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.

Best Dining in the Region

City friends sometimes ask if I miss dining at popular chain restaurants. When I first moved to rural Kansas, I did miss running to Olive Garden or Red Lobster. Now days, I’m happy to wait until a local organization hosts a foodie fundraiser. I’ve learned that’s where you find homemade-by-neighbors fine dining. These cook’s reputations are on the line, so they don’t serve just anything.

Once a month in an area town, the Eagles organization fries up a chicken dinner that competes with my Grandma Lottie’s best Sunday feast. I don’t know how much preparation goes into feeding hundreds of hungry customers, but cutting up, breading, frying, and serving chicken for a hungry horde must consume most of those good-hearted volunteers’ weekends. 

If the focus of the meal weren’t delight enough, they also serve old-fashioned green beans simmered with bacon and onions just like Grandma made alongside real mashed potatoes and gravy. None of those instant flakes for these fine cooks. They top off this sampling of heaven with homemade hot fudge drizzled over vanilla ice cream. The endless line of diners outside the door from the time they open til they close shouts their success to anyone driving by.

I salivate just thinking about fried chicken Sunday, but the true delight of this event is how the profits from thousands of poultry dinners support individuals and programs in that community. I wonder if anyone has counted the graduates who’ve gone to college on chicken dinner-generated scholarships or the struggling families and local organizations supported by these individuals’ hard work. A nearby town recently began a similar tradition to support their youth. It’s great to help people reach goals while sending smiling diners home patting satisfied bellies.

Fried chicken isn’t the only menu item that makes taste buds pop. During Lent, Knights of Columbus members in area towns fry fish and hushpuppies, accompanied by homemade coleslaw, and other local treats for friends and neighbors. Once again, participants enjoy visiting over a delicious, fresh food made by people who care. Good eating doesn’t get better than that.

Throughout the year, little towns in western Kansas offer the opportunity to stand in line for a hot bowl of homemade soup. Get ready to sample some of the best chili, chicken noodle, or vegetable soup you’ve enjoyed since you last visited your favorite cook. Not only is the main course delicious,  these dinners usually include a pie table that’ll drive you nuts when you have to choose between fresh apple, cherry, chocolate, lemon meringue, or coconut cream flavors. These fundraisers often support a specific person or cause so when you attend one, you help a neighbor in need.

Add fair food booths that sell handmade bierocks, ham pockets, galuskies, buffalo burgers, or freshly grilled brats to this list, and it’s easy to see that locals don’t lack good eatin’ opportunities. Notice I didn’t mention homemade cookie, cake, and pie stalls. It’s nearly impossible to stay on a special diet at these events.

Friends who think I live a food-deprived life are wrong. Good eating in this region may require delayed gratification and intentional scheduling, but I frequently sample some of the best eats in the country. That ought to be a Food Network show.

“School’s Out, School’s Out! Teacher Let the Mules Out!”

The words “Tag, you’re it,” or “You push first,” carry on breezes floating to my patio from a nearby playground. Laughter and repetitive sounds of metal chains swaying back and forth accompany high-pitched voices enjoying sunshine and freedom from desks and fluorescent lighting. It’s like hearing echoes of me in those first heady days after a school term ended fifty some years ago. Vacation meant exploring or testing our wheels. The essence of simpler times hasn’t changed in little towns dotting Kansas maps.

In those intoxicating weeks after class ended, my friends and I re-explored our neighborhood. Another year older, we tested how much higher we could climb a nearby tree. Once we reached our limits, we’d either play Tarzan and swing down the branches or investigate bird nests to see whether they held any eggs.

After challenging our fear of heights, we’d tromp to the nearest creek. This required rationalizing because our moms told us not to go near water. If we stopped at the mud on the creek bank that couldn’t be considered near water, right? I suspect our parents would’ve interpreted that rule differently than we did. Anyway, we’d try to guess what tracks belonged to what animal or gross one another out by picking up and extending stinky fish or crawdad carcasses toward our squalling buddies. 

A good stick made any creek side exploration better. We tested mud’s depth by shoving our stick in until it hit solid ground. Sometimes we already knew how deep it was because we’d sunk up to our knees into it. We’d see who could throw the farthest or have imaginary sword fights. Once our gooey adventure ended, we used our handy tools to scrape off evidence of trespassing in forbidden territory.

As the sun rose higher throughout the day, we needed a change. Out came adjustable silver skates or bicycles. Toys were simpler then, so putting on skates meant latching four wheels to a shoe with a key worn on a shoestring around the neck. Once we got our sea legs on those primitive transportation devices, it was bumpity bump bump bump down a cracked and uneven sidewalk. We quickly learned to fall without hurting ourselves because we had plenty of tumbles. If I remember right, I think I even tied a pillow on my fanny to soften my landings.

Bicycles weren’t any higher tech than skates except we could push backward on the pedals to brake. It seemed as if every bike I ever saw was big. At six or seven, I had to put all my energy into controlling the handlebars or pushing the pedals. It was one lesson after another about levers and torque. Now days, youngsters go through a series of size-appropriate bicycles so managing them is easier. 

Bikes led to races, daredevil tricks, and parades. It didn’t take long to discover who had the fastest bike or the strongest legs, so contests didn’t occupy much time. However, I loved putting my younger brother either in my bike’s basket or on the bumper over the back wheel and taking off down the highest hill we could find. We’d build up so much speed I had to hold my legs stretched away from the spinning pedals to prevent an injury. Neither of us realized that if we’d crashed, we could’ve killed ourselves.

Bikes weren’t only about adrenalin rushes. Nothing was more fun than planning a parade. We’d weave colorful crepe paper remnants between wheel spokes and tie them in streamers to our handlebars. No one worried about color schemes, so our parades were eye catching for sure. Looking back, I don’t know who watched because we all rode. Apparently, we didn’t care.

Listening to neighborhood kids enjoying their first weeks of summer, I hope they find the joy my friends and I did in those distant, carefree days. May they discover a good tree to climb, some skates to test their balance, and at least one parade to show off a vividly decorated bicycle.

Barbie’s Bouquet Ready for Pickin’

Only a Grinch could hate spring’s arrival. What’s not to like about warmer days, leaves unfurling, grass greening, tulips and daffodils bursting into bloom, lilacs perfuming breezes, and white blossoms exploding on Barbie’s wedding bush. This plant is really called spirea, but for little girls playing dolls, this shrub provides bouquets enough for a hundred wedding ceremonies--hence its nickname.

I hope cascading branches loaded with clusters of tiny white blossoms still trigger little girls’ imaginations. When I was a seven-year-old, the moment our neighbor’s huge bush exploded into a frothy, white wall of flowers, I began constructing bridal clothing for three Barbie dolls and their redheaded friend Midge. 

My mom’s ragbag wasn’t safe. If we’d had paper towels or napkins back then, I’d have used them as well. Ones that come in tidy squares would’ve served this wanna-be wedding designer perfectly to make stunning one-use outfits. Without the availability of handy paper products, I creatively turned worn out washcloths, tea towels, hankies, and leftover fabric into long trained gowns and flowing veils. If I could’ve used mom’s nice fabric remnants, those outfits would’ve dazzled kings and queens. However, I knew better than to get into her good stuff.

As it was, I snagged onto any piece of cloth big enough I could use a needle and thread to turn it into a gathered skirt with my gigantic, looping stitches. Once I completed my dolls’ dresses, I looked for filmy material to turn into lovely headpieces and extensions that trailed behind plastic brides and attendants. Sometimes the best option involved toilet paper. It romantically floated behind the bride as she walked to meet her groom.

Nowadays, little girls accustomed to buying couture fashions off the internet for their Mattel fashion toys would turn their noses up at a bride going down the aisle in a terry cloth skirt and a TP veil. However, fifty years ago was a simpler time, and my friends and I thought the ensembles we painstakingly created were elegant.

The highlight was the bouquet. In my neighborhood, at least one resident grew a big, old spirea bush. He or she would permit polite little girls to fill pockets or pulled out shirt bottoms with miniature nosegays that once ornamented those flowing stems.

I suspect that one of the reasons May and June originally became popular wedding months had to do with the availability of beautiful spirea sprays brides could carry on their march to the altar. Who needs a florist when nature provides so richly? 

Once our Barbie’s wedding attire was completed to our satisfaction, we’d tuck perfectly sized nosegays into our dolls’ tiny hands to complete the effect. Back in our bedrooms, we’d create a lovely chapel with a colorful ribbon to guide Barbie and her groom to the front of our little sanctuary. Along the way, we’d strew left over flowerets from the tiny bouquets. Each Barbie’s perfectly round bridal arrangement must have dazzled her handsome groom almost as much as her designer gown and creative veil did.

Homemade dresses and seasonal spirea sprays made for many lovely spring weddings. It’s too bad there was only one Ken and that he had to marry each Barbie in a separate ceremony. At least his tiny boutonniere matched each of his brides’ perfect bouquets. No paid florist could have done a better job. 

Another Checkmark off the Bucket List

Several years ago, my students created bucket lists to share. Once we posted them around the classroom, it was fun to hear seniors say, “Skydiving’s a great idea,”  or “Yeah, I want to ride a zip line across the top of the Amazon rain forest,” or “I need to add bungee jumping to my list.” As I read each series of twenty-five life dreams and listened to responses, I realized many teens would find my expectations too tame for their tastes. Despite a distinctive lack of danger, I was thrilled to check off one of my listings recently.

My series of dreams included seeing a grizzly bear in the wild, watching a whooping crane, and photographing prairie chickens booming.  Two years ago, I scratched ursus horribilis off after spotting a humped silvertip following a young buffalo in Yellowstone.  The next year I observed a distant whooper visiting Quivira Wildlife Refuge.

Now I can say I spent an hour watching prairie chickens perform their spring ritual.  Though I wasn’t risking life and limb to shorten my checklist, adrenaline flowed and my heart rate raced when I first noted two sharply pointed crests and bright orange inflated skin patches on football-sized feathered creatures.

Over the past decade, I’ve joined several outings to different leks or booming grounds in Ellis County.  Each time, I saw birds, but they didn’t show the least interest in performing the dance that brought them fame. Once I spotted a hen flying near my home in eastern Trego County, but she must have been passing through because it was a one-time incident. A few years later, I spied two hens flying near an old barn in Phillips County as I drove to art class. Again, just airborne birds—no fast footwork with eye-popping special effects.   

On my bucket list check off day, I rose with the sun to observe some herons as they made early morning forays from their nests. I hoped to get photos of these elegant blue-gray birds silhouetted against a prairie sunrise. Once in place, I realized I couldn’t get the shots I desired so I opted to visit a nearby waterhole, hoping to see these long legged shied pokes breakfasting in the shallows.

Before I arrived, I got distracted.  Instead of seeing ripples in a pond, three elliptically-shaped bodies strutting around a fourth hunkered down bird caught my attention. Focusing more closely, I recognized unique spiked headdresses any native dancer would be proud to showcase in a ceremonial presentation.

 By then, I’d rooted myself in place to enjoy this magical spring rite. From that vantage,  I saw orange orbs poofing in and out of the neck areas of these energetic performers.   Once I rolled the window down, I heard the didgeridoo-like hum of booming prairie chickens interrupted by cackles, clucks, and chuckles. The sounds accompanied fancy footwork, ecstatic leaps into the air, and aggressive feints.

The prairie carries sound well as anyone who’s ever listened to  morning meadow larks  trill can tell you.  Full throated notes  ride  air waves from the emitter to the receiver the same way that red tail hawks ride thermals.  That morning’s full sensory effects that included sight and sound washing over me and into my camera was better than anything I expected when I inked my dream onto a blank page years ago.

Humans are interesting. Some need death defying stunts to define their lives. Others enjoy thrills with far less threat to life and limb.  What I learned from my students’ and my bucket lists is that everyone benefits by recording hard to achieve goals. Create your list and then start marking off accomplishments.

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. 

Heroes of the Pasture: Dung Beetles

            Somewhere I saw this quote, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” I agree  and add you’ll meet interesting creatures along the way. Sometimes those new acquaintances look like something from an intergalactic space bar.

            Several years ago, Big Yellow Dog and I began our morning with a ramble. These journeys not only began our day right, but sometimes we also enjoyed the strangest sights. What I saw that day exceeded every other unusual observation ever experienced during jaunts down that sandy road.

            We’d noted the usual: a killdeer racing ahead of us, a sparrow hawk proclaiming territorial rights, and neighboring cows wondering why Big Yellow Dog bounced up and down as a mouse ran under his paws. A ribbon of blue horizon contrasting against green pastures and nearly ripe wheat fields backdropped these familiar scenarios. 

            A bit into our walk, we crossed the section road into what I consider the “wilderness.” The only reason humans come this way is to go somewhere else. No one lives on this route.

This is the area where I once spotted a bobcat leaping playfully above waving big blue stem and brome grasses that border walk-in-hunting acreage.  This is where on damp mornings I spy prints of a doe and her fawn crossing from the WIHA to the creek for a morning drink. This is where I see trails of   wriggling snakes as they maneuver from one grassy ditch to the other before a big redtail flying overhead dives for dinner.

I look forward to the surprises I find in the “wilderness.” The unexpected keeps me walking that direction day after day. That morning provided another “stop to put this in your memory bank” moment. 

Tucker ran through the ditches, analyzing scents of everything that had happened since he last sampled the air. I trailed him, admiring morning clouds, relishing cool air rippling over skin, sensing the roll of gravel under walking shoes, and letting my eyes sweep the road close--then far, close--then far.

Suddenly, I thought I’d ended up at the space bar mentioned earlier. Two semi-gloss black bugs were rolling a shooter marble-sized ball of brown gunk from the north side of the road to the south. 

My first thought was “dung beetle.” I recalled watching such bugs on Discovery Channel, but these weren’t large enough to compare to those I saw on TV.  Of course, I’d watched African dung beetles that dealt with elephant-sized poo piles, but keep in mind I hadn’t analyzed that far yet. 

I looked around for the nearest pile of … dung.  It lay far away in relation to the size and stride of these beetles.  Could it be?  Were they ambitious enough to march on short legs to collect and form a rollable ball of cow caca several hundred feet to the south?

Stopping to observe these diligent creatures, I noted their system enabled them to simultaneously push and roll that poop globe. One stood on top of the orb as one envisions lumbermen who roll logs down a river might. The other rose on hind legs and used upper legs to lever the sphere forward.

After returning home, I cruised the Internet. Dung beetles do live in Kansas.  In fact, they live everywhere except the Antarctic. If we didn’t have them, we’d be up to our eyeballs in, well…use your imagination. Several varieties of these necessary but unappreciated creatures exist, and I happened to witness the “roller” type.

Ancient Egyptians knew the importance of these insects and deified them. That may be extreme, but consider that one expert said dung beetles keep “land livable by reducing flies, foul odors, and the ruination of pastureland.” Another proponent claimed more efficient use of them “could save farmers $2 billion a year by restoring grazing land.” One agriculturist explained, “Once the cattle have vacated the paddock, within 48 hours, there is no manure left.” Maybe Hays Research Station needs additional dung beetles to address odors that waft through Hays when south winds blow.

My newly discovered neighbors are good partners in life’s journey. I look forward to seeing them again.

How’d an Egg Get in the Water Pan?

We’ve raised chickens most of our marriage, so that’s thirty years of learning to understand feathered, cackling females.  I can confirm this species is messy, noisy, piggish, and sometimes mean–which explains the term henpecked.  They’re also dense and run like gawky, miniature Tyrannosaurs.  Despite their character flaws, I love my girls. However, one of them has me wondering.

Our chicken house contains nesting boxes that our ladies use when the egg laying urge strikes.  When they utilize these semi-private cubicles, life is easier for everyone, including me. It aids in keeping track of who’s producing and who’s off schedule. I can quickly see who’s performing well.

Based on recent collections, one overachiever is showing up other layers.  With such grand orbs, she deserves any luxury we can provide.  This hen and her friends appreciate the bucket of feed I deliver at noon for them and their rooster.  For efficiency’s sake, I gather their deposits—large and small--in my newly emptied pail.

Making life interesting on occasion, one of the cackle crew hides her daily delivery in the doghouse or under a cedar so I can’t find it. While the game of discover the hidden egg is time consuming, I understand. That lady worked hard to grow the equivalent of a double ping pong ball inside her and then eject it. 

One explanation I’ve come up with for these secretive types is that one or two get broody and want to hatch their clutch. These are the usual suspects when I find eggs in odd places so I save these gals a half dozen eggs during early summer to satisfy their mothering instincts. The bonus is later watching hens herd spindly-legged fluff balls.

Another time we get eggs in odd places is when temperatures top triple digits. Without air-conditioning or fans, the chicken house is stifling by mid-day. Often, late layers take advantage of the chiminea on my shaded patio. The cool sand inside the rounded cavity provides a perfect spot for the hen to lay her egg, announce her success, and hop out to sip from the bowl I keep nearby for thirsty creatures. This works for me because I see or hear the hen and find her treasure.

This brings me to my oddest discovery ever.  A friend recently asked if eggs ever fell out of hens where they were standing. “No,” I answered.  “The chicken knows an egg is coming and gets somewhere comfortable to perform her duties.”

Imagine my surprise a few days after this conversation when I went to fill the hens’ water pans and discovered an egg lying at the bottom of a rubber container. I know my hens sometimes wade as they drink, but I can’t imagine what possessed one to unload in that spot. This must be the same girl who occasionally stays too long on the roost, resulting in splattered eggs.   

I recently found oval treasures in the chiminea and under a cedar tree, but so far I have only found one in the water bowl.  Did that hen overhear the conversation with my friend and need to humble me? Who knows? Can a human ever understand a chicken brain?

Fawn Nurseries

Years ago our family tent-camped at Slough Creek Camp Ground, a primitive site at the north end of Yellowstone National Park where wildlife is abundant and close. That particular summer, the area’s fawn population had exploded. Does led babies to the stream bank directly across from our tent. While my husband fished, transfixed little girls and I watched the tiny creatures scamper and nurse while their mommas browsed and occasionally cleaned a baby. This is my fondest memory of camping with small children.

Our daughters are grown now, but sometimes an event sparks old recollections that make it seem like only yesterday that we were three squealing females trying to stifle our glee at seeing a dozen spotted babes so close we could almost touch them. What triggered this latest reminiscence was an abundance of fawns in our backyard last summer. 

I mentioned in another essay that we lost our long time guard dog who took his duty to scare deer away very seriously. After Tucker died, many bucks, does, and fawns passed within feet of the house, browsing shrubs, trees, and flowers and drinking out of the creek at the base of the yard. When I awakened each morning, I eagerly anticipated seeing which examples of wild America would visit that day.

Keep in mind, these animals have delicate noses, as well as sharp ears and eyes. Because deer depend on superior awareness to survive, they don’t hang out in the back yard when we garden or sit on the back porch. That’s too much human contact for their comfort—as it should be. 

Interactions with them required camouflaged viewing from the dining room window that overlooked Big Creek and doubled as a photographer’s blind. Wild beasts are so cautious that any movement or noise from inside the house spurs a dash up the bank to hidden safety. To prevent scaring the focus of my observations, I moved slowly, making sure my camera didn’t beep and frighten these tawny beauties.

That morning, I began the day spying on a little one nursing while his mom browsed the creek banks. She ate while baby fed, and then she licked him thoroughly before they meandered to a nearby alfalfa patch. Later, I walked by the window while I dusted and noted a young buck standing half hidden in tall grass. I got a good look, but he heard the beep of my camera’s on button so I missed my shot.

Later, another momma brought her singleton to water where it frolicked about while she drank. A fawnless doe accompanied her, and I got a few photos of them as they nibbled greens for twenty minutes.

I was grateful I had seen so many deer that day, and then life got better. I looked out the bathroom window and noticed another doe with more mature twins wading the creek. These babies leapt and charged one another in and out of the slow moving summer stream and finally got brave enough to approach the house until mom shooed them back into the water.

While my own girls may be grown and the memory of that day at Slough Creek Campground distant, those moments watching fawns out my own window compressed time, making it seem like it was not so long ago. A hiding place and a ready camera helped me capture memories to share when our daughters visited. Those recent photos reminded us of that magical day long ago.

May Day: Adapting Customs to the Weather

Since early times, different cultures have celebrated May Day with bonfires, Maypoles, and gifts of flowers. In today’s world where we can flip a switch to brighten a room instantly or find fresh affordable fruits, vegetables, and blossoms any time of year at a local market, it’s hard to imagine why many past civilizations honored the 1^st of May or similar dates.

In days before kerosene or electric lights, longer hours of daylight triggered communal rejoicing. Imagine month after month of more darkness than light in a small house where residents crowded around a nightly fire. Longer days alone were worth a party. When you added temperatures warm enough to trigger blooming trees and plants, there was ample reason to frolic and feast.

Most Kansans with a European background have ancestors who anticipated these annual revels in their original hamlets. Once families immigrated to the New World, they may have forgotten the reasons for the festivities, but they continued to follow old customs, which included delivering flower-filled May baskets and weaving ribbons around Maypoles.

As a descendant of several of those European cultures that celebrated springtime, I love making and delivering a few May Baskets to maintain old traditions and connect to my heritage. As kids, my brother and I constructed and distributed a goodly share of dandelion and lilac-filled paper cones throughout our neighborhoods. My own daughters will tell their children about sneaking up to hang a handmade container filled with tulips and irises on special friends’ doorknobs.

When May 1 arrived, I wondered how I’d manage successful deliveries as this supposed spring presented several challenges. It was cold. Make that really cold. The wind blew 40 or more miles per hour. It rained or pelted sleet balls during those frigid blasts. If there had been flowers to pick after recent snows and heavy freezes, it would have been a miserable day to collect them. 

Last year, my dilemma involved finding fresh lilacs because they’d been blooming for two weeks before May arrived. At least, I had them to pick even if they were bedraggled. This year, the problem was finding any of my favorite lavender sprays because the bushes were just leafing out. Even dandelions and chickweed were in short supply due the groundhog’s miscalculations.

Not one to let trivial details get in the way of success, I headed to the local hardware store’s garden department where I spotted envelopes brightly covered in pictures of giant zinnias, multi-colored wildflowers, and delicate cosmos. Then I stopped by the grocery store to pick up bite-size candies. Armed with grow-your-own-blooms and sweets to provide energy for gardening, my recipients could surely manage to plant their seeds and then wait patiently for the sweet-scented harvest.

My May baskets this year honored the spirit of the season, but the recipients will have to work to enjoy any posies. If this unpredictable weather continues, perhaps I’ll be sneaking into the gardens of those who received this year’s offerings to snip flowers from those zinnias, cosmos, and wildflowers for next years’ beneficiaries. Or . . . maybe I’ll skip baskets and flowers and decide inviting  friends over to roast a marshmallow to celebrate spring’s arrival is an easier and just as fitting tradition.

If Past Could Meet Present, There’d Be No Boring Travel

As a youngster riding down Highway 50, I never questioned how this asphalt ribbon connected me to the nations’ or Kansas’s past. The drive was boring with uninteresting scenery unless we passed through a storm with twisting clouds or timed sunrise or sunset just right.

When cruising Kansas roads, it’s easy to forget where we came from. No, I don’t question the ability to recall an address we just left. I mean we don’t consider that many thoroughfares we take for granted began centuries ago as Indian trails. These were adapted later to meet arriving settlers’ needs. What intrigues now me is learning a section of the Arkansas River near Highway 50 once functioned as an international border.

Historically, native people’s trails followed waterways. A major landmark, the Arkansas River guided wayfarers on their journeys. Not long after the Louisiana Purchase and the beginning of western expansion, this ancient track became an international trade route bustling with convoys of goods destined for distant businesses. Prior to and during the Mexican American War, it also served to move troops and supplies.

In recent times, government entities have graded and paved this passage, labeling it Highway 50 on current maps. What these documents don’t reveal is that where the road follows the river, travelers might imagine they are within a stone’s throw of another era, country, and culture with period appropriate sights and sounds. At one time, the Arkansas served the same purpose the Rio Grande River does now--a border separating nations.

In his book Dangerous Passage, William Chalfant chronicles this history. Ox trains heavily loaded with valuable merchandise traveled between Missouri and Santa Fe. Before and during the Mexican American War, U.S. military troops used this route. The author pointed out travelers expected no aid between Council Grove and Bent’s Fort when wagons broke down; beasts of burden went lame, died, or were stolen; or humans succumbed to cholera, dysentery, or other ailments. Auto clubs like AAA didn’t exist, so prairie navigators faced each crisis depending only on their own abilities to save themselves.

While mechanics, motels, cafes, and medical services punctuate the present route, landscape and weather conditions haven’t altered from those trail predecessors experienced. No matter the century, summer heat scorches native grasses and evaporates moisture. These are aesthetic concerns for modern wayfarers, but for early travelers, these elements were essential to survival. Even today, folks who cross in winter chance blizzards and icy conditions that can halt a journey. Before bridges existed, high water arrested traffic or drowned humans and livestock that risked crossing these torrents.

Another concern Chalfant describes include Kiowa, Cheyenne, and Comanche raids. These tribes considered this borderland home and fought American and Mexican encroachment on their historic hunting grounds. They frequently ambushed east and westbound caravans between Walnut Creek and the Pawnee Fork. Forts Dodge, Larned, and Zarah didn’t protect the trail until the 1860s, more than a decade after it ceased its role as an international border.

For many, a trip along Highway 50 where it parallels the Arkansas River is tedious. However, if modern travelers could hear or see the past, they’d hear groaning wagons, lowing oxen, and cursing bullwhackers. They’d view desiccated carcasses that succumbed to the elements as well as broken down wagons littering a rutted road. Eyes would scan horizons for a glint of sunshine reflecting off a lance. Without the radio’s advance warning, they’d monitor distant clouds for changing weather. Always, they’d look for good water and camping spots to refresh themselves and their beasts.

If only one could experience what was and is simultaneously, there’d be nothing dull about a trip down Highway 50 where it follows the old border between Mexico and U.S. Territory.

Stitching Lives Together at Cottonwood Ranch

Old houses intrigue me—especially those with formal parlors. In today’s world, the concept of an appointed sitting room is alien to our interactions. However, after participating in the Donna Day Craft Workshop at Cottonwood Ranch Historical Site, I’m rethinking my feelings about fancy salons folks used only for weddings, Sunday visitors, or wakes.

During a past visit to the ranch where curator Don Rowlison explained this room’s purpose, several attendees recollected personal stories about family parlors and gatherings held within them. Storytellers told of long ago nuptials, holidays, and, of course, grief because this space reminded them of the place where a beloved grandma or grandpa was viewed prior to burial.

Some of the younger guests said that last thought creeped them out and hastily migrated from the area. For an instant, I shared their reaction but then considered how familiar this room would have been to sorrowing loved ones compared to the emotional sterility of modern funeral homes. That thought made me appreciate the cozy parlor where I stood even more.

Memories of happier times in such a location would override aching loss. A new widow would remember standing beside her groom amongst smiling relatives and friends in that very room. Reminiscences of joy-filled Christmases and childhood games secretly played in that space might interrupt melancholy moments. If walls could talk, the stories would invoke laughter as well as tears.

At many historical sites, curators steer visitors away from artifacts and structures rather than toward them. The philosophy at Cottonwood Ranch seems to be to allow guests to experience the facilities by using an object or location without damaging it. Obviously, fragile items are only for viewing and not for use, but the parlor and main living area function for their intended purposes—as gathering places for human beings.

During the recent craft day, women learning to hook rugs and crochet filled the front parlor where instructors had prepared tables with supplies. As participants found their places and situated jackets and purses, the room pulsated with estrogen. Had it contained this many females all at once since Fenton Pratt had lived there with his wife and daughters? It took some shuffling to get everyone situated with enough space to weave crochet hooks through yarn and tug wool strips through monk-cloth backing. 

After each participant adjusted to the close quarters, a buzz began. If stone and wood are capable of recollection, they recognized sounds of feminine voices talking non-stop. While few of these women knew one another personally, they came from the same region and shared common friends, relatives, experiences, and interests. Room topics skittered from too many deer on the roads, to wolves migrating into Kansas, to soloists at state athletic events, to how weather patterns have changed over the decade, to drought gardening, to using local plants to make dyes. Along with these topics, snippets of conversation relayed personal stories about children, siblings, parents, spouses, and exes.

The original house is over 120 years old, but I bet the walls would tell us that conversational themes haven’t changed much over decades. If the wandering spirit of a long dead woman had found her way to join the crafters in the parlor that Saturday, modern clothing and hair would have surprised her. However, she would have completely understood the ladies’ heartfelt concerns. She’d recognize female fellowship and recall why she liked attending sewing and quilting bees--women got the necessary done while stitching their lives to those like them.

Thank goodness The Friends of the Cottonwood Ranch create opportunities for visitors to link their lives to this place and to lives of others who also value this site. While the parlor no longer hosts weddings and wakes, it still brings people together.

Helping Birds Decorate Their Nests

You’ve heard the saying, “Looks can be deceiving.” That statement describes our little terrier’s coat. When you meet him, he looks like a sleek pooch who doesn’t shed.  That’s true July through February. However, when the calendar says spring, he gives March Madness a new interpretation.

Most folks who meet the winter Buster love to pet his silky fur and rub his soft ears.  Let them visit before a spring de-thatching, and they’ll wear Buster home. That little guy sheds like a champ. If there were Olympics for losing winter hair, our pet would win a gold medal.

Once we’re well into summer and he’s down to his hot weather duds, I forget about his ability to fill brush after brush with taupe fluff.  Throughout the cold months, I don’t think a thing about Buster’s special talent, but come those first warm days, and I remember he’s a nest building bird’s best friend.

As soon as I spy that first filament separating from a follicle, we spend spa time together.  I don’t know that he sees getting repeatedly swiped with a grooming glove as pleasurable, but I’m on a mission to capture that loose hair before it gets on me or someone else. He’s just a little guy—only 14 pounds, but he fills the grooming mitt or the wire brush time after time with handfuls of velvety fiber. 

 

For years, I tossed his winter long johns in the trash as quickly as I gleaned them even though I’d heard of folks who harvest their beloved beasts’ hair and spin it into yarn to use to weave or knit. That seemed over the top even considering how much raw material my little  half Jack Russell sloughs off each year. I figure he’s good to supply a child-size sweater.

During my musings, I read that birds line their nests with anything downy, including pet hair. Aha, the ultimate repurposing without purchasing a spinning wheel and the accouterments to take up either knitting or weaving.

Learning to up-cycle my pooch’s fuzz to improve neighborhood bird real estate changed Buster’s spring curse to a blessing.  Instead of being upset that his winter growth falls out, I pledge to capture every strand to share with robins, sparrows, wrens, flycatchers, cardinals, orioles, and even blue jays. 

Old Sol’s rays beat down to warm the tops of Buster’s and my heads and shoulders while balmy breezes riffle over us. As I comb my little friend to retrieve nest-decorating supplies, I hope my companion enjoys his western Kansas version of a tropical beauty treatment.

Spotting Buster’s fuzzy discards lining a bird nest makes those hours grooming him worthwhile.  I like thinking the coat that warmed him through cold winter days keeps future serenaders toasty and comfy until they fledge into summer skies.  

Growing Bookworms or the Blessings of Community Libraries

Watching how much my two-year-old granddaughter loves books reminds me of a seven-year-old,  toothpick-legged child who thought she was a big girl when her momma handed her her allowance on Saturday mornings. Along with that shiny dime, that little girl’s mother permitted her to trek uptown-- first to the dime store and then to the library. The coin was spent in no time.  It took much longer to wander up and down the bookshelf aisles searching for the perfect three or four titles to carry home so she could escape into those well-turned pages for a week of exciting adventure.

Yes, that scrawny little gal was me. I loved my weekly visit to the library. Spending that dime occupied a half hour or so of exploring the toy department from top to bottom. I combined this with obsessing over an old-fashioned candy counter where glass compartments housed chocolate stars, jawbreakers, licorice, and caramel clusters among other treats a clerk scooped onto a scale before bagging my treasure. Munching on gooey chocolate all the way home was satisfying,  but showing off my book selections to my mom highlighted the morning.  And the best was yet to come. . . .

Hours of joyous escape and new knowledge patiently awaited me as I examined each cover to decide where my escapades would begin.  After I piled the books in reading order, I’d curl up in a sunny, warm spot in the house—maybe in the living room or on my bed where I could escape into other lands and other lives.  My grandma’s house had a great walk-in closet I could turn into my secret domain for hours while words danced off pages into pioneer wagons or princess castles or Nancy Drew mysteries.

When I had little girls, they, too, loved trips to the community library where they could scan shelves just their height until they found books that begged to go home with them in their little totes. When they entered their toddler years, our local librarian hosted a scheduled event that made this place even more appealing.  It was a terrible day when you were too sick to go to story hour.

Every time I open the door to a library, I never know what journey I’ll experience. I’ve traveled through the ages in a page-filled time machine. I’ve met kings and queens, famous soldiers and presidents, along with some rock stars.  I’ve read tales that drew tears and sighs and those that made me laugh until I had hiccups.  I discovered the key to avoiding boredom amongst all those silent friends.

What would life be like without public libraries? As a lifelong card owner, I can’t imagine.  What I have learned doing research inside those walls is that not every town had a library.  It took a zealous ladies’ organization or a combination of clubs to start libraries in prairie communities.  In Logan Kansas, women recognized the need for a library in their little town and, with rustling skirts, got to work establishing one that still exists today. 

Ellis Kansas can thank the Union Pacific and a specific employee, Mr. Dorrance, for starting their library.  It seems appropriate the city fathers named a street after the person who made such a difference in his world. Hays, Plainville, Stockton and 56 other Kansas towns can thank Andrew Carnegie  and local taxpayers for their fine libraries. 

The first Carnegie Library in Scotland had the adage “Let There Be Light” above the door. I like to imagine such a motto exists in some form above every library entrance. 

It's Not Good to Want a Thing Too Much

One of my favorite novels to teach was John Steinbeck’s The Pearl.  I loved his use of landscape, the very human ways the main character Kino and his young wife Juana faced ills that befell them, and truths about human nature the author unfolded in quotes that emerge from my memory at odd times. One of those instances occurred last week.

Ever since we moved, I’ve anticipated planting a garden behind our shed.  A neighbor used his tractor to till well-rested soil to crumbly powder that sifted through my fingers like sand through an hourglass. After gardening on a rocky hilltop for almost two decades, I was giddy thinking about tucking seed potatoes and onion slips into fertile earth.

While some folks use an almanac to tell them the best time to plant, the weather channel’s rain predictions guide me. There’s nothing like a heaven-sent soaking to get seeds off to good start. Based on the report, it looked like Mother Nature would aid me in christening my new seed plot.

According to the internet, I could expect a 90% chance for moisture. That offered good odds even in these dry times, so I cut up seed potatoes, prepared onion slips and bulbs, and organized packets of early season seeds. The whole time I loaded my garden cart with supplies, words rattled inside my head like seeds in a dry gourd—“It is not good to want a thing too much. It sometimes drives the luck away . . . .”

Those syllables haunted me because I couldn’t remember where I’d heard or read them. In my imagination, I saw an Indian woman saying them, so I started a mental inventory of books, movies, and  TV shows I’d read or seen, hoping to come up with a source. Finally, I recalled John Steinbeck penned them decades ago when he told the parable of a young man and his pearl of great value.

Straddling rows of freshly planted Yukon gold, Kennebeck, and red Pontiac potatoes, I wished mightily for rain and remembered Steinbeck’s words. Surely the weatherman was more correct than a long dead author. When I rose from popping onions in fresh-plowed earth, a desire for sprinkles crossed my mind only to have that repeating quote attack. 

It made me wonder if a similar superstition drives farmers to understate their dreams for good harvests. I don’t know that I’ve heard an agriculturist boast about the quality of a crop in the field.  Too many factors can drive either production or prices south to make a person with expectations still rooted in dirt voice hope. 

Sunday dawned damp and gray. Perhaps I hadn’t wanted rain too much. Surely I had wished just enough. I turned on my computer to search the weather report. Rain was north and east of us, not over us. We’d had a hint of moisture, but not the real deal. 

This experience helps me understand why farmers are cautious. Steinbeck must have learned this restraint growing up in an agricultural region. Perhaps words he attributed to a young mother living beside the Sea of Cortez initially emerged from the mouth of a farmer visiting John’s father’s feed and grain store in Salinas. 

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.