn more about this species’ housing requirements. Carpenters can construct summer rentals designed specifically to attract them. Others can buy well-designed blue bird boxes.

Cedar siding offers a good structure choice. Craft a watertight roof and a floor with small drainage holes. Blue birds aren’t just harbingers of happiness. They’re tidy as well so select nesting structures with bottoms that easily open for spring cleanings.  One source suggests leaving the inside unpainted rough wood to encourage easy fledging.

To discourage rival species, build or buy nesting boxes with entry holes no larger than 1 ½ inches wide. Starlings won’t fit in that opening. To further discourage invaders, exclude external perches. Blue birds don’t need them. They’re also satisfied with a 4” x4” nesting space, which is too small for competing sparrows. Conveniently, such units fit atop fence posts.

After offering species-specific housing, further improve the environment by providing shallow pans filled with fresh water. Place savory snacks nearby. Blue birds are insect and fruit eaters so don’t offer seeds. One authority recommended chopping berries into pieces or even offering meal worms as motivators to relocate. With plenty of live bugs and wild currant available, we’ve never bought treats.

Once you convince them to move in, the fun begins. Despite their shy nature, these heralds of joy are natural entertainers. Their aerial acrobatics turn insect catching into comic entertainment.  Watch mom splash in the birdbath with her babes for twenty minutes of bliss. Observing them pop in and out of their tiny doorways as they feed young stills racing pulses and lowers human blood pressure.

It requires effort to convince  blue birds to call your yard theirs, but once they move in, you’ll see why humans from the beginning of time have invited them to live nearby and woven them into their shared stories.

Art on the Move

Frequently, I see ornate box turtles crossing country roads or highways. Because I like this pack-its-own-home reptile, I dodge these speed bumps. While seeing them slowly lumber across the road triggers a smile, I hadn’t thought much about these Kansas state reptiles until recently.

This summer, I’ve been waking up early to enjoy the cool morning air as I water, weed, and pick veggies. A bonus of rising with the sun is meeting some of my yard neighbors that hide during the heat of the day.

One such friend is a good-sized box turtle that hangs out under my rose bushes in the mornings. I’ve seen it a couple of times, and today we met officially. This particular terrapene ornata, according to scientists, is at the larger end of expected sizes for its species.  I’d guess its shell is three to four inches across and five or six inches long. I didn’t have a measuring tape on hand at 6:30 a.m. for an official accounting, but she’s bigger than most turtles navigating Kansas roadways.

This particular reptile’s shell is dark with distinct yellow markings on the scutes or plates. Before she tucked her head inside her shell, I noted yellowish rather than reddish-orange eyes, which verifies she meets “she” criteria.

Like all box turtles, she has a hinged plastron that lets her tuck her head and limbs safely inside her shell. This ability frustrates hungry coyotes and other predators, but it won’t stop a vehicle cruising down the highway, one of this creature’s worst enemies. The minute she sensed me heading her way, she tucked everything tuckable until she resembled nothing more than a pet rock.

Ignoring her desperate, introvert-like attempt to achieve solitude, I placed my hands carefully along each lower side of her shell and examined her beauty close-up. Like any unhappy female, she promptly got even. Without sticking out head or legs, she peed, which made me jump backward to avoid a splattering.

 Once I finished my inspection of her masterpiece of black and yellow shell, I rewarded this pretty girl. I set a couple of pieces of melon in front of her so there would be a little something to make her day when she finally stuck her head out. Apparently, she can smell and likes cantaloupe because it was gone by the time I got upstairs to spy on her out the kitchen window.

After researching box turtle factoids, I see why she likes her flowerbed home. It’s damp, there are lots of sow bugs or roly-polies and other insects to meet her carnivorous dietary needs, and the temperature is more agreeable in that dark corner than most places in the yard. Containing the softest soil on the hilltop, it’s a great place to dig in for winter hibernation, which might explain my new friend’s greater than average size.

Now that we’ve met, she’s earned a daily serving of melon or fruit to enhance her diet. With room service like that, this lady should be glad to call this corner of Trego County home. I wonder how big my walking work of art will be next summer.

Seeing Possibilities in Junk

Spring cleaning involves scrubbing and sweeping away wintry stains, cobwebs, and dust. Outside the house it means raking wilted plantings and scouring patios and decks. Those now clean, fresh surfaces provide an artist’s canvas, inviting expression that can involve simply rearranging possessions or painting, constructing, and welding efforts.

Inside the house, this might involve moving furniture or adding bright pillows and throws. Outside, the possibilities are endless. One so inclined might use pallets to construct upright gardens that grow along a fence or garage wall or outdoor forts and furniture. Those who love funky yard art might head for the scrap heap to find broken down metal pieces that lend themselves to new lives as flywheel-bodied birds and insects with plier head ornaments, harrow tailed beasts, or disc and rebar mammals.

Waste not, want not is the mantra for folks who recognize a dolphin, stallion, or buffalo sculpture in a pile of rusty nuts, bolts, and gears. You can’t help but admire these creative spirits for both their vision and their skillset. Holy cow, they visualize a final product and then weld it out of what others tossed in the trash pile.

Think about possibilities waiting to be born from scrap heaps in garages, barns, and at the junk dealer’s. Old tractor seats wait to find a new life as a critter or a crazy looking picnic stool. Gazillions of metal knobs, faucets, and handles oxidize in isolation until inventive sorts spy them and reimagine them as garden fountains, coat racks, or google eyes on a dragon.

One young welder I know sees possibility in just about anything. He can take garage sale or auction- found plumbing pipes and turn them into high-end embellishments. I particularly like the innovative lamps he makes. If he gets tired of his day job, he could make a living selling his one of a kind furnishings and light fixtures.

In addition to scoping out creative neighbors, a stop at area flea markets or the Kansas Store on I-70 offers potential buyers and craftspeople a chance to see welded art creatures first hand. As a result of such adventures, my brother’s backyard now sports a tractor-seat-bodied and tailed strutting turkey. Who knows what discarded parts form its wattle. A welded grasshopper made of once useless implement parts guards mom’s roses. A heavy bodied woodpecker constructed from old plates, gears, and wheels climbs her trellis. A roadrunner made of soldered spikes oversees her dining room. My own collection includes a heavy-duty rooster, long-legged heron with leaf rake tail, and rusty armadillo formed from bits of rebar.

My husband recently bought a welder so once I find a source for metal, our menagerie will expand. Unlike living pets, these repurposed ones don’t require food or cleaning up poop. Besides, flying pigs and unicorn frogs exist in this world.

As you spring clean and find odd piles of metal or wood, consider the possibilities. How can you recycle junk into yard art that entertains you and visitors who happen to spot your creations? It’s not like we don’t have a model for grassroots art in nearby Lucas, Kansas.

Details Change but Stories Go On

We’ve visited daughters, grands, and friends throughout Western Kansas for several weeks and I’ve noticed Dollar Stores thriving in rural communities. Apparently, these replaced old-fashioned dime stores everywhere. What happened to the high ceilinged, wood-floored mom and pop shops similar to those Grace Stetz or my grandma and grandpa owned in Ellis, Bucklin, and Meade?

Times and people change, but there’s no way candy or toy aisles in today’s variety store hold the same appeal as vintage eye-level, glass-rimmed displays that captured a nickel-holding child’s attention. I’ve seen posts where folks of a certain age wish they could return once more to enjoy Grace’s or my gramma’s lemon-oil -scented exhibitions of the latest dollies, cap guns, or licorice bits.

I recollect the satisfaction of pulling open the heavy front door and stepping into a vast anything expanse of necessities people required. Curious explorers had to first navigate past a 4’ x 6’ divided candy display strategically located to capture interest and money. Wood dividers separated glass bins full of malt balls, chocolate stars, licorice babies, jaw breakers, caramels, and other cavity-inducing treats you could buy by the piece. Once you broke its spell, you traveled either left or right.

Kids usually chose left—toward the toys. Grandma and Grampa maintained a selection of Big Chief Tablets, coloring books and crayons, paints, plastic and metal cars and trucks, building blocks, and more. In addition, they placed a bouncy horse nearby so a young patron could ride and make birthday and Christmas lists while parents inspected needles, thread, underwear, mittens, hats, dishes, pots, pans, utensils and more.

A favorite section was the pottery display. The always dusted shelves were full of pastel vases and teapots decorated with flowers and pine cones in bas relief. While an adult attending auctions, I imagined Grandma and Grace would’ve benefitted by warehousing those Hull and McCoy pieces to finance their retirements. What they marked with $3.00 price tags, estate auctioneers sold decades later for a $100 or more.

From the time I first walked, I loved visiting my grandparents’ business. As family, we entered through the alley door where we first noted grandpa perched on a chair in his railed office, surrounded by still-boxed merchandise and stacks of unsold comic books, with an eagle eye view of the floor below. Few shoppers knew he watched their exploration of each department. He knew who’d left hankies unfolded or fingerprints on a shiny race car or who slipped something in their pocket before paying. Of course, it was Grandma or the clerk who returned mussed items to their former pristine conditions before the next customer visited.

While modern box stores keep rural residents in paper towels, soap, and bathroom products, visiting them isn’t anything like a trip to an old variety store. The lights, linoleum, and metal stands are too bright, and the candy is packaged as are the toys. A kid can’t try out potential purchases ahead of time. Besides, you can’t buy anything for a nickel!

Someday, our grown grandkids will reminisce fondly about the Dollar stores of their youth and tell their own youngsters what they missed out on. Details change, but stories go on.

Winter Morning Shadow Plays

            One of my favorite childhood memories or perhaps even adult memories involves using a bright light to cast finger shadows of rabbits, birds, and other creatures onto a blank wall. One morning, I noticed Mother Nature playing her own shadow games on Big Creek below my kitchen window. These engaging and active silhouettes encouraged me watch further and discover what fun the “old girl” could concoct using barren branches, agile squirrels, and flitting birds.

            A number of factors played into this shadow extravaganza.  First of all, water filled the creek that winter and provided a surface to reflect dozens of scampering critters bobbing in the overhead branches at any one time.  Also, the creek hadn’t frozen for long periods due to unseasonably warm temperatures. This sharpened the mirror-like effect on the slow-moving stream. Next, the red line on the thermometer recorded mornings chilly enough to invigorate squirrels and birds, but not so cold that it forced them into still, huddled energy preservation mode.

Another bonus was unnaturally clear air—no fog, no mist, no moisture of any kind obscured mirrored images. Finally, weekends provided time to be home around 8:30 a.m. when the early sun popped over the hill in just the right spot to profile a myriad of cottonwood, ash, and locust shadows onto the winding brook.

            What I saw when I gazed out the window onto Big Creek was a most unusual circus.  Shadows of furry, acrobatic figures chased one another from one darkly silhouetted high branch to another up and down the bank. The inconsequential forms seemed to fly as they leapt across open space. I suspected a previous May’s tornado created greater gaps than the squirrels were used to based on some of the stretches their images made as they reflected vaults from one landing to another. 

Amazingly, those breaches didn’t faze them as they launched wiry forms from limb to limb across spans of about 300 feet. The fearless rodents blasted off across open territory with the fearlessness of the Flying Wallenzas. 

            Every now and then I spied one of the reflected creatures performing a flip or winding itself artfully around a branch like it wanted to enhance its routine. Working in tandem, several choreographed a chase scene to rival the chase in The Thomas Crown Affair.  In addition to the fury critters’ mirrored dives, leaps, twirls, shadows of big and little birds hovered and darted in and out of the darkly profiled scenes. Where to look first became the morning challenge. Who cared about coffee?

            I don’t know how I missed this show on earlier weekend mornings unless that year’s presentation had more to do with previously mentioned factors—unnaturally warm temperatures and lack of moisture in the air that provided clarity we normally didn’t experience winter mornings.  Whatever the reasons, I’ve recorded this shadow play in my memory banks so I can sit back on future mornings and smile at the antics of frisky squirrels turning somersaults in my mind.

           

End the Drama with an Exchange Program

Recently, Ag Daily posted an article by Missouri farmer Blake Hurst that explores why the media doesn’t understand “flyover country.” It takes a while to read his essay, but the points he makes are worth weighing and deciding whether the mainstream news over-dramatizes lives of those from small towns in middle America.  Reading his article made me thankful that I’ve spent my life living in villages with less than 2,000 population, even if it that means a long drive to Walmart. It also makes me want to correct some misconceptions.

Even for those without children to raise, small communities in the middle of America offer plentiful reasons to call them home. You’ll know your neighbors. That doesn’t mean you’ll never have conflicts, but odds increase that you won’t worry about them belonging to terrorist organizations or holding 13 children hostage in filthy conditions. Rural living means you have an idea regarding who lives on your street and know their family history as well. So much awareness typically helps folks get along. Ever noticed how lawn mowing, flower planting, and putting up Christmas decorations appears infectious? When everyone on the street tidies yards or hangs festive lights, it’s like a germ—in no time, everyone’s got it.

On that note, if there’s a resident who can’t manage yardwork or maintenance, small town neighbors help. Now days, school kids join in the volunteering. On an established date, you’ll find entire classes alongside teachers and principals raking, painting, washing windows, or whatever needs done. Many youngsters continue helping older or disabled neighbors long after the assigned event. It’s part of their culture.

At workshops I’ve attended, urban teachers are curious about rural schools’ technology. They have the misconception that our facilities don’t compare to theirs. Imagine the surprise when they learn our students often have one on one access to computers or I-Pads. They’re more intrigued by rural youngsters’ savvy at designing web pages and computer programs, mastering CAD skills, or printing 3-D designs.

Because of technology, those who live in the hinterlands can access the world. We may have to drive an hour to shop at a big box store, but nothing stops us from placing a cyber order that’s delivered to our doorstep or from making reservations to travel wherever necessary to achieve our goals.  Due to such access, rural regions house an increasing number of ex-urbanites who’ve given up gridlock to work online.

Recent arrivals mention missing familiar restaurants, entertainment venues, and shopping. However, I’ve heard these same newcomers share how nice it is to visit with neighbors at the market or on the front porch. Almost all appreciate drivers who wave at everyone they meet. No one misses the honking and rude gestures they left behind.

Granted, folks in little towns give up some privacy, but the trade-off is genuine concern from people where you live and do business. I’d like to think Mr. Hurst’s article encourages rural dweller to share the truth about their communities—that these are places where residents want what humans everywhere want—love, community, safety, job satisfaction, and accomplishment. Maybe it’s time to start an exchange program to encourage Americans to see the reality of one another’s lives, rather than manufactured drama.

Getting Used to Country Noises

Those who’ve grown up in urban areas get used to round the clock mechanized sounds. Hearing lawn mowers, leaf blowers, drivers gunning engines, or jets roaring overhead causes no panic. In fact, car alarms, sirens, and even crashes at nearby intersections generate only short-term interest. Move that same population to the country and note how their eyes widen at every noise.

No matter a sound’s origin, imagination multiplies it.  A squeak or scritch in the wall is a rodent infestation. Coyotes howling alarms pets and humans alike. You’d think werewolves had invaded. A rabbit shrieking its death cry is enough to send former city dwellers into a catatonic state. Knowing this about my former big city neighbors, I wondered how I’d handle living a mile from our nearest neighbor when we moved from the edge of Ellis to an isolated hilltop in Trego County.

It didn’t take long to find out. We moved in December, and resident wild canines serenaded us to sleep on wintry nights. In short time, I looked forward to these rural lullabies. We also had nesting owls in a tree outside our bedroom. Again, once I recognized the source of those sleep inducing hoots and murmurs, I nodded off quickly. The occasional death cries of expiring cottontails raised my heart rate, but once I identified the source, I knew another hilltop inhabitant had dined well.

What I wasn’t prepared for were unexpected and repetitive tap, tap, tappings of woodpeckers. All those trees lining nearby Big Creek and the cedar siding on our house turned the area into a battle of feathered percussionists. Because we fed black oil sunflower seeds and suet to resident birds, we regularly enjoyed watching the unique flight pattern of sapsuckers, flickers, redheaded, hairy, and downy woodpeckers. They joined a myriad of other species at our feeders. All our guests were delightful, but the hard-headed, sharp-beaked creatures especially charmed us.

That is until they decided to drill for insects in our cedar siding. The first time this happened, it was early morning and our resident game warden was on duty checking hunters. A sharp and continual rapping on the north side of the house awakened me and our young daughters from deep sleep.

After peering out windows, expecting to see someone parked in the drive and pounding unceasingly on the outside wall, I was surprised to find no vehicle in sight. When we couldn’t identify the source of the intense and unending tapping, the girls’ and my imaginations went into over drive. We’d watched one too many scary movies.

For just a while, had someone been recording, the three of us would have qualified for America’s Funniest Home Videos. Pajama clad, we crept about looking for our tormentor and trying to decide whether this situation required a 911 call. Thank God, we identified our intruder before we punched that button.

Upon further inspection, I found a pair of flickers wildly attacking our siding. Intent on a tasty meal, they hammered til my presence drove them from their perch.

Recalling that incident and my response still makes me blush. After years of hearing only nature’s noises, I’m a country convert. A few hours in a metropolis and my brain reels from so much man-made sound.

Old Stories About New Beginnings

Fresh beginnings make people reflect as well as anticipate. I’m no different as I behold the clean canvas of a brand-new year. Like many of you, genealogy and ancestry sites have captured my interest, and I’m intrigued by ancestors who migrated to begin fresh lives and kept on traveling.  I’m curious about why so many kin made it to Kansas and stayed. As I explore their stories over the next few months, I hope your families examine your sunflower roots as well.

Our first Kansas ancestors arrived by train from Devizes, Ontario, Canada, in 1872. Although former brickmakers, they homesteaded along the Kansas/Nebraska border in Norton County, KS. While they exchanged longitudes, latitudes, and occupations, they maintained familiarity with their previous home by naming their new home Devizes, Kansas. According to family records, they donated land for a school, post office, and cemetery. Only the cemetery remains. Like so many start ups at the end of the 1800s, this little community withered til little except headstones remain to remind us of hopes that once existed in this isolated place.

This particular group of immigrants came not only to claim land, but also souls. Though Grandpa Reuben missed the Second Great Awakening of the earlier 1800s, he discovered a deep faith and committed himself and his family to the demands of a prairie Methodist Circuit rider. This meant he frequently left wife, children, and parents to develop the homestead while he and his pony traveled drainages with names of Beaver, Sappa, Prairie Dog, Solomon, Deer, and more. No matter the weather, he crisscrossed mostly empty miles, holding services for those settled far from town.

His tiny wife Hannah grew up as a daughter of ship captain who navigated Lake Michigan. Marrying Grandpa meant exchanging her predictable life for the exact opposite. I’m certain she surprised to herself by starting a family in a sod house far from any large body of water.

She made do in those first homes, offered bread and coffee to roaming Cheyenne, hid children in native grass to protect them from hostile natives, lived off missionary barrel goods sent by established eastern congregations, buried children, and in-laws, and lived to ripe old age before dying in Ford, Kansas.

Grandpa writes about arriving soon after the Rebellion when Kansans still reeled from the border wars. He detailed insect and weather-related devastation and expressed his satisfaction that many settlers hungered to hear the Lord’s message.

As I read his memoirs, I note town names have changed. Lenora was once Spring City while Glade was Marvin. He shared his frustrations with getting actual church buildings constructed. In Kensington, he and the Baptist preacher held services in the local saloon Sundays when it closed for regular business. He and the Methodists of Agra raised funds to build a sanctuary that was soon destroyed by a tornado. They didn’t give up. The community rallied and rebuilt their church.

With a love of history and so many roots in Kansas, I’ve stories to share. Perhaps our tales intersect with yours. I’m eager to hear from those with details to fill empty blanks in our saga.

The Gift That Keeps on Giving

It’s the season to count blessings and assess the past year. Once I finish listing family and friends, another favorite is the local library and its wonderful librarians. No matter where I’ve lived or worked, these book lenders are critical to a town’s success. If you don’t possess one already, head to the front desk, meet that guardian of knowledge, and arrange the power to check out books and movies throughout the year. Heck, get a Kansas Library card while you’re at it and add research services.

During early statehood, these institutions focused primarily on loaning books.  Over time, these magical passes permitted access to newspapers and periodicals affordable to few families. As one might expect, services have changed over the 150 years since community libraries first improved rural lives. Today, most patrons possess technology that lets them read on line so they don’t need to check out books.  If they don’t own one, they can borrow a library device. So what’s a good librarian do to make certain patrons keep coming through their doors?

Over the last few years, even dinosaurs like me who enjoy the weight of a book in hand and the sensory thrill of flipping pages have observed that library services evolve constantly. Because more folks read digital texts, librarians don’t need to buy as many hard copies. As a result, more of us now depend on interlibrary loan to get our sniff of lignin from the printed page.  Instead, limited budgets purchase videos, electronic games, audio books for travelers, and technology. In addition, small-town librarians design intriguing one-time as well as ongoing opportunities to explore the world. One friend serving a small library says it best--programming is everything.

Investigate your local library as well as those nearby. Enjoy tea parties and movie or game nights, receive homework help, listen to various speakers, learn genealogy, explore 3-D printing or robotics, and more. Every director works overtime to encourage residents of all ages to enter their doors several times a week.

Most facilities sponsor story time, which introduces toddlers to books and fun. Little ones might mime stories and march through colorful obstacle courses that begins a lifetime habit of recognizing characters and authors. One innovator creates a Lego based activity every week to keep little ones looking forward to their next visit.

Another friend in charge of a very small facility designed a teen corner where junior high and high school kids meet to play games, compare favorite books, and join a scavenger hunt. This creative lady took pictures of her town’s unique but rarely noticed architecture, trees, and other highlights. She ran off multiple prints of each photo and directed teams to find odd shaped windows, funky tree trunks, and other oddities. Combining laughter and learning built great memories. 

If you aren’t a regular at your library, stop and visit. The librarian has a book, movie, app, or program you’ll enjoy. If nothing else, suggest something to add to the schedule. Odds are at least one other person in town would appreciate your idea. Sure, it’s Christmas time when we’re supposed to give gifts to others, but using your local library is a present you’ll savor all year long.

Share What You Know and Learn Something New

If you ask, I’d bet every American believes they’re the real deal--100% red, white, and blue. Yet, media talking-heads highlight divisions, making us wonder what’s true or fake. The greatest cure for confusion is visiting other parts of the country and welcoming tourists to our state.   Regional and cultural differences exist and offer educational opportunities for visitors and locals. I’ve learned it’s best to keep a straight face when strangers ask about something I consider obvious. Their mistake may be sincere, so don’t blow an opening to correct confused folks without embarrassing them.

A friend who owns a western store has occasion to enlighten urban travelers who stop to shop. Many vacationing city dwellers end up in her rural community which is populated by boot and cowboy hat wearing citizenry. Outside city limits, deer and antelope defy fences to join domestic cows and horses in the satisfactory munching and digestion of local grasses. Both western fashion and  intermixing of wild and domestic herds seem perfectly normal to this shop owner and fellow residents. Chatting with out-of-state customers let this businesswoman know some see her world as unusual or exotic.

Several times during tourist season, folks stopping through inquire, “What’s going on in town today?”  Typically she hands them the weekly visitor guide and encourages them to tour area museums and nature sites. Eventually, someone was more direct and added, “No, why are so many people dressed up like cowboys?”

She peered out the door to notice locals dining at the hometown restaurant? “Like those guys?” she asked.

“Yea. Are they dressed up for a special event?”

Always striving to promote her town and encourage tourism, she considered her response. “No, that’s how many business people who live here dress. It’s lunch hour.”

Clearly, this confused someone used to urban professional attire. In their experience, places don’t exist where business people wear western shirts, jeans, and cowboy boots to the office. As a counter point, those accustomed to rural dress codes might stare if someone showed up on the job in an Armani suit or Manolo heels. It’s not what we’re used to.

Later that summer, out-of-staters paused to shop and learn about the area. This friend is very approachable so her customers started chatting about farms and ranches they’d passed on their way through the middle of the country. They were curious about how farmers and ranchers managed to raise cattle or horses and the deer and antelope browsing alongside their livestock.

A quick glance told my friend the curiosity was genuine. This wasn’t a joke, so keeping a straight face, she explained only the cows and horses were domestic. The deer and antelope were wild and could leap over fences or crawl under them anytime they wanted. Kudos for her ability to maintain her composure.

Our conversation began as we analyzed differences between Americans and what people know based on where they come from. That triggered her to tell these stories. Though we share a common government, it’s clear Americans don’t always understand one another’s regional and cultural differences. Anyone can take a lesson from this shop owner and make time to clarify misunderstandings. We’d all get along better.

Band of Brothers: Beloved and Celebrated

This year’s Veterans’ Day--a reflective time since so many family members have served our country—has passed. This one was more poignant than usual after I listened to a former student and current soldier speaking in honor of the occasion. He reminded me I’m blessed to know him and other young people who answered our nation’s duty call.

In his opening, he shared what he most values and loves, which is family--including fellow warriors. His respect and fondness for those he trained and served with in the 388^th rang clear and true, making me think of Shakespeare’s lines in King Henry V, “From now until the end of the world, we and it shall be remembered. We few, we Band of Brothers. For he who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.”

At the time he enlisted, so did many other western Kansans. A number of Ellis students in that four-year period joined the military, uniting to protect country and loved ones.  Many trained together and later deployed to the Middle East. Almost all still serve America in some fashion. When I see their FB posts, I think about their shared childhoods and history in the military. These new pictures of mature men and women make it difficult to recall them as youngsters who procrastinated endlessly over giving speeches or writing papers.

Several years ago, one former Ellis grad spoke at a political function in Phillips County. Like many students in public school, English and speech weren’t his favorite subjects. Imagine my pleasure while observing him present an enthusiastic, poised, well-organized presentation. I talked to him afterward and asked what he’d been doing post high school and active duty. At the time, he worked as a political advisor where public writing and speaking were keys to success. He shared a story about a classmate and fellow soldier who majored in English. That individual ended up ranking above him in their unit and insisted this former classmate rework reports until they met specifications, skills contributing to the speaker’s current employment. I chuckled to myself that some of the blood this band of brothers shed might resemble blue or black ink.

Many members of the 388^th Medical Battalion Reserve Unit have earned advanced degrees or certifications. Several are authors and professors. Not only did they back each other in combat zones, they encourage one another’s home front success. I have no stats, but I’d guess this group has earned more than the average number of degrees or advanced accreditations. This explains how the gentleman giving the FHSU Veteran’s Day speech crossed my radar. He’s in school accomplishing a goal.

These soldiers have done more than serve their country. They’ve brought out the best in one another and modeled the meaning of strength.  While bravery during battle is part of the that definition, sometimes it means standing before an audience, telling them how much you love your wife and how her commitment has allowed you to perform your duties well. I’m proud to know many of the brothers and sisters in this particular band. Western Kansans have much to celebrate.

Masters of Everything and Nothing

Dramatic stories of natural catastrophes fill newsfeeds almost daily. Earthquakes, floods, fires, hail storms, tornados, and hurricanes dominate headlines, reminding us that humans hold little power over weather and geological activities.  Discussion of recent events led to an emotional discussion during art class the other day. Eventually our group wondered how people who lived here before us handled such phenomena when they occurred during their lives?

Depending on how far back we’re talking, we agreed that many of those individuals lived migratory lifestyles. It made me think about what I know about native people of the Great Plains.  Using human, horse, and dog power, they transported tanned hides and wooden supports used to construct temporary homes with them as they followed wildlife herds. These creatures provided not only food, but also materials used to construct homes, tools, bedding, and clothing. Their Walmart had hooves.

The nature of these transient beasts meant they constantly moved, seeking grasses that thrived across this region from Texas to Canada. Herds large enough to darken the plains for miles quickly devoured this solar generated calorie resource. When the grass was gnawed to the ground, they moved shifted locale, leaving it to regrow before their next pass through the area. As a result, humans whose lives depended on the great, shaggy beasts packed up and trekked after them.

While some imagine the hardships of such a life, researchers tell us it was beneficial. Food was fresh, and tribes usually abandoned camp long before human wastes fouled water and soil that sustained them. As part of nature’s cycles, they understood the waxing and waning of the moon as well as the always changing seasons. They knew where their food and resources came from and how to preserve them for later use. They were more in touch with the realities of existence than modern urban dwellers.

Like us, they were susceptible to natural disasters. Oral histories and records kept on animal skins reveal accounts of apocalyptic events. The difference is that their mobility encouraged a high degree of adaptability. Reconstructing a hide tipi required resources and labor, but it didn’t require a lifelong mortgage to replace it. Because they moved where game moved, fire meant a lost season of grass in one locale, not a lost herd that had to be rebuilt--if finances permitted.

When such events occurred, whole tribes moved on, lending support to the weakest in the group. They maintained their cyclical behaviors until cultural conflict made that impossible. Equivalent catastrophes today often isolate individuals or families who then depend on strangers or impersonal government entities to help them rebuild lives. Not only do people lose homes and possessions, businesses, farms, vineyards, and ranches succumb to raging floods and flames. Lifetime dreams vanish overnight.

While technology and civilization provide temperature controlled climates inside four walls, it’s worth considering what modern humans give up to enjoy such comfort. Unless we consciously contemplate our relationship with nature and its pros and cons, it’s easy to think we’re the masters of the universe. That is until a natural disaster reminds us we aren’t in control of anything but how we respond to what happens to us.

Mother Nature and Her Wily Assassins

Conspiracy theorists need to investigate Mother Nature’s actions against trees in Western Kansas. Yes, she’s conspiring to make this a treeless plain once again.

Western history buffs often read descriptions of the region called the Great American Desert. Explorers Zebulon Pike and Major Stephen Long documented journeys across this landscape, noting its aridity and incompatibility with agriculture. A lack of trees supported their conclusions.

Despite the region’s general absence of foliage, wayfarers noted groves along rivers and streams, naming several camp sites Big Timbers. Clearly, the soil wasn’t insufficient. More was involved. Those who came to stay observed fire’s role in eradicating trees and shrubs.

Great thunderheads built up on the horizon then as they do now. When lightning bolts arced and contacted dried prairie grasses, flames raced unimpeded across the landscape, searing emerging seedlings and delicate saplings.

 To encourage buffalo migrations, some researchers explain that natives utilized fire to encourage tender grasses to sprout. Between lightning and manmade fire, trees struggled to survive.

That said, photos of western Kansas communities in the early and mid-1900s reveal flourishing stands of elm, ash, cottonwood, and hackberry. Towering trees shaded neighborhoods, hiding structures and yards from photographers. More recently, property owners have included pines in landscape designs.

If you compare images from earlier times to now, they’ve changed. What happened to the dense greenery shielding rooflines and sidewalks from camera lenses? Not fire, but dastardly, insects! That’s what. Mother Nature doesn’t want western Kansans to enjoy shady siestas or hear wind soughing through leafy branches.

After settlement, families planted trees and controlled fire. Combining these practices led to aerial shots of shady lanes and sheltered yards.  That is until beetles invaded this continent to wipe out one tree after another.

Once hardy Dutch elms dominated neighborhoods across America. Now healthy ones are impossible to find. Walk through town and note tattered remnants of a once thriving population. It’s hard to think of small insects as assassins, but as their numbers multiplied elms withered.

While concerned about these striped beetles, western Kansans didn’t panic. Ash trees grew well, providing stunning fall foliage as well as hardwood to warm winter hearths. That is until the emerald ash borer, another Asian invader, arrived. In its native land, its populations didn’t grow out of control. As an uninvited guest, it’s multiplied until most American ash trees risk annihilation. Mother Nature clearly intends to vanquish prairie arbors.

Clever souls tried to outwit her by introducing Scotch and Austrian pines. Initially, it seemed a good strategy. Dense windbreaks protected yards, parks, and cemeteries while beautifying them. Then, (hear the Jaws theme in your mind) pine sawyer beetles arrived to alter the story.  Traveling from tree to tree, this invasive species introduces a nematode that weakens trees. Needles turn from green to tan, signaling a tree’s impending death. It can take only 6 weeks for the disease to destroy a mature evergreen. This killer is very efficient.

As the region’s tree numbers dwindle, it’s clear Mother Nature’s killers labor unceasingly. Insects have assumed fire’s role as destroyer. Clearly, it’s going to take more than a desire for shady respite to outwit this gal and her team of wily assassins.

Time Well Spent

Art day in grade school was so much fun. I looked forward to it all week and could barely contain my excitement through morning lessons. Throughout lunch, I’d mull what we’d create when the teacher told us to clear desks for art. My favorite activity was painting, but coloring, gluing, forming clay, whatever hands-on mess making was a hit as far as I was concerned. Art time meant dabbling, creating, and chatting with nearby classmates. What could make it better?

Well, as an adult, I have an answer. Sip or snack and paint class for grownups. The sponsoring artist provides the easel, paint, brushes, and canvas, while students bring beverages and treats.

Several area artists have discovered they live in communities filled with wannabe Picassos. They’ve learned they can offer classes several times a month and teach others to enjoy capturing a scene on canvas. Friends even plan birthday parties and showers involving such activities.

I’ve attended sessions in different area towns and enjoyed every one. In the hours leading up to class, I build the same anticipation that kept me on the edge of my grade school seat. My mind rehearses familiar questions: what are we going to paint, will it be hard, how can I avoid a mess, who’s going to sit nearby, will I like the finished product? Some personality traits never go away, and these have remained mine for decades, even those where I never touched a brush.

No matter whose class you take, teachers understand student limitations and the old adage that nothing succeeds like success. Every course I’ve seen advertised has a great picture for students to paint. Sometimes they focus on scenes involving trees, clouds, sunflowers, water, or farmsteads. Holidays offer options from pumpkins and black cats to big-eyed owls to trees silhouetted against a haunting full moon. Thanksgiving scenes involve everything from autumn leaves to jolly turkeys. My favorite’s Christmas snow men. These whimsical characters might be skating, sledding, trimming trees or even standing on their heads. I enjoy such charming and colorful scenes so much I could paint them year-round.

I credit instructors with setting up the perfect get together. By the time we “artistes” arrive, they’ve arranged plastic protected tables, canvas on easels, paint brushes, Styrofoam plate palettes, and paper towels for messy pupils. They’ve finished at least one if not more demonstration pieces that model what the end result’ll look like if students follow directions. It’s fun to listen to everyone’s remarks as they anticipate the task before them.

It’s interesting how a special energy happens when creative spirits unwind and loaded brushes starting slapping canvas. When colors fill in forms and designs take shape, everyone relaxes. Breathing slows as folks capture key elements of the painting. As participants relax, stories and laughter emerge, adding to a perfect event.

Thank goodness, local artists invite dabblers into their studios and offer opportunities to rediscover joys found in grade school art class. For some, this’ll be their only painting experience, for others this is aspringboard to more advanced skills. Regardless, it’s time well spent.

Rural Schools: A Perfect Fit for Skilled Labor Training Movement

Everyday my newsfeed runs articles supporting rural communities. I also subscribe to Mike Rowe’s of Dirty Jobs fame posts where he reveals America’s need for skilled, hardworking employees. Mike explains such occupations pay well and require less education debt than do four-year degrees. For the good of individuals and the nation, he advocates interested Americans master a trade to earn a competitive salary.

Many of my former pupils chose this route and tell me they make far more money than I did as a teacher. As one who earned a living doing what I loved, I celebrate such accounts. One of my first students, who ironically isn’t that much younger than I, shares frequently that he loves his auto body career and how it enables him to provide well for his family. It’s not all gravy. He mentions ongoing expenses for equipment updates and physical wear and tear. Despite these challenges, his skilled training didn’t leave him deeply in debt and afforded a lucrative paycheck for fulfilling work.

I could tell more success stories, but space is limited. Instead, consider how long it takes to get a plumber, electrician, HVAC tech, carpenter, or carpet layer to provide non-emergency services. I waited a year for floor covering. I’ve waited weeks to hear a plumber’s knock at my door or get my car tuned-up. These folks are busy. They could work 24 hours a day and still have customers waiting.

So many of our students grow up on farms and ranches or in towns where residents value and model a strong work ethic. What changes we can make in local school systems to better prepare more young people for skilled trades?

A Japanese practice is worth considering and adapting. Their schools teach an appreciation for labor by rotating all students through jobs in the kitchen and cafeteria. Students learn about serving as well as cleaning after others. Youngsters assigned to janitorial duties practice facility maintenance. I imagine country school attendees recall performing such duties during their school years. It’s beneficial to understand how systems work and what it takes to maintain them.

As students, parents, and school officials consider possible curricular changes, I hope they focus on fundamentals that translate into critical thinking skills. Every worker/voter/citizen needs to analyze data well. Everyone should read expertly enough to question text. Math skills require more than drill. One of the best math and physics teachers in western Kansas also utilized his skills to roof houses and build upscale homes.

Humans require experimentation to discover interests and talents. Many young people don’t explore them until they graduate. Can educational systems jump start these investigations as early as grade school? Can kids practice critical academics with a hammer, surveying tool, or water purity sensor in hand?

Santa Fe Indian School would say yes. Instructors teach native students to perform scientific and mathematical calculations as participants survey boundaries and assess water quality. They use writing skills to produce professional reports and media releases.  

Fortunately, rural schools are natural sites for practical education. Low student numbers guarantee involving every youngster in activities from growing and preserving food to publishing documents to performing maintenance tasks on facilities and vehicles to using CAD to design untold possibilities. Many districts have construction programs that produce tiny homes to full-size residences.

The challenge requires systems to teach fundamental as well as trade specific skills. Individuals need a springboard to further academics or to occupational training. Schooling shouldn’t limit possibilities; it should expand them.

While big cities create magnet schools to provide such offerings to select students, rural communities can educate every child in such a way that honors knowledge, interests, work, and promises little towns have skilled laborers to make their world operate.

.

Rural Medicine: The Best

During four decades of living in Kansas, our family, like most in the region, has spent time recovering in a local hospital. Those visits provided an opportunity for reunions with acquaintances and former students while they helped us heal. Recently, Mom was a patient for 11 days in a rural hospital. Several weeks of outpatient therapy and treatment helped her rebuild strength and coordination. After watching these meetings between mom, me, and past pupils or friends, my brother who lives near a large Texas city commented several times that if he needs to be hospitalized, he wants to come to our hospital. He mentioned several times how lucky we are to have people who know us caring for our mother.

Part of our story involved a 911 call and an ambulance. Mom’s primary care provider showed up with the ambulance crew who arrived swiftly, assessed the situation, and applied necessary heart rate and oxygen monitors. Mom who was distressed to be not only ill but in need of EMT assistance was relieved to see that familiar face and hear his calming assurances. I second her feelings.

Once in the emergency room, nurses, physician assistants, and doctors coordinate efforts with lab and x-ray techs to identify specific patient needs. Sometimes this means staff members are on call at night or over weekends. In a scary situation, it’s a blessing to have someone you know caring for your loved one. Seeing a long-time friend’s wife, who’s also the mother of former students, smile as she collected Mom’s lab work soothed my spirit.

These little reunions occurred time after time during our loved one’s hospital stay. Former students are now registered nurses, and it’s a thrill to see them as adults in their professional roles. As their teacher or coach, I’d seen hints of their future talents. How gratifying to watch them in action as they inserted or removed IV lines, gave breathing treatments, monitored Mom’s vitals and medications, and assured her she was on the mend.

Many of mom’s friends and acquaintances also work at the hospital and made it a point to drop by and encourage her progress. When it came time to check out, these staff members helped us navigate paper work and follow up services. Their expertise helped us figure out the best plans for mom recovering at home. All made it clear we could call on them if we ran into questions we hadn’t considered. I can see why my brother was so impressed.

We’d been impressed with the quality of the food mom received during her stay.  When check out time neared, dietary staff introduced us to a reasonably priced meals-on-wheels plan which made the transition easier for mom. They even included me in their deliveries while I stayed to help her recover. It was assuring to know we had a tasty, well-balanced meal we didn’t have to cook during weekdays.

Support staff cheered mom on as she regained her health. Not only did she look forward to their smiles and cheery comments during her outpatient visits, I did too. As fellow community members, they offer encouragement and comfort to those struggling through unfamiliar medical issues.

Health scares are just that—frightening. Because we live in rural Kansas, local caretakers soothe some of that concern. My brother is right—such care is priceless. I hope our politicians help to keep our local clinics and hospitals open.

An Odd Combination

I love seeing leaves turn bright colors and magazines promote colorful pages full of Halloween costumes, décor, and party ideas. Shopping aisles full of colorful candy tempt my eye. Making this season even better, garden centers display net sacks filled with next spring’s tulips and daffodils. An Orscheln’s exhibit showcased 30 bulb packages, so after stocking up on October 31 goodies, I tossed one each of daffodils and tulips into my cart. I’ll tuck them into a fall garden bed and watch them bloom come May.

I’ve always loved growing vegetables and flowers. It wasn’t until I married that I planted rows of blossoms that start from a bulb. The first year was disappointing but those following provided multiplying reasons to love these perennials. As time passes, those bulbs double, quadruple, well—you get the picture. With patience, a skimpy beginning evolves into a blast of brilliant color waving in spring breezes. This motivates me to plant season after season.

Because marketers promote both Halloween candy and flower bulbs that must be planted before mid-November, the association tempts me to hand out flower bulbs to trick or treaters along with instructions to start their flower bed. Before long, good sense reigns and I instead stock up on sweets for costumed guests. However, I should mention that four-legged trick or treaters of the squirrel and deer variety do a happy dance when I throw a sack or two of bulbs into my cart.

Yes, these furry neighbors look forward to this time of year too. I swear squirrels hiding in trees a block away have spotting scopes they use to spy on where I tuck those tender orbs. Within a day or two, I find a couple of fresh plantings dug out and devoured. Once nothing remained but loose dirt—the bulbs vanished like the ghosties who wandered up our sidewalk with bags in hand.

Deer do their damage later when tender leaves and delicate blossoms first emerge. While squirrels don’t discriminate between daffodil and tulip, mature deer have a more selective palate. I suspect yearlings don’t know daffodils disagree with their stomachs and sample a few until they learn better. Older ones leave turn their noses up. Tulips are another matter. Based on the number these gluttons eat, white tails and muleys consider them delicacies.

When we lived by Big Creek, I counted myself lucky if half my tulips made it to full bloom. I rarely worried about protecting them from the fingers of curious toddlers because deer beat our daughters to them every spring. Odds for a successful full flowering haven’t improved much even though I now live in town and our girls are grown. Apparently, hooved gourmands can’t resist wandering through swing set-filled neighborhoods. They’ve discovered residents landscape with tasty treats that turn their junket into a candy store visit.

Over time, my brain has melded Halloween and spring bulb planting into a combined experience. Be careful when you check your trick or treat bag.  I may cave and pass out next season’s blooms instead of the traditional Hershey bar or Kit Kat.

More Than a Thorn

As I mulled writing about devil’s claw plants for this week’s column, my thoughts skittered across a dozen bunny trails. So, hang with me. Folks who grow up on the plains frequently repurpose seemingly unrelated items into functional uses. Stephen Ambrose noted this ability in his book Band of Brothers. He praised the ingenuity of American farm boys who welded metal to fronts and undercarriages of tanks and other military vehicles, permitting them to plow open centuries-old hedgerows. Their problem-solving saved lives and permitted the U.S. front to advance across Europe. Though nowhere as dramatic as Ambrose’s story, I’ve watched friends and relatives turn what seems unusable into functional objects.

Consider those nasty stickers that thrive at the edges of corn and milo fields. Once they dry, they split into two wicked hooks that attack intruding humans and beasts. Like Norman hedgerows, this natural armament prevents hunters and farmers from getting where they want to go easily. When one embeds itself in the calf, ankle, or foot of you, your hunting dog, or livestock, it’s difficult to imagine them as anything but excruciating torture.

This did not hold true for Grandmother’s creative friend. Southwest Kansas has as many of these evil thorns as we have in Northwest Kansas, so this woman transformed them into art. She’d wander borders of fields carefully collecting them. Somehow, I never thought to ask how often they tore holes in her flesh. She’d dry them further and shake out their seeds so they didn’t expand territory before she turned them into magical creatures.

Following the summer molt, this artisan explored near the artesian well and other springs where a large flock of Meade Lake peacocks quenched their thirst. The noisy, pretty males dropped iridescent tail feathers. Instead of collecting them in a pretty container, Grandma’s friend recognized their potential for combining with her collection of devil’s claws to create tiny replicas of exotic birds.

Somehow, this craftsperson stabilized each massive thorn so it stood on its own. Then she trimmed blue, turquoise, and green feather eyes to fit inside the now dry claws. Satisfied with their fit, she glued each one in place. I know she spent time on this because they survived each of us grandkids’ close and frequent inspection. I’m guessing more than one adult handled them as well. When she finished, she had folk art renditions of courtly birds who dance prettily with fanned tails.

I looked forward to visiting Grandma and Grandpa’s each year for many reasons, but one was to see the new little peacocks lined up on Lottie’s shelf. Granddad had already introduced the grands to his favorite birds and entertained them with his imitation of the males’ obnoxious call. This combination made it easy to fall under such a beautiful creature’s spell.

The carefully crafted peafowl imitations in Gram’s house changed my perspective about thorns. A local artist’s imagination and skill increased my appreciation for beleaguered farm boys’ ability to adapt equipment and win WW 2. Funny how something as simple as creating folk whimsies out of what most consider trash connects dots across time. Head down the hole, bunny. Don’t come out until next week!

Hard Times, Strong People

Right now, Kansans who live anywhere near Wakeeney can only shake heads and wring hands. As they survey profound destruction wreaked upon homes and farms by gust-driven ice missiles the size of baseballs, they reveal the tenacity of prairie residents. They don’t lament, “Woe is me.” Instead, they count their blessings.

More than one battered resident has remarked that they lost property, but no one died. Even in instances where people lost livestock or pets, they express gratitude that family members are well. I can relate. I was relieved to hear my own mom’s voice telling me she was okay after that monster storm battered her house and yard.

Via radar, I watched that white mass layered in purples, pinks, and reds as it cut a swath across Western Kansas. I called Mom to be sure she knew it was coming. She didn’t need me to tell her. Her Nex Tech device alerted her to danger so she was heading for shelter.

Knowing she was protected inside her home comforted me.  At Brownie Scout camp decades before, we faced an evacuation through golf-ball size hail. I recalled welts and bruises ice balls rising on young campers and couldn’t imagine facing even larger wind-driven projectiles. After I saw storm-damaged vehicles, windows, and roofs, it was clear anything alive and outside suffered trauma during that assault.

A friend posted the storm in real time on Facebook so I imagined everyone experiencing that icy barrage felt like they were entombed in a continuously battered barrel. It had to be the closest to war that citizens who’d never served in the military experienced. Mom confirmed this when I contacted her following the storm.

Afterwards, the real ordeal began. As people inventoried damages, they found shattered windows, punctured roofs, damaged siding and fences, destroyed lawn furniture, naked trees, and vehicles pocked with more dents than a golf ball has. Some even discovered that the knife-like wind flipped trailer s, trucks, and grain bins topsy-turvy. It stripped fields of ripening grain to toothpick-like stalks.

While those viewing devastating photos bemoaned their friends and loved ones’ fates, I saw so many grateful responses. Caveats such as “Others had it much worse,” or “It can all be cleaned up,” echoed through social media.

A friend with his own troubles helped Mom patch her broken windows. A cousin with carpentry experience drove over two hours the next morning to seal a roof so punctured it could function as a colander. He found a reliable repair company to restore her property. His guidance is a blessing because he has insights the rest of us don’t.

My friend on the farm who noted that others had things much worse than she did brightened lives when she posted a story about her Great Pyrenees pup that found a storm-battered dove and carried it to her. She protected it and watched to see if it would mend enough to fly away. Distant and close friends smiled when she reported it flew off despite significant feather loss.

Right now, it’s hard to think about normal for folks living in this battered region. But like that dove, life will take off. 

The Great Plains and Small Town Hearts

Over a decade ago, I attended a National Endowment for the Humanities Seminar titled The Great Plains: Texas to Saskatchewan. For five weeks, Tom Isern guided 20 teachers as they read and analyzed literary and historical texts, discussed conclusions, and visited iconic sites to better understand what it means to live on the plains.

One identifying characteristic of this land is its vast horizon with few vertical interruptions such as trees or skyscrapers. That distinction found its way into pioneer diaries and journals as early travelers moved from coves and hollows where tree groves cupped around them, making them feel secure as a babe in its mother’s arms. That sense of sanctuary vanished for those entering the Great Plains as my mom who worked at the Meade County Courthouse in the 60s discovered in early immigrant records. Many were institutionalized when they couldn’t cope with open space and frequent wind.

Fellow seminarians from other regions shared that the plains’ vistas disquieted them as well. Their responses reminded me of a Japanese exchange student I took to Oklahoma City. On our journey, she exclaimed repeatedly, “Why don’t you build cities in this land? Why don’t people live here? You should use this space.”

For those accustomed to much sky and little upright interference, outsiders’ viewpoints challenge us to consider where we live and what it means to be a plains person. Recently, I’ve traveled western Kansas’s isolated highways, stopping to explore almost-ghost towns like Densmore, Ogallah, Clayton, and Levant that once boasted thriving communities.

 Those isolated miles of asphalt stretching infinitely over hills and valleys bring a smile as I think how these trails confuse those who believe all Kansas is flat. Frequent high spots permit travelers to see across entire counties. Imagine Indians and early explorers standing on these ascents to view scores of buffalo, deer, elk, turkey, and antelope. In all directions, they saw a rich land that could feed everyone who crossed it.

Crumbling remains of once well-built churches, multi-story brick or stone schools, plaster and lathe homes that housed growing families, as well as peaceful hilltop cemeteries remind us that hopeful hearts believed in this abundance. These little hamlets every 15 to 20 miles across the prairie remind us of Jeffersonian Democracy in action. Here families worked soil, tended businesses, worshipped God, and educated children to create better lives.

When folks gravitated from these self-sufficient villages to cities, they lost something. These hamlets tied people to the land that fed them, schools required students to participate in declamations, plays, music, and sports; churches cared for not only spirits but also for physical needs of residents. These communities developed well-rounded citizens who united to survive. 

In forested regions, close-growing trees hold one another upright when the wind blows. In mountainous landscapes, one rock supports another. Nature doesn’t offer such protection in the open plains, so humans must sustain one another. Neighbors become one another’s rock, cove, hollow, and grove.

When I recollect that seminar and a place I call home, I acknowledge lifestyles change. Not everyone can live in self-sufficient villages, but every Kansan can celebrate open space that reminds us this rich land sustains many and offers space enough to teach us to look out for one another.