Barbed Wire and Torn Jeans Go Together Like Peanut Butter and Jelly

Some people like to buy jeans with holes already in the fabric. I, however, prefer my new britches with only traditional waist and leg openings. Unfortunately, because I’m not good at crossing barbwire fences, I’ve ripped some fashionable extra tears in my denims.

 One pair had a rent in the upper inseam that I was able to mend well enough to wear them in public. The other I managed to catch by the seater, and no matter how tiny my stitches were, I couldn’t piece that “L”shaped rip together without a visible patch. Regardless of how many young folks buy jeans with intentional rips, it just isn’t cool to be in public only to realize your needlecraft failed, leaving your undies on display.

Despite initial appearances, this article isn’t really about torn jeans. They’re simply a result of ineffective efforts to get from one side of barbed wire to the other. People who’ve lived long in this country know fence crossing is an art. It isn’t something you wake up one morning to discover is your area of expertise. If author Malcolm Gladwell is correct, you’d need to climb over about 9,999 such enclosures before you were an expert. While I’m not sure that number is necessary, I know it takes practice to perform this feat without damaging fence, flesh, or pants.

Before you think about your own well-being or that of your clothing when crossing these barriers, you have to be sure the fence doesn’t get messed up when you either lift a leg over or stretch the top and middle wires wide enough to allow an  adult to squeeze through. Fixing fence is no fun, so you don’t want to set yourself up for stapling line back on posts or having to splice it. If you’re responsible, you aren’t going to mess up a landowner’s hard work and then not repair it.

Once you’ve made sure you aren’t damaging that wire barricade, you need to decide whether you have long enough legs  or  superhuman leaping power to get yourself over the obstacle without jabbing yourself in some tender parts. It’s difficult to maintain composure among a group of friends and hunting buddies when you’ve hung your inner thigh up on a metal projectile. It’s more challenging to act like everything is fine with your nether regions attached to that fence, and you can’t find a place to grab the torturous cable without catching hand flesh and ripping it as well.

If you can’t make it over the obstacle, you need to squeeze your hunting-gear-encased torso between taut lines and then drag your legs through one at a time. For folks who don’t practice yoga regularly, this is difficult. You’re also depending on a fallible human to spread those lines wide. Sometimes the responsible party gets distracted. All the apologies in the world don’t make it feel better when you’ve been twanged between two strands of barbed wire—and that’s after you get your clothes and hair detached.

I’ve ripped enough almost-new jeans to wonder if some outdoors person who wasn’t very good at crossing barbed wire fences was responsible for making torn denims fashionable. I don’t have to pay extra for torn pants. A trip out of doors updates my wardrobe considerably.

Almost Empty Nest

I’ve observed a great-horned owl on her nest for the past three months. This triggered my reflections on similarities between human and critter parenting experiences. It also added questions to those already swirling about my busy brain. One of those is do birds experience a sense of unsettledness like the one humans have when their young first leave home? After surviving those aching months when our youngest moved from home, leaving an unnaturally quiet house behind, I recall a moment when my husband and I looked at one another, and said something along the lines of, “We’re going to have to relearn what a world without kids in it is like.”  

As humans, we spend more time rearing offspring than wild creatures do. As a result, the empty nest stage jars our senses at first. To make it through those first weeks, we review photos and videos of earlier times with our youngsters. These remind us how clever, inventive, and cute they were. Thankfully, human parents have late teen and early twenty years when kids are out more than they are in to prepare for a future where only adults occupy the house.   

Seeing that great-horned owl and her nest progress from egg -laying to ready-to-fledge time has triggered a flood of memories about raising our girls. To compound these emotional flashbacks is the fact our eldest and her husband are experiencing the infant and toddler years with their two little ones. Between my watching these escapades through grandmother eyes and snapping weekly photos of maturing owlets, reminiscences of early parenthood invade my mind every time it wanders.

In February and early March, that owl momma attended her incubating eggs obsessively. Once they’d hatched, she’d fluff her feathers and spread wings wide to keep her babies toasty on frosty mornings. As weeks passed, I observed two downy heads peeking over the edge of the nest under momma’s watchful golden eyes. Eventually, days grew warmer and growing babies’ feathers filled in.

 As the nestlings matured, they crowded their home. Eventually, Mom ventured out to forage. I’d spy her leaving her young, who now occupied the entire bowl of their treetop home, gazing after her as she swooped low over the prairie searching for rodents.

Lately, her babes are often alone when I drive by. If that mom is anything like a human mother, she enjoys this freedom. While she’s hunting, her children mind the boundaries of their world, but like their human counterparts, it seems they inch closer to the edge every time I pass. The other morning, one daredevil stood on the lip of its nest, stretching developing wings.

One day soon, momma owl will come home to find her nest empty. I wonder if she’ll be as surprised as I was to discover my young had left home. Do owls reconsider their time management since the need to feed and clean up after offspring has ended? Will she soon perch atop power poles as she did last fall?

Whether human or critter, parenting cycles follow predictable patterns. For a time, babies tie mommas close to home with barely a moment to go to the bathroom alone. Slowly but surely, little ones mature, freeing parents from total dependency. In what seems like a flash, those youngsters develop until they’re ready to live on their own, leaving behind parents to figure out what to do with that extra time and space.

I guess we know what I did with mine. I started owl watching and telling you what I saw.

Gabbles from Gooseland

When I was a kid, I lived 11 miles from Disneyland. I took for granted that I’d visit the happiest place on earth several times a year. And I did. Due to immaturity, I didn’t understand why my out of state cousins were so excited to visit Southern California and the Magic Kingdom. They were giddy about meeting Mickey and exploring Adventureland, and their enthusiasm for something so commonplace as Disneyland escaped me. After all, it was just a big amusement park with a bunch of costumed characters walking around waving at folks.

If I’m not attentive, it’s easy to have that same take-it-for-granted-attitude about living in the Central Flyway. The CF is a place where those in the know can observe a wealth of bird species that are either migrating through or live here. Those of us who live in mid and western Kansas have opportunities to enjoy birding and bird hunting that few share. Most of the time, we don’t have to travel much distance in order to add another species to our birding list or to bag our limit of geese, duck, or teal. A step out our doors and we are in Gooseland.

This time of year, it’s necessary to go outside to enjoy the gabbling coming from south of the house. I’m not throwing open the windows in these icy temperatures in order  to hear thousands of snow and Canada geese that hang out near our water treatment lagoons  and sound like a stadium full of cheering fans. I’m sure the designer of these ponds had no idea how perfectly suited these water holes are to host multitudes of honking birds, but if they had intended to lure geese close to town, they couldn’t have planned better.

Not only is my neighborhood home to scores of winged, web-footed creatures, but so is Ellis. For decades, the city lake has drawn hordes of Canadas into town. Some of these long-necked critters walk around the community looking as though they wonder why all these humans and their houses and vehicles are in the way. Sometimes, they’re downright unfriendly in the way they honk and peck at their human neighbors. These actions end up getting them transported to a less populated neighborhood…or into a roasting pan.

Not all geese want to land so near to human beings. During my long drive home from school, I frequently see several thousand birds settling into either stubble or green wheat fields for their evening roost. When this many snow geese land in the same place, it’s easy to see how they got their name. Packed in tight, they look like a wintry landscape that happens to move. They might be able to use their deceptive camouflage except they can’t be quiet. When I stop to watch them, I can hear their nattering even before I roll the window down.

When I rode into the countryside with my husband the other day, he pointed out geese far in the distance. Initially, I didn’t see what he was directing me to see. I thought I was looking at corn stalks rising from prairie soil. After zooming in with my telephoto lens, I realized what I thought were upright canes were actually geese craning their necks to look my way. They wanted to see what was in the distance every bit as much as I wanted to examine them.

My spouse told me to keep my eyes peeled because I might see some eagles as well. A pair of them were ranging the area, probably hoping to feast on goose stragglers. That would have been a real bonus if I’d gotten to photograph an eagle along with the honkers. I was reminded again of how lucky we are to live amongst such amazing bird diversity.

I hope I always remember how fortunate I am to call the Central Flyway home. I’m glad I traded Gooseland for Disneyland every time I see those Vs needling across the blue horizon or hear their raucous cries.

Insects Inspire Designers

Time for confession: I’m a female missing the fashion gene. While I love creativity, I prefer to wear plain jeans and t-shirts. Ironically, I sometimes watch What Not to Wear, but I’d drive Stacy and Clinton insane. I don’t always like the designs and patterns they convince the person-in-need- of-improvement to buy. Although I don’t always like the styles these fashionistas promote, I love interesting looking insects.

Since I began lugging a camera everywhere I go, I’m on the lookout for photographic subjects. I’ve snapped pics of squirrels and bunnies on morning walks until I have a full folder. I wanted something different--something fun to manipulate with editing software. My mom always said be careful what you ask for, which might be true in this case. I began noticing bugs--not just common creatures, but fantastic special-effects quality insects. Not only did I spot them, but also they let me take photos from various angles so I could use software to play with their appearance. 

Squirrels and bunnies are cute, but it’s hard to make their pictures unique. They’re good for an aw, how cute, and that’s it. Insects, on the other hand, have interesting parts.  Sometimes their wings constructions rival the windows in majestic European cathedrals. In addition, their mouths and antennae are often complex enough to crop into interesting compositions that  display only that body part.

After paying close attention to these overlooked critters that share my neighbhorhood, I’m certain their coloration and design configurations would delight the WNTW duo. They’d be over the moon when they saw the striking black on white of a cottonwood borer. If they looked at this creature under a microscope to note the white was actually fine hair, they’d want to reproduce the positive/negative relationship as well as the texture into a garment one of their clients would model. I can see Stacy capturing the sheen of the legs and antenna in a stylish handbag or fashion boot.

Dragonflies might also inspire creativity in New York’s garment district. First, using the array of jewel-tones on these insects would brighten clothing racks in every national clothing chain. Even I would buy dragonfly blue or ruby-hued shirts to top my denims. Recently, a coral, cream, and brown species skimmed ahead of me. As I watched it dance lightly above waving brome grass, I imagined buying sheets and a comforter capturing those warm colors.

A cicada isn’t as delicate or lovely as a dragonfly, but it’s worth examining closely. With unaided vision, I saw only dull green and black. However, its intricate wings looked like fine leaded glass. When I magnified my picture, hints of crimson, topaz, emerald, and sapphire emerged, making a bejeweled Hollywood monster. Tiffany glass manufacturers would   gladly claim the wings.

Forget buying current fabric designs. After seeing what some of the bugs in my neighborhood wear, I know they’d make the staff of What Not to Wear do a happy dance. Even I’d go shopping for more stylish duds. 

Fireflies Looking for Love

            A hip-jutting, bold-shouldered posture made famous by actor James Dean, a flick of a hand through hair, extended eye contact, and a lingering second glance suggest a human’s interest in romance. Researchers have written entire books about body language people use when they want to hook up.

Not surprisingly, other species’ signals read just as obviously. In this region, we watch the spring strut where male turkeys fan tails and rattle feathers to attract hens. In a few remote locales, you might spy a prairie chicken dancing and booming to catch the eye and ear of his ladylove. Sitting outside on a summer eve, you hear nearby frogs trilling and croaking love songs to woo female amphibians.

On warm June and July nights, love is everywhere, even in the fireflies flitting about my backyard. Recently, I discovered these insects’ blinkers flash in search of romance. These light--then dark--then light beacons that enthrall me have everything to do with reproduction and nothing to do with my delight in their strobe effect. A little research helped me understand how fireflies control their lights. 

A scientist mentioned this insect’s ability to glow involves the chemical nitric oxide, which coincidentally helps control human heartbeats and memories. It’s interesting that a chemical that brightens a summer night also has something to do with maintaining brain cells that replay movies of times past. Humans may not glow and flash as fireflies do, but the elemental bond they share with this charming insect plays a critical role in their well-being.

It also intrigued me to learn that the two hundred species of fireflies each have unique signals that differentiate them from another variety of firefly. Using their specifically designed beacons, they attract appropriate mates. This is critical, considering the short time they have to find a partner.

While I’ve enjoyed fireflies for years, I didn’t realize their nightly Morse code involved propagation of their species. Those tiny flickers are nature’s way to make sure my favorite summertime insect continues to exist. In addition to discovering fireflies use their flashers to look for love, I also learned they spend two years in a larval state. In contrast to this long incubation, they exist for only two weeks in their beetle/firefly stage. It’s during this short period that they mate and lay eggs, according to a Tufts University study.

 Two weeks is not much time to start a family. Finding this out makes me feel guilty for the years I collected fireflies in glass jars to admire in a dark bedroom and for the summers I allowed our daughters to enjoy this childhood ritual. Though we released our insects the following morning, we reduced their baby making opportunities. 

This information has created a new resolve at this house. Those glowing bugs can have their whole beetle stage to find love and make more nighttime wonders. From now on, I won’t interfere in their romances. However, knowing these facts makes me feel like I invade their privacy when I watch their summer light shows.

  

              

Imagine Going into Battle with a Song as Your Weapon

If you tune into the news, you’ll see people and nations disputing boundaries. These disagreements may involve guns, artillery, and bombs, or they may be legal wars that wind their way through courtrooms for years before anyone gets a definitive answer regarding who owns what. Since the beginning of time, humans have wrangled over property lines. After watching two male cardinals duke it out last week, I’ve decided people ought to settle their differences the way birds do—with song.

As a kid, I thought birds sang because they were happy. When I grew up, I learned they generally sing to attract mates or to establish and defend territory. Scientists who study such behaviors can tell you exactly how many tunes an individual species sings. According to one observer, brown thrashers produce 2,000 different songs while the Henslow sparrow has a repertoire of only one. That’s a lot of watching and recording to determine what’s going on in the bird world. 

In North America, we hear mostly male birds because they typically initiate courting behavior and establish or defend territory. Researchers discovered that playing a recording of another male house wren’s song triggers hostile behavior in listening wrens. They also know that if they remove these guys from their native habitat and play recorded territorial songs, a transplanted bird rarely invades the new region. The other fella’s melody establishes clear boundaries without bloodshed or violence.

Recently, I saw this in action. While rambling about town, I heard competing cardinals calling back and forth across a street. I’ve wanted to photograph these scarlet beauties so I stopped to look for the source of the racket. One chap hid among the leaves of a tall tree while his opponent clung defiantly to a wire strung between telephone poles as they hurled insults back and forth. 

As I watched, their volume increased. If bird body language is anything like that of humans, the creature on the line was agitated. He wanted that other guy GONE. I observed their trilling for five minutes until I realized their duel could go on all day. I returned the next morning to see if the warbling warriors were still sparring, but silence reigned over the neighborhood. The feud ended without a single casualty.

While I finished that morning stroll, I had much to consider. What if humans sorted out their differences through song? Would folks like me who can’t carry a tune but possess a loud voice have an advantage? Would others give in to shut us up? Maybe the contest would be like TV shows where celebrities declare a winner.

In the human world, I’m sure a third party would settle the issue, but I’m uncertain whether scientists know how birds determine a victor. They only know that birds select mates and settle territorial conflicts through song. 

It makes me wonder what John Lennon thought about as he wrote these lyrics, “There’s nothing to kill or die for” in his song “Imagine.” Perhaps he too watched birds settle differences by trilling memorable tunes and imagined settling disputes without violence. 

Pickin’ Potato Bugs ‘n Livin’ the Dream

Deep in every woman’s heart, no matter how practical she is, lives a die-hard romantic. That’s the reason commercials promote products displayed against a field of wind-blown wildflowers, stunning sunsets, or white sand beaches bordered by intensely blue waters. All the while, a simple but sweet tune plays behind the scenes if it’s a TV ad. These commercials aren’t designed for men. Trust me.

After the early dating years, much of the romance that attracts lovers in the first place gets lost in daily survival. It’s hard to set a candlelit table for two when a ball game begins at 6 p.m. or cattle need fed before the winter sun sets. It’s difficult to maintain that passionate gaze that connected you and your sweetie back in your courting days while a toddler and infant throw their evening hissy. As a couple adds anniversaries, a few special occasions have to make up for a lot of get-through-the-day-chaos.

Despite messy, unpredictable reality, the essence of the sweet young thing who wanted Prince Charming to swoop her away on his white charger keeps fanning her ancient dream. Why else would so many women keep romance novelists busy writing and selling books enough to fill jillions of library shelves? Why else would Hallmark devote an entire channel to happy-ever-after endings? 

Folks, mostly female, reading those novels and watching those programs are typically between the ages of 30 and 54. According to one source, the Hallmark Channel’s family friendly programming was listed number 1 with 96% audience retention. Those viewers are loyal too.

So what’s a long-married guy have to do to add sizzle to his true love’s life? According to my husband, he should invite her potato bug picking. He’d tell you timing was important because both dusk and dawn add that special ambience. If you make it a contest, that really spices up your together time.

I guess it must work because we met in the garden the other evening for a round of insect collecting. I wasn’t familiar with the nymph stage of these hungry critters so he graciously showed me several of the little orange and black squishy bugs before the competition began.

Once I understood what to look for, we each took a section of potato plants and began searching. Remembering that I appreciate chivalry, he was ever the gentleman and let me have the area with the most obvious snacking creatures. While those were easy pickin’, I quickly learned to scan the undersides of leaves to increase my chance of winning.

He already knew this species is particularly fond of hidden regions of potato plant anatomy and had significantly more bugs in his jar. Seeing his half-full container inspired me to double my efforts. I swished potato plants so wildly that the objects of my hunt tumbled from their dinner table to the ground below. 

The extra time I spent searching for lost prizes gave my darling more time to increase his Kerr jar’s contents. Soon, I had to admit I’d lost the game. 

While that might have upset a more competitive woman, I looked up to see the moon rising against the fading blue eastern sky. Evening’s cooling breeze blew my hair away from my face and riffled through the oat field behind the garden, making rolling waves. Birds flitted past, adding their simple but sweet songs to our evening. While standing knee high in potato plants, I realized I was living the dream those advertisements promote with the best fella a girl could find.

The Beholder’s Eye

Living in the same region and sharing roads, doctors, schools, and hair stylists doesn’t mean people see a common experience from the same perspective. Everything that’s happened to individuals prior to those events colors their interpretations. It’s true of two kids who grow up in the same house with the same parents but tell two different stories about their upbringing. People spin their own explanations. 

A recent reminder of how humans see the same occurrence differently resulted from a post in a group including urban and rural Kansans. A member published stunning photos of musk thistle flowers. The photographer meticulously shot multiple views of purple blossoms, displaying them in full bloom and as compact buds. She edited artfully to accent color variations and focus on petal filaments or the green casing containing all those seeds-in-development. She added a note explaining how beautiful she found them.

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I liked her art, but my brain focused on the difficulty of removing those weeds from a pasture. I dealt with my conflict using avoidance—I didn’t make a comment pro or con about her eye-catching photos. However, others more certain of their feelings clicked the like button to tell this artist she’d won their approval. Some, country folks I bet, respectfully shared that it’s hard to look at a musk thistle blossom appreciatively, no matter how attractively displayed,  if you’ve spent time digging those prairie pests.

Several participants seconded that opinion. All worded their responses kindly, but they made it clear they didn’t see those flowers with the same affection the photographer did. A noxious weed was a noxious weed no matter how attractive a camera and editing made it appear.

A second reminder followed the first within a few days. It also involved plants. A friend who grew up in a large farm family thought people used their green thumbs to grow wheat as a cash crop and big gardens to fill dinner plates throughout the year. Spending time grooming a luxuriant yard wasn’t on that family’s radar. As a result, she thought a lawn punctuated with flowers, wild or cultivated, was pretty. For her, these colorful bonuses brightened drab buffalo grass.

When she married, she discovered another way to look at this situation. Her husband dreamed of having a manicured lawn. He didn’t like weeds interrupting the green turf surrounding their home, explaining how mad it made him when a neighbor’s wildflowers invaded his yard. I’d like to have seen his face when she responded, “But it’s so pretty. Don’t you love the colors?”

If you’re around long enough, you learn no one sees life the way you do. What one person sees as lovely may disgust another. This is certainly clear at the table. One sibling loves broccoli and another gags thinking about it, proof that value lies in the eye of the beholder.

If that photographer had dug much musk thistle, she might have taken its picture, but she probably wouldn’t have focused on its beauty. On the other hand, if a rancher’s grandkid grew up in a city, thistles might be pretty flowers that make artists smile.

Dodge Those Purple Splotch Bombs

Driving home from work one day, I noticed a hint of a new hue--a titch of red, emerging in the trees that line Big Creek along Old Forty. I slowed to get a better view, and after peering closely, saw scarlet fruit emerging on the many mulberry trees that dot our landscape.  My first thought was it seems a bit early for the mulberries to ripen. My next thought was oh no.  It’s purple splotch bomb time.

Not only do insects like those luscious berries, but birds do too, with decidedly undesirable results. Everywhere I look during mulberry season, I see purple splotches splattering cars, lawn furniture, windows, porches, the dog’s back, and on infrequent occasions, a human head! Based on their splatter techniques, some might think Jackson Pollock took art lessons from mulberry fed blue jays.

I know humans studied birds for years to determine how we too might fly. Looking around our place at the results of fruity explosions, I wonder if tactical bombing instructors used these feathered friends’ techniques to learn new bombing strategies. 

The idea of carpet-bombing undoubtedly occurred to some poor military tactician who suffered the misfortune of standing in the wrong place when a flock of birds hastily digested their diets of deep purple fruit during a quick take off. It wouldn’t take long to put two and two together to determine how to dispatch a group of planes loaded with missiles aimed at a common target.

Some brilliant scientist must have modeled stealth bombing after more streamlined birds that swoop in for a morsel and then fly a direct pattern over a specified site. Most recently, that would have been a spot on my car door that we could not avoid touching when we exited and reached to shut the door. It didn’t take long for me to interpret my daughter’s disgusted squalls as she rapidly wiped her hand up and down her pant leg after closing the door. 

This form of attack also comes into play when birds sight in on the human head. No one is safe. Golf courses, picnics, baseball games, and gardens are declared certified bombing ranges.  The human pate in the open offers a clear invitation--Hit me--Hit me--Who can blame the bird? 

Unfortunately for the splatted upon, some birds come with sighting devices that would amaze Pentagon or Chinese military whizzes. One bird’s eye view and that poor skull is done for. Show me the man or woman who can graciously exit a group of bystanders after a fully loaded bird hits ground zero, and I’ll introduce you to the next mediator general of the world.

Be warned!  Beware of mulberry loaded, low flying birds.  Consider them armed and dangerous. For your own protection, wear a hat at all times. 

Serendipity on Highway 183

Some words stick in the mind, and serendipity is one of many rattling around my cranium. In college, I hung out at a retreat called Serendipity House. I’d never heard the expression before, so after my first visit, I hit the dictionary.

 Imagine learning this fun-to-say term meant happy accident or pleasant surprise. That definition fit the old two-story home that served as meeting place and comfort zone for on-the-cusp-of-adulthood young people. Since that time, other unexpected pleasures have made me smile and recall that melodious word along with the warm feelings that accompany it.

Recently, I lucked into one of those unanticipated bits of fortune that make me realize how blessed I am to call this prairie home. My unforeseen benediction required a sequence of events to fall into place. Once they did, I recognized I’d encountered a mini-miracle.

Yes, there are big miracles that no one can miss, and there are tiny wonders that happen every day that we may or may not recognize. Fortunately, this one snapped me like a full-stretched rubber band so I knew I had enjoyed something pretty darn special.

My happy adventure began in the wee hours before dawn. My husband and I awoke dark-early to drive to the Platte River so I could crane watch. He knows I love seeing tens of thousands of my favorite birds staging along its shallow waters, so he humors me with these Spring  junkets. It doesn’t hurt that a nearby Cabela’s is a great place to warm up after a frosty bird watching endeavor.

When we hit Highway 9 in the deepest shadows of pre-dawn, I noted the full moon that had shone into my bedroom window the night before had journeyed from East to West, where it hovered like a big ol’ communion wafer. By the time we reached the bridge over Harlan County Reservoir in Nebraska, pale rose and lavender fingers infused the eastern horizon, but the only star-spiked black outlined that buttery globe in the West.

Somehow, I got so busy watching dawn break that I forgot to keep an eye on that sinking disc. North of Holdrege, Nebraska, sunrise was in full display. A huge yellow sphere pierced orange skies when I thought to look West. Instead of the retina-blasting glow in the East, pale blue silhouetted a fading ball that was only a whisper of its earlier brilliance.

That particular section of Highway 183 permitted a clear view to the East and to the West so that I could see almost the exact moment that sun and moon were directly across from one another like round ends of dumbbells. If I’d been home, I’d have missed seeing this alignment of two perfect orbs because of interfering rooftops and a slight rise west of our house. 

In this serendipitous flash, every sense tuned into the cycles of light and dark that drive human existence. The imaginative side of me considered that for an instant, my husband and I swung in a prairie hammock whose ends connected to both sun and moon.

While I expected the exciting part of our quest to be skies and cornfields filled with thousands of sandhill cranes, that part of the day was just the cherry topping the hot fudge sundae. The instant of discovering me suspended between rising sun and sinking full moon will trigger 1000s of future smiles and the joyous repetition of one of my favorite words--serendipity.

A Pelican in the Wading Pool

Nobody told me when I married a game warden that a pelican would take up temporary residence in my children’s wading pool. Nor did I realize my two tiny daughters and I would spend a couple of days throwing our hooks and lines off a bridge over Big Creek trying to catch enough fish to satisfy that visitor. On the other hand, that eating machine never expected to vacation at our house either.

This event occurred in the late 80s somewhere around Memorial Day weekend. City workers called to explain an injured pelican was devouring gold fish in the  power plant pond. Despite their efforts to banish it, the bird was in the water gobbling little fishies.

This intruder had to be evicted. Every kid in town, little and big, loved that rock pool where they tossed breadcrumbs and oatmeal to tempt orange and white swirls to the surface. Even to feed something as exotic as a pelican was no reason to sacrifice the community fishpond population.

While my husband already knew about pelican beaks, the girls and I learned swiftly to stay out of range of that powerful weapon /lunch sack. Mr. P wasn’t at all happy about his forced removal and tried scaring us with clacking sounds manufactured by snapping jaws. It wasn’t worth risking hand or finger amputations to save frantic gold fish.

 I distracted this fellow while my brave partner snuck behind to slide a huge rubber band around that slashing defense mechanism. Once we had it disabled, we could see a broken wing had driven the creature to the city watering hole for dinner. Who knows how far the crippled bird had walked to fill its rumbling belly. We carefully swaddled it in an old blanket and hauled it home to figure out a plan.

Three decades ago, cell phones and instant communication were a thing of future, and the rehabilitator Wildlife and Parks used wasn’t answering the phone that weekend. As a result, we brainstormed a strategy to care for this creature our daughters had named LA Looks for the spiky top notch on it crown.

The girls volunteered their little blue wading pool to house our guest and their services as fisherwomen. Each had a Mickey Mouse pole they used to cast off the wooden bridge east of our house. It seemed like a good idea at the time, so their dad left us baiting our hooks as he drove off on patrol.

After catching a few palm-size fish, our youngsters released them into the water-filled container Mr. Looks now called home. My husband had unbound the critter’s beak so it immediately slurped up our meager contribution. We stared in disbelief at how swiftly he scooped our catch into his mouth and how far his pouch distended once full of flopping protein. It looked like an expandable bag until he slid those critters down his gullet. Then it shrank immediately back to its previous size.

The bird immediately searched the water for more food. Obviously, a few little perch weren’t sustenance enough, so the girls and I headed back to the creek. We filled a stringer to feed our guest, and once again, his response dazzled us. 

It occurred to me there was no way the human part of this equation could keep up with the pelican’s appetite. I needed to make a trip to the IGA fish department. All the way there, I wondered what it was going to cost to board this fellow until he went to the rehabilitator. I prayed my budget was as big as his stretchy pouch in case he had to stay more than a day.

Along with fish the girls and I caught, we supplemented LA’s diet with frozen whitefish. These codcicles confused him at first, but he eventually slurped them down the hatch. 

While I’d never want to feed a pelican week after week, hosting one for a couple of days was delightful. We were happy to learn LA Looks survived  surgery to show off how many fish he could tuck in his pouch for nearby zoo patrons.

Take Art Classes To Become an Expert Four-Leaf Clover Finder

St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone for another year. With the flip of that calendar page went the need to wear green and an urge to search lawns for lucky four-leaf clovers. The more common three-leaf variety representing faith, hope, and love symbolized Ireland’s most famous saint. Add a leaf to that trefoil and you get luck as well. Finding a shamrock with that extra something is the difficulty. According to some statisticians, only one in 10, 000 possesses the lucky fourth.

As a kid, I loved the challenge of discovering any shamrock. The same girl who struggled to spend 10 minutes solving a tough math problem could wander with her eyes to the ground for an hour or two until she shouted she’d sighted a fortune-enhancing chlorophyll producer.

What I’ve learned since is that paying attention to art instruction would have improved my chances for success. Yes, painting and drawing classes teach people how to spot the rare and unique.

When I was a youngster, I loved to draw and mess with clay, but I never took the coursework seriously. I considered art class a place to relax and have fun without straining my brain. Because I didn’t focus, I missed lessons that could have changed how I understood my world.

Over the past three years, I’ve reconsidered my attitude toward art and started taking as many painting and drawing classes as I can. What I’ve discovered is that learning to shape, shade, and adjust hues and values trains the mind to perceive. I thought I saw just fine all those years before I applied myself to really looking at something. However, the trip home after my first painting class revealed how many subtleties my untutored eye had missed.

Green and yellow are a multitude of hues. Study a grove of trees or a wheat field and try to identify all the shades present. I bet you can’t name all the colors right before your eyes.

Look at a lake, pond, or stream. Would one box of eight crayons allow you to depict that view even if you’re good at blending and shading? Could you do the job properly with a box of 64?

Examine the sky. Which part of it is lighter and which is darker? Does this pattern occur every single day? Does an approaching storm alter your observations?

How does incoming light affect a scene? Where do highlights and shadows form at different times of day or under varying conditions?

Though I’m still in the early stages of developing an artist’s eye, my few lessons have changed how I experience my world. I look for shifts in color and form. I seek what’s different. I search for repetition. There’s more to observe than I realized prior to stepping outside my comfort zone and putting a paintbrush in my hand in my AARP years.

 If only I’d paid close attention to those long ago art teachers, my educated eye would have zeroed in on so many more four-leaf clovers. What might I have done with that extra good fortune . . .?

   

When Nature Calls—Don’t Answer

Despite a flu shot and obsessive hand washing to avoid this season’s germ, it found me.  If folks tell you it’s bad, believe them.  If they add it lasts forever, it’s true.  After a week and a half indoors, struggling to overcome primary and secondary symptoms, cabin fever set in.  Climbing the walls had new meaning. I needed a dose of outdoor therapy to help me battle sniffles, coughs, and headaches left in the wake of this super virus.

Feeling sorry for me, my husband let me tag along on one of his expeditions. I think he was tired of listening to me whine and hoped sunshine and walking across open prairie or along a stream would distract me even if it didn’t cure me.

On a mission to improve my attitude, he drove along the North Solomon so I could photograph that morning’s beautiful hoarfrost before it disappeared.  A heavy fog and freezing temperatures had combined to turn the landscape into a winter wonderland that looked like a designer Christmas.  

Following this adventure, he intended to take me home, but I’d had enough of that place and insisted on continuing with his  journey, however long it lasted.  Sunshine channeled through the truck windows  and warmed me, making me feel better than I had for days.  Even better, he was going somewhere I had yet to visit.

Once we got to the area where he anticipated working, the dogs and I hopped out to hike.  This particular site has a number of huge trees, standing and lying on the ground.  I enjoyed the challenge of seeing what kinds of photos I could get with Old Sol directly overhead. 

An aged farmstead distracted us so we wandered down another trail to see what treasures we could capture with the Nikon.  Rusty hinges and windmill gears occupied me for some time.  Then I wanted to see what my lens would do with shadows inside a fallen barn and an old shed. 

About that time I noted a meandering stream full of fallen leaves that begged to be saved as images on an SD card.  Snow still lay on the ground, which reminded me it was frigid despite the sun beaming on top of my head.  The cold and the running water prompted me to recall the extra coffee I’d sipped that morning and how long we’d been away from home.

I grew up as an outdoors kid so finding relief in nature is not an issue.  However, there was a road not far away, and I didn’t know how well-traveled it was. I dismissed my discomfort, but every bush from then on screamed my name.

It took all my willpower to ignore my insistent bladder while I marched back to the truck where my spouse was storing supplies.  “Hey, is there a good place to answer nature’s call?” I asked.

He scanned the area and grinned an ornery grin.  “Sure, just look for trail cams.”

Holy cow! I hadn’t thought about game cameras.  Suddenly my fortitude strengthened so I could make it home.  Four walls and cabin fever didn’t seem nearly so bad when nature was hollering.

Savoring Season's Cusp

Sometimes I find myself straddling a fence both literally and figuratively.  With my left leg on one side of barbed wire and my right on the other while I maintain control of that top strand, I pause to look both ways and consider which is best.  What am I leaving and where am I going? The cusp of summer and fall generate similar thoughts. 

As  a kid, I loved long summer days that meant playing Marco Polo and diving to exhaustion at the local pool, followed by evening games of tag and hide and seek.  Even after streetlights flickered on, sounds of kids hollering, “You’re it!” echoed throughout our sheltered cul-de-sac. While mowing required sweat, it also meant immersion in the scent of fresh cut grass.  After the shearing, it meant a barefoot massage as we walked over the carpet of stubbly lawn.  So much sensory delight only made me love summer more.

As an adult, summer remained my favorite season for years.  I relished long days out of doors, only now I hoed, planted, weeded, or harvested ripe vegetables.  Depending on the month, it meant picking cherries, chokecherries, apricots, pears, plums, grapes, or apples and then playing kitchen alchemist to turn them into jelly jewels.  It permitted watching fireflies dance across the yard and hearing  little ones giggle as they tried to capture them.  It was enjoying late night amphibian and insect orchestral productions. 

Time passed, and I changed. As a result, instead of dreading autumn, I  now anticipate it.  Through the years, I’ve learned  each equinox intensifies those numbered days.  At the beginning of summer, it seems I have forever to accomplish goals.  When day and night are equal, I appreciate each moment in my garden and yard because I know a single frost will soon end the growing season. 

Nature’s music sounds different as birds and insects prepare for southern journeys.  No longer do I hear mothers coaching young ones out of the nest.  Locust tunes are slow and lazy if they occur at all.  Toad and frog mating calls  cease while silent fireflies that performed to the other creatures’ refrains are buried larvae awaiting resurrection.

I visit our hilltop garden several times a day to see how the butternuts are curing and how this last tomato crop is finishing.  I loved reading about how Laura Ingalls Wilder’s family stored provisions for winter, so putting away golden squash  and carrots to eat in the coming months connects me to her pioneer stories.  Green tomatoes make great fried treats and relishes.  If there are enough big ones, I box them to mature so we have garden goodies well into December.

Each day, I walk through our pasture enjoying the blooms of Maximilian sunflowers, golden rod, and snow on the mountain.  Tawny buffalo and purple-red big blue stem grasses complement yellow blooms, creating an arrangement that competes with any early summer floral display.

While I relish summer’s warmth and seeming wealth of time, autumn has become my golden hoard.  I look forward to going through my closet and drawers to  exchange thin cotton clothing for bulkier sweaters and flannel pajamas.  This ritual along with my farewells to the garden and migrating feathered friends makes me feel like a snake shedding its summer skin. 

This folded edge between seasons is a gift.  As these days of sunlight and warmth overlap coming darkness and quiet, I give thanks for the blessings of each.

Ellis Bugs Invasion

Like death and taxes, I count on box elder beetles invading every year.  These nuisances creep into every crack and crevice of our house, silently multiplying until nowhere is sacred.  I have even had them fall off a showerhead while I shampooed my hair.

Unfortunately, I don’t know much about these creatures other than that they show up like a bad penny every fall. They squeeze through airtight windows, out of electrical sockets, and under door jambs like Mongol hordes.  What lures them, I don’t know.

 I’d be curious to discover if they, like salmon and geese, migrate to their birth places to reproduce.  But how will I ever know?  They all look alike. 

I don’t think they have a very long life span, thank goodness. Guessing from the carcasses I sweep frequently, they can’t survive much longer than the common house fly--which is not very long.

The good news about these insidious pests is they don’t bite or sting--humans at least.  The next good thing about them is that they don’t appear to mind when children play with them.

Oddly enough, these tiny beetles fascinate many youngsters.  Our little blondes thought it tickled as the bugs crawled on  their arms and legs.  One boy I knew liked to eat them until he discovered how upset his momma got when she caught him dining on little orange and black insects.

Now that my girls are grown, they see these creepy crawlies the same way I do--as royal pains. In fact, time has erased their recollections of when box elder bugs intrigued them instead of disgusting them. Of course, these black and orange beetles were never as interesting as lightning bugs...but... they were slower.  That meant that toddlers and pre-kindergartners could capture scores of them to pack into little bug houses. 

The benefit of being able to catch the slow moving critters means it keeps tikes busy and out of serious trouble as long they understand they shouldn’t devour them.  The disadvantage is that small children bond quickly with anything they capture and perceive as a pet.  This means you might end up with more box elder bugs than you normally would find in your house, and they’d each be named.

The neighbor girls liked these bugs as much as my girls did, so all four young ladies spent a great deal of time catching and discussing them.  Imagine my surprise when I overheard my friend’s 3-year-old  asking my 2-year-old  if we had Ellis bugs too.

Ellis bugs!!! What???

After thinking about it, the explanation was quite logical. The little girl’s big brother played football for the Ellis Railroaders, a team that wore black and orange uniforms.  His little sis assumed that since the insects were orange and black they must be for Ellis--hence the name Ellis bugs. 

Since then, I never see one of those annoyances without thinking, the Ellis bugs are here. Somehow it makes them a bit more welcome.

Autumn Sounds Different

Autumn sounds different on our rocky hilltop.  As the temperatures drop and days grow shorter, life is considerably altered from what it was just six weeks ago.  We have new guests at the bird feeder while other frequent diners have migrated South.  It’s quieter with fewer bird songs and insect orchestral contributions.  Autumn has introduced more than frosty mornings and golden leaves to our countryside.
Long before summer songs ceased, I watched feathered summer friends gearing up for long migrations.  Some are true global citizens that fly to Central and South America for the winter while others shoot for warmer climates in southern Texas and New Mexico. 

Recently, robins rendezvoused in the backyard and under the cedars to feast in preparation for their journeys. They scoured the lawn like miniature vacuums seeking slow moving and inattentive insects.  Bass booming nighthawks, by the hundreds, swarmed an alfalfa patch below the house for at least a week, devouring bugs in order to fuel their journeys.  Abrasive, screeching blue jays stormed our feeder in groups of 15, driving off smaller birds and even saucy squirrels who don’t give up their sunflower seeds without a fight. For a while, it was noisier than usual with all these gatherings until one morning when I awakened to a changed tune in the yard.  Where there had been cacophony, silence controlled. Repetitive mockingbirds and shirring wrens had vanished along with robins and jays.

The same thing happened outside my classroom in town. Swallows darted in frantic activity as they tried to fatten late-fledging young for fall travels.  For a few busy days, it seemed like Denver International Airport outside my window with all the comings and goings.  I glanced to see what was going on, and I noted the fully-feathered young perched at the edge of their daubed home, flapping strengthening wings.  The next day, peace ruled. When I stole a peek, the nest was empty. 

Also in Ellis, the 70 or so turkey vultures that roost throughout the summer on the water tower or atop local grain elevators left stained perches behind.   These birds that rode thermals like they were amusement park rides had taken more direct routes out of town.  Only  rare die-hards show up to feast on road-kill opossums and skunks. 

            During an October excursion to the Quivira National Wildlife refuge, I spied Swainson’s hawks and turkey vultures kettling in groups of 60 or more as they prepared for their exodus.  On the same afternoon, I saw thousands of migrating pelicans creating a moving blanket that reflected sunlight off their white feathers. The sounds from the sky that day reminded me of being at Disneyland and listening to visitors from every continent talking all at once. 

            These days, nuthatches, woodpeckers, and juncos challenge obese squirrels for a spot at the feeder.  Every now and then a chickadee lands to snack.    Despite my new visitors, days are quieter.  I like to think of my summer songsters brightening some Minnesota snowbird’s morning as he sits on his Port Aransas patio sipping coffee while he listens to some of my favorite musicians.

           

           

  

Yucca: Native Superstore and Miracle

Native to the Great Plains, Yucca, or soapweed, grows from Mexico to Canada. Often used as an ornamental plant in xeriscapes, this spiky vegetation punctuates pastures, hillsides, and blowouts. Because western Kansans see yucca so frequently, they don’t think much about to this plant that functioned as a superstore to many Indian tribes.

The nickname soapweed describes one of its main uses. Lakota and Blackfeet used the suds producing roots to create a hair rinse that killed vermin and prevented hair loss. Kiowa Indians claimed a yucca solution cured various skin ailments. Southwestern tribes also used yucca as a hair and body wash as well as for other purposes. Some Navajo weavers still prefer to launder wool fibers in it.

Not only are yucca roots good for cleansing the outside of the body but brewed properly, a tea made from them also works as a laxative to cleanse innards. However, consumers do need to use moderation when drinking such teas because of their cathartic properties. They will really clean a body out.  According to both the Navajo and the Lakota, components of this plant brewed a specific way and sipped by laboring mothers eases childbirth.  That’s a bonus in any culture.

While the roots offer numerous benefits, other parts of the yucca are edible when prepared properly. Early blossoms are a nice addition to a salad. They are nutritious and pretty to look at. Kiowa Indians roasted and ate the pre-bloom, emerging stems, which look like a gigantic stalk of asparagus. One rib of this would provide the day’s vegetable dietary requirement. Many Southwestern tribes still use banana yucca fruits in their cooking today. 

In addition to yucca medicinal, hygiene, and dietary purposes, native people used its fibers to weave sandals, ropes, cordage, nets, and other necessities. Some individuals interwove turkey feathers into the fibers to create warm blankets. At numerous sites, archeologists have documented paintbrushes and hair combs made of the sword-like leaves. Bound yucca spines created drills utilized to start fires. Weavers boiled parts of the plant to create different dyes. Multi-functional, this plant improved life for many early residents of the Great Plains and the Southwest.

Ornamental and practical, yucca plants have another interesting characteristic. Unlike many plants that depend on windblown or indiscriminate insect pollination, yucca species depend on the yucca moth to reproduce.  Moths visit the white blossoms at night to collect pollen and then fly to other blooms to lay eggs and deposit this reproductive dust onto the blossom’s pistil. Since thelarvae eat only yucca pod seeds, these moths and the yucca are mutually dependent for survival. In regions of the world where yucca moths do not exist, the plants cannot reproduce without intervention.

What looks like a rosette made of spiky swords surrounding a tall stalk filled with creamy blossoms each spring is actually a superstore of products. In addition, this plant and its tiny pollinator remind humans of nature’s fragile balance.  This common vegetation’s existence is a miracle.

Moms Are Moms No Matter the Species

            Each spring’s cycle of birth and renewal reminds me that all mothers are essentially alike.  One look at a momma cow with her calf lets you know you don’t want to mess with her baby. 

Over decades, my students have written many essays detailing results of interfering with young animals.  Mothers aren’t only tender.  They are tough when necessary.  Just a few days ago, a family of fledgling wrens reminded of how much my family is like theirs.

            After recent rains, I was checking my greenery to see how plants were growing under the unusual wet conditions.  Our portion of the creek had gone dry, and our buffalo grass couldn’t have been more dormant.  I didn’t know if it was too late to save the foliage or not.  An old grape vine down by the creek particularly interested me.

            While I counted clusters and imagined jars of wild grape jelly, a rising crescendo disturbed my reverie.   Since we have a wren family living off the back porch, I recognized the “shirring” and scolding. However, I had never heard so many wrens in an uproar at one time.

            Evidently, I interrupted a mother and her fledglings as she taught them to find their own insect dinners.  Not six feet behind me was a rotten log just loaded with tasty morsels for her and her babies.  I interfered not only with her lesson, but also with some high quality dining.

            Not meaning to threaten them, I quietly turned to watch this mom and her young. Apparently, even my statue-like presence created too much of a threat because she “shirred” and scolded more intensely.  Like many a child I have seen in the grocery store’s candy counter turning its back and ignoring its scolding mother, these juvenile wrens did exactly that.  They looked at mom and then at me.  Then they returned to finding crunchy bugs.

            This drove the mother nuts.  She flitted away and back and away again.  With each flit, her tone intensified at least an octave.  I am not a wren, but I understood what she meant.  Finally, all but one of the little birds reluctantly left the dinner table to fly to shelter.  I couldn’t see them, but I could hear mom and fledglings’ raucous comments.  Nobody in that tree was happy.

            That left one little wren at the log.  Most families have one child that doesn’t learn from others’ experiences.  This little fellow wasn’t concerned that mom and now siblings were fussing because it hadn’t fled the threat with them.  Its mother intensified her vocalizations and still didn’t receive a second look.

            I know how Momma Wren felt since we recently fledged a youngster.  As our daughters moved into adulthood, I find myself apologizing to my mother or thanking her for being so patient with me.  It is no easy task letting children go, especially those who must learn through experience.

            Finally, my mother’s heart couldn’t take Momma Wren’s frantic cries any longer. Since her baby wouldn’t respond, I left, removing the threat that alarmed her.  As I walked away, I recalled my own mother’s wish for me: I hope that baby wren has a young one just like it.  

            

The Women's Grinding Rock

Weekend trips were my father’s way to unwind from stressful work.  One of his favorite getaways was a  ranch east of San Diego along the Mexican border.  Semi-arid and hilly, it’s mystique appealed to me as well.  It was a relief to escape the crowded Los Angeles basin to this uncomplicated ranch nestled amidst sage-dotted hills.  The land’s sparse vegetation and up-thrust boulders made it difficult for man or beast to inhabit. 

We would hike, hunt, four-wheel, fish, and get grubby among granite formations, sage, sand, and scrub oak stands.  On the lookout for artifacts and fossils, I walked nose to the ground, hoping to spot a flint chip or arrowhead.  Despite my dedication, all I got was a crick in my neck.

One day my family decided we wanted to explore an adjacent arroyo.  A nearby granite outcrop provided the best vantage point, so the four of us clambered onto an house-sized boulder.  This huge, gray and white striated chunk of granite had punched itself out of the soil.  Much surrounding earth had eroded, providing a clear view over the wash below.

Atop the rock, we noticed pockmarks the size of cereal bowls gouging its face. Curious, I crawled from indention to indention like a blind person reading braille.  What was their purpose? 

Because an ancient Indian cemetery existed nearby, I realized natives had called this land home.  From my overlook, I could see plenty of oak stands nearby. I also knew from fourth grade California history that ground acorns provided a primary food source for early inhabitants.   Aha! I stood upon a grinding rock.

From the number  and depths of depressions, this slab had served generations of women as the local grindstone.  My imagination flew as I fancied friends gathering blanched acorns, babies, and toddlers to work and gab at “the rock.”

As I leaned against the stone and closed my eyes, time peeled away.  Morning sun would have warmed those women’s backs as they leaned into their pounding and grinding.  A sea breeze blowing inland would have rattled oak leaves just as it made leaves whisper to me.  Those long dead mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends undoubtedly talked about the same things women talk about today: family, work, joy, and sorrow.

After examining the grinding rock and sandy earth surrounding it, my family hiked down the gulch, hoping to find more treasure.  That day was  lucky indeed, for we found a vanished woman’s simple rolling pin, the stone she carried to the grinding rock.  Size-wise, it compares to any standard rolling pin.  The ends reveal wear from years of mashing acorns. 

That generated more questions.  How did she lose this stone?  Who lost it? How long ago? Was she running in fear unable to lug that heavy, awkward tool with her?  We don’t know the answers, but that artifact became family treasure that we carried from state to state during repeated moves. 

Eventually, it ended up in my home. A few years ago at an auction, I lucked upon a metaté.  Though from distinctly different regions and tribes, uniting the two seemed right. 

Each time I move them to vacuum, they remind me of the grinding rock, bridging across time to those who came before me.  Women still gather to work and talk about important issues: family, work, joy, and sorrow.