Unexpectedly Hosting a Mosquito Picnic

We’ve traveled lately and discovered how green the plains and arid Rockies can get when spring rains fall regularly and plentifully. For folks used to mostly desert-like conditions, it’s a thrill to see Kansas, Nebraska, and Wyoming pastures and meadows lush with belly high to a deer grasses and wildflowers blooming in every hue. What we didn’t enjoy was a mosquito ambush at an isolated rest stop.

For those of us used to lower elevations, it’s important to drink plenty of fluids when visiting higher altitudes. During this trip, I intentionally saturated my cells with water during and between meals to avoid those unpleasant headaches. Unfortunately, that also means a few more pit stops during a journey. One of those led to an adventure I’d just as soon have skipped.

The stretch between Rawlins and Lander Wyoming doesn’t have many options for travelers with full bladders, but the Department of Transportation has conveniently positioned a rest area at Split Rock. This pit stop offers tourists not only relief but a chance to learn something about local history and the environmental. Incidentally, it provided us a chance to meet at least a million newly hatched, starving mosquitoes.

When we drove into the empty parking lot, I was glad I didn’t have to wait in line for a turn at the one-holer. Even though my mind was on urgent matters like direct access to the facility, I did notice a cloud of small insects swarming the area. The part of my brain that could still analyze, thought, heck there’s a fresh caddis fly hatch in the area. After all, we weren’t far from the Sweet Water River, which currently has more water in it than I’ve ever seen.

Too bad my brain was so focused on finding a toilet. If it had been more alert, I might have realized I was about to discover I was the answer to starving mosquitoes’ prayers. Who knows how long it had been since they’d had a warm-blooded victim—perhaps since the last wagon train going down the Oregon Trail way back when.

The minute I got out and recognized these weren’t caddis flies, I raced to the door of the outhouse. Once inside, I had only a thousand or so vampires to contend with. I focused on relief while waving strips of toilet paper like a wimpy pompom to hold those hungry beasts at bay. I didn’t want the buggers to take advantage of the situation.

Afterwards, I fought my way back to the car through that horde of bloodsuckers. To  my husband’s distress, a hundred or so stuck close enough to me that they flew into the Toyota despite frantic slapping, arm waving, head jerking and other spastic movements that made it look as though I had a severe case of St. Vitus’s Chorea.

As I slammed the door, my spouse built speed on the highway while rolling down the windows. He intended to use cross ventilation to force invaders out to the green sagebrush flats where they could look for other victims. At least 90 percent exited. Unfortunately, we found ourselves periodically swatting and swiping as tough holdouts came out one by one to torture us.

With all the moisture we’ve had this year, I’m sure this isn’t my last brush with hungry insects. I’m thinking about investing in a case of DEET and making a lanyard to wear it around my neck all summer.

Shakespeare and Starlings

For a man who wrote easy-on-the-ear verse in line after line of iambic pentameter, William Shakespeare must spin in his grave to think he’s the reason millions of screeching, squabbling starlings swarm from shore to shore and border to border in America.

So who had the misguided idea to import these obnoxious creatures? In 1890 and 91, New Yorker Edward Schieffelin, a leader of the American Acclimatization Society, acted on a romantic notion to import examples of everything ever mentioned in a Shakespearian play to his hometown. Unfortunately, the bard included starlings in a scene in part one of Henry IV. That was the beginning of this cursed bird’s existence in the New World.

No one in his wildest imaginings would have thought 60 pairs of starlings released in Central Park at the end of the 19^th century would multiply to over 200,000,000 dumpy looking birds that now live in rural areas, towns, and cities across America. But that’s exactly what happened. While these raucous creatures tend to congregate in urban communities, they have spread into less populated regions, swarming in backyard trees and perching along fences like prisoners in a line-up.

 More than a few of these dark feathered, squatty-bodied avians found their way to northwest Kansas where their irritating mechanical noises interrupt picnics and naps in a hammock. We didn’t see many of them when we lived in the country, but now that we’ve moved to town, I’m frequently reminded why so few people like this bird.

First, they congregate in masses. Scores of them mow across the field behind my house, looking for insects, or they swarm in the cottonwood next to my deck. Their continual bickering chases songbirds away. Their repeated flyovers on the way to a branch lead to the need for some serious patio scrubbing. No matter where they land, they scrap and fight in ever changing tones like a gang of quarreling adolescents.

For birds that are related to the mockingbird and thrasher, starlings don’t sing lovely songs. Their vocalizations resemble the often-maligned fishwife and her shrewish shrieks. They’re guttural and shrill. If these birds imitate something, it isn’t likely to be the sweet trill of a robin. They are more inclined to duplicate the irritating sounds of car alarms and screeching mechanical objects.

By 1950, these dark feathered creatures had mastered Manifest Destiny and occupied the United States from Woody Guthrie’s California to his New York Island. Conditions agreed with them and those first few pairs have multiplied until there are more than 200 million starlings irritating fellow birds and human neighbors. 

Persistence is normally a desirable trait, but not in the case of these critters. Once a pair nests, they return year after year to raise several broods of young who will likely call that same area home. Once these guys move in, getting rid of them is an overwhelming challenge. These birds are stubborn not only about returning annually; this invasive species is notorious for evicting more desirable birds and attacking their young.

After reading the backstory to the starlings’ arrival in the new world, I’m still not a fan. Too bad Ed Schieffelin didn’t live to see the havoc he wreaked when he pursued his wild notion. There’s a lesson in this tale for the rest of us to ponder.

In the Donut Hole

While eating breakfast out of town, I overhead a woman at another table saying she hoped it stopped raining. Stop raining!!! In a similar vein, a former student who is a Facebook friend posted he’s tired of rain. Tired of Rain??? Despite frequent spritzes, real moisture hasn’t happened over our town. We live in a meteorological donut hole, which means we can watch bright reds, yellows, and orange pixels heading our way on the radar. As soon as they get close enough to inspire a happy dance, those vivid colors split into a Y shape or, even more dishearteningly, an O form, leaving us in either black or the lightest blue—a color that means we’ll be grateful for 12 raindrops.

We know people east of us with gardens saturated to the point nothing is growing. We’ve heard about those dealing with leaky basements and roofs. While we don’t want their tomatoes to wash out, their shingles to mildew, or their basements to overflow, we’d like to see running rivers and water-to-the- brim ponds and lakes. Currently, what ought to be an angler’s delight is all too often a basin of dry, cracked mud or powdery dust that won’t satisfy a thirsty cow or deer. Ponds and lakes with water are so low cows can wade through them and not get their hocks wet.

I am grateful for the precipitation we have received and hope for more to come. Heaven’s being bombarded with prayers of thanks and prayers for more. On that note, I’m careful to be specific to ask for enough but not too much. I don’t want to be like the town of Holly, Colorado, in 1965. Years ago, I read an article explaining how eastern Colorado suffered a terrible dry spell. Churches responded by hosting services specifically praying for moisture.

From June 14 to June 20, God answered those divine requests in spades. So much rain fell that the Platte and the Arkansas overflowed their banks.  Smaller creeks overflowed and roadways became torrential rivers. Within 14 hours, 15.5 inches fell just south of Lamar, Colorado. Holly’s not far away, so houses and streets flooded there as well.

We happened to visit my grandmother and uncle’s family in Denver during this wet spell. That annual holiday introduced me to the joys of bailing a basement out via bucket brigade. It rained so much we couldn’t haul water out as fast as it flowed in. Despite the inconvenience of vacationing during a downpour, all of us stayed safe, and the basement eventually dried out.

That wasn’t a reality for other families or property. Twenty-one people died in this deluge. That downpour destroyed millions of dollars’ worth of houses, cars, and roads. Other infrastructure was washed away or damaged so badly it required rebuilding. Such statistics taught me to pray specifically for only enough rain.

Living in that black zone on the radar frustrates those of us driving by dry ponds and dusty streambeds, but dealing with floods would exasperate us as well. Balance is the key. We’ll take our twelve drops and keep praying for enough but not too much.

  

Buttons, Handles, and Flushers

A nostalgic essay about the good old days when all food was slow and TVs only received two channels recently caught my attention. It made me think about the differences between my childhood and my grandkids’.

 The paragraph about not having a remote really struck home. The author explained how adults expected children to trudge to the television to manually switch from one channel to the other. I remember those days when dad would tell us to change channels. I might have been a grown up in my own home before I owned a television with a device that allowed us to flick channels without leaving our seats. That was just the beginning of technology that encouraged dependence. Now it’s expanded into restrooms.

 Soon after reading this article, I traveled and, as a result, visited several public bathrooms. Those calls of nature made me realize another cultural shift is taking place. Youngsters growing up today won’t know the time when people using such facilities had to flush their own toilets, turn water on and off at the faucet, and crank their own paper towels. Many stores and rest areas have bathrooms with automatic sensors that do all that for the users. 

As soon as a person rises from the commode, a flush is signaled. The benefit here is that stalls always have freshly flushed stools. The disadvantage is sometimes folks would like more distance before that electric eye sets off this reaction. I guess I’m old-fashioned, but I like being the one to decide when that swirling action begins.

Once users finish their business, it’s time to visit the sink. It doesn’t take long to realize they won’t be either turning a faucet handle or lifting one. In a flash, they notice the distinct lack of handles. Instead, they wave hands under the spigot, and, magically, water sprays over them.

Apparently, soap distributors haven’t jumped on board with automatic dispensers because folks still have to manually press a button to load their palms with foaming cleanser. Unfortunately, while getting suds, hands must move away from the sensing device at the sink, and the flow ends. I’ve discovered it takes a moment to reposition hands correctly to trigger a rinse. That little hesitation always produces a moment of panic. What if the spigot doesn’t go back on and my hands are all lathered up!

To add to this hygiene magic, modern children won’t know about either cranking their own paper towels or pushing the stiff button that forces the roll to spew out a single sheet. They certainly won’t get to use the old-fashioned belt of rotating cotton that I loved pulling out of that metal box  positioned above the sink. Nope, kids will think they wave their hands under a silver flue, and hot air instantly dries them. 

I see advantages to these changes. There is less trash in the bathroom without paper towels. If sensors  work, toilets flush every time they’re used. Despite those benefits, I miss being responsible for activating these devices. If we’ve made changing channels and going the bathroom automatic, what new changes lurk around the corner?

4th of July Traditions

Add a bucket, crank, rock salt, ice, canister, milk, cream, vanilla, sugar, eggs, and arm strong power to take any summer celebration over the top. As a kid, I loved arriving at a gathering where men sat or knelt circled around a good size wooden or plastic bucket and each took a turn cranking a long metal handle. Oftentimes, a child perched atop the bucket to stabilize the turning device. I knew when I saw this, it didn’t mean the guys were just telling good stories. It meant we’d soon be eating homemade ice cream.

To this day, my mom always asks if we’re having ice cream when we gather for the 4^th of July. Of course, Mom. It’s tradition. This national holiday signals that  it’s time to break out Grandma Lottie’s recipe to stir up a gallon of old-fashion goodness. Over the years, we’ve added extras such as homemade chocolate sheet cake and chock-full of butter hot fudge to accompany our sweat-busting, brain-freezing, tongue- tingling frozen concoction. These aren’t necessary. However, fresh cranked ice cream is a required part of this grand country’s birthday celebration.

In grandma’s early years, this was an inexpensive confection. Cows and chickens produced the milk,  cream, and eggs. Lottie saved to buy sugar and vanilla. Her iceman delivered a block of ice that the men attacked with an old fashion ice pick until it was broken into small enough pieces to put in the ice cream pail. After the women measured and mixed the ingredients and poured them in the canister, menfolk  lined the sides with the chunks of ice  layered with rock salt. They then took turns cranking that long handle. Youngsters got the early, easy turns while stronger men saved their muscles for that moment the mixture began to freeze and thicken. You could see how close the ice cream was to completion by how hard the guy in charge of the crank strained to keep that silver canister spinning.

Now days, we’ve simplified matters at our house. It’s more expensive, but it involves far less year-round labor. We buy milk, cream, sugar, vanilla and already cubed ice at the market and fresh eggs from local sellers. That saves feeding and cleaning stalls and coops throughout the year. It’s not quite as fresh as Grandma’s, but it works. We also cheat on the cranking.  About ten years ago, we bought an electric ice cream freezer. No longer does a family member have to sit hunched in half while he turn, turn, turns that long handle. I mix the brew, fill the cask, put it in the bucket, and pour in my layers of salt and ice. Then, poof, whammo, I plug it in and magic begins.

Now, instead of sensing how hard the canister is rotating, I listen for the motor to strain as ingredients solidify. The result is every bit as good as Lottie’s ice cream. However, I miss listening to the men sitting around that old wooden bucket, swapping stories while a little one perched atop the pail like an old-fashioned weather vane.

A Freeloader in the Garden

Something’s been eating my strawberries. Yes, the luscious berries that we planted two springs ago and carefully nurtured so we’d have fresh fruit over our ice cream and cake or sliced to sweeten a fresh  spinach salad. Since they first began blooming in May, I’ve harvested about 15 scarlet bursts of flavor that hip hop on my taste buds. Last week, I went to pick some for supper and discovered I’m not the only one that likes this spring treat.

We have flocks of birds zipping in and out of the yard, so I checked to see if beaks had pecked at the berry chunks still attached to the plant. Nope, whatever picnicked in Grandma’s garden took actual chomps from the ripest sections of the fruit, leaving hard green stems behind.

Trying to imagine what would devour my luscious treats, I remembered that at our former home, a box turtle would creep into the garden to sample tomatoes. Once in, it levered its pointed upper and weaker lower jaws to snap good-sized chunks out of the orange half of my BLTs. When I first noticed the actual bites out of my strawberries, my first thought was I had another reptile sampling the wares.

On a detective mission, I roamed through tilled rows, lifting lettuce, kale, chard, and spinach leaves in an effort to find and evict the invader. When I didn’t spot it, I inspected nearby plants and flower beds, thinking maybe it dined al fresco and then headed for a more sheltered area to digest its tasty meal.

Again, no luck. After searching fruitlessly (pun intended), I knew it was time to consult my planting partner, who is a much better sleuth than I. With decades of hunting experience, his sharp eyes zero in quickly on clues I miss.

It was the right move to involve my husband. After a short review of the rain-dampened soil, he turned to me to ask, “Do skunks like strawberries?”

“What?” I said. 

“We have skunk tracks in the garden, so that’s probably what’s eating your goodies.”

After a few moments on the internet, I confirmed my sweetheart’s suspicions. These stinky critters like berries of any kind. To confirm his findings, I remembered when our dogs got sprayed by a black and white kitty right in our back yard not so long ago. This current trespasser could be the very creature who perfumed our pooches.

Considering the super powers of this berry thief, we’ll have to strategize to make certain we don’t end up needing a hydrogen peroxide/baking soda bath. No tiptoeing through the garden in the wee hours of the morning or late at night. 

When my girls were little, they loved the book The Little Mouse, The Red Ripe Strawberry, and the Big Hungry Bear. The tiny grey rodent satisfactorily solved his fruity theft problem by sharing his red treasure with the bear. I don’t think this plan will work in this case. Once again, the potential of facing eye burning, stomach-wrenching stench forces me to consider other options.

I’m not certain, how this story will end, but I don’t intend to support that freeloading, strawberry thieving skunk much longer.  Stay tuned for further adventures.

Flour Sack Connections

By a generation, I missed wearing flour sack clothing. After drying dishes with Grandma’s treasured dishtowels that originated as such containers, I was relieved the Depression was over so I didn’t have to dress in something that started as a bag. However, over decades as I’ve listened to stories of those who did, I realize I missed making memories that people still talk about 70 to 80 years after the fact.

What’s interesting is the fondness I hear in the voices of the people who were children during this hard time as they recall those flour sack dresses, shirts, undies, towels, and quilts. Instead of seeing them as a mark of hardship, many women talk about how pretty the dresses were. One explained how her dad and older brothers would drive the horse and wagon into town to pick up that season’s supplies. Her loved ones spent extra time to look for the prettiest prints to bring back to their women who would later turn them into clothing.

Another lady talked about how her mom hand-stitched a pink flowery print into a dress pretty enough that it was passed from one girl to another as the “picture taking” dress for that family. After seeing some of the detailed handwork accomplished by that generation, I don’t doubt that it was every bit as beautiful as that storyteller recollected.

Others commented that their moms and grandmas had made them summer jumpers out of these sacks. I can see how the big ones would require only a few changes to turn them from a flour container to a young girl’s dress. A bonus is that they’d get softer every time they were washed.

Another woman talked about how she didn’t have a dress for prom. Her mom used those bright prints to create a special outfit so her daughter could attend this special occasion. After all these decades, I could tell how much it meant to wear such a pretty dress. On the other hand, I can’t imagine a modern teenager being nearly so happy to wear a gown that started as a flour sack to such a function. I also bet present day teens won’t recall their prom gowns with nearly such affection.

A gentleman involved in this discussion stated that he doubted modern companies would accommodate patrons the way milling companies did during that dark time. Another individual commented that it would be nice if current packaging were designed to suit dual purposes. I hadn’t considered that before, but it would reduce waste in the landfill if people took advantage of such forethought.

For those of us who came along too late to wear those flour sacks, we get excited when we find a box of them at an auction or a quilt or apron made of them at a thrift shop or antique store. These treasures connect us to our loved ones’ lives.

I’m glad I come from people who made and wore flour sack clothing. I’m glad I dried dishes with those old towels. I wish I owned a quilt constructed from those bright rectangles. Most of all, I’m glad I heard the stories.

August Fogs Predict Winter Snows!

Daily temperatures may still top the century mark during the next few thirty days, but soon they’ll start dropping. Knowing old Man Winter has already packed his bags and bought his ticket to Kansas compels me to google long-term weather forecasts each year. The irony is that I’ve done this long enough to realize weather predictors have worse batting averages than losing baseball teams. To prepare better for changing seasons, I also consider what meteorological prophets relying on folk wisdom have to say. Since August has just begun, I’ve planned a little experiment to see how accurate those old-timers were when they offered up this maxim, “Count the number of morning fogs in August to predict the number of upcoming winter snows.”

Considering the dismal success rate of professional forecasters, I figure that testing some of my ancestors’ tried and maybe not-so-true maxims can’t steer me any further off course than the Weather Channel does. After all, those generations alive before media started telling me what to think depended on their practical experience of watching nature and noting patterns to thrive and pass on their genes. These people whose survival depended heavily on their ability to anticipate storms have to have some pointers I can use.

Besides, some of those sayings like the one that states we’ll have a snow total that matches the tallest sunflowers makes sense. If we had a wet summer that made our state flower reach gigantic heights, it’s more likely a wet winter with piled up snow will follow. I’m not sure I can make such a big jump with the correlation between the number of August fogs and winter snows. So, I’m going to get scientific to test this prediction.

Every year I think I’ll remember how many mornings I awakened to find the field behind the house hidden by layers of misty, white fog. By the time I hang up January’s new calendar, I forget. So this year, I’m going to jot down those hazy mornings with big  X’s. That way I’ll have a permanent record to back up my not always correct memory. Now, I just have to remember not to toss it when I get my new one.

It wouldn’t hurt to have folks who read this column provide back up. If all of us kept track of those ground hugging clouds for the next few weeks, we could double check one another after the last snow next spring. We’d then see if our long gone relatives were on to something or if their words are as empty as those mists that will soon hide our prairie several mornings this month.

Wild Foods Waiting in the Woods

It’s morel time! Yes, the late April turkey season means it’s also time to heat up the cast iron skillet for these wild fungi my husband brings home from his turkey hunts.

 When my spouse first introduced me to these alien-looking treats, I wasn’t sure I should put something that ugly on the table. Of course, there was also the issue of worrying about poisonous mushrooms. He assured me he’d found and eaten morels since he was a little boy so I  needn’t  worry about dying an early death from consuming these. After I fried that first batch and helped devour them, I realized he knew good wild food when he saw it. These edibles capture the essence of spring—fresh, earthy, and rich.

Lovers of these seasonal treats get antsy when the temperatures rise and rain falls. Both are necessary for a decent harvest of an object that looks like a cup-shaped sponge on a stem. Recent dry years have frustrated even the best mushroom hunters.

My fungi finder has the greatest success when he returns to spots where he’s found treasure in the past. They are fungi so they reproduce from spores that spread when something, be it human, beast, or wind, moves the host. The act of picking them releases these reproductive parts so they do grow back in the same places under favorable conditions.

Finding these delectables is an iffy proposition that depends on perfect weather conditions as well as whether or not some other hunter—homo sapien or critter—gets to the patch first. To propagate spores for next year’s harvest, many ‘shroomers carry a net bag to store their finds so the microscopic organisms spread as the hunter carries the bag through the woods. This technique also prevents their finds from getting mushy.

Once those goodies are home, the cook needs to shake and brush off as much dirt and as many of the tiny insects that occupy those crevices as possible. No matter how small, each morel is its own universe and resulting home to a vast and varied population of tiny critters. Once they’re clean, it’s time to slice, halve, or dice. Avoid soaking or freezing morels. These actions may destroy every bug, but they leads to mushy mushroom syndrome.  Folks who harvest more than a mess, clean and dry them for later use.

Scores of morel recipes exist. For those who want to savor that taste of pure spring, go simple. Slice or halve them lengthwise, dip in an egg or milk wash, and roll them in either seasoned flour or cracker crumbs. Then fry them in sizzling oil until they’re crispy. Drain and serve the flavor of April and May on a pretty platter. We never have to worry about leftovers at our house when I serve them this way.

If you prefer more creative ways to serve these, I  have a friend who minces her morels, sautés them in real butter, and then encloses them in a cream cheese pastry that she pops in the oven until it’s golden. While I prefer fried, those woodsy popovers melt in my mouth.

Morels may be the ugliest food ever cooked, but they’re worth trying. Folks who invest the time to learn to identify edible mushrooms and the make the effort to find them hidden in wooded areas will harvest a tasty meal or two each spring. In addition, they’ll make good memories.

  

Lazarus Is Back!

Typically, my mom and I don’t name plants, but in this case, the moniker is perfect.

The first Mother’s Day after my mom moved to Kansas in 2008, I searched Hays for the perfect gift to welcome Mom to her new home. After scouring department store aisles, I gave up in defeat and stopped by a local garden center to buy a few plants so my trip wasn’t wasted. The moment I pulled up, I knew I’d found the perfect present. Its magenta color was gorgeous. In addition, that particular plant would remind mother of happy years in Southern California where a vibrant bougainvillea larger than this one grew up our fence.  

I was right.  Mom loved her new addition to the blooming pots in front of her house. Because it was in a planter, she could move it to best capture sunrays and yet protect this tropical native from scorching July and August temperatures. It thrived under her care and soon needed a larger home. Mom replanted her “baby” and nurtured those scarlet blooms.

By the end of September, she wondered what to do to protect the stunning foliage from harsh seasonal elements. It seemed a shame to let it freeze after it had grown and produced so many beautiful blossoms. Inside wasn’t an option due to poor natural lighting. After asking around, Mom found a spot in the Ag greenhouse and donated winter rent to house her treasure.

After the last frost date arrived the next spring, Mom ransomed her baby, reinstalling it on the east side of her garage. At first, the woody stem appeared dead. Both of us mourned and planned to find a replacement. Fortunately, we procrastinated long enough that little green shoots had a chance to develop and inspire a name for this seemingly expired plant—yes, that was the first time we called it Lazarus.

For the next three years, Mom shuttled the increasingly larger Lazarus into shelter each autumn and retrieved it each May. It did so well under her care regimen that mom repotted it at least one more time. After she brought it home each spring, she’d trim it to a stub and wonder if it’d come out of it. By August, that nubbin turned into a full size bush of flaming color and reminded us why Lazarus was the perfect name. 

This last fall, Mom’s standby wintering spot was unavailable. We hashed over choices, none of which seemed suitable. Just before the first freeze, we transported it to my sunporch where we hoped it wouldn’t get too cold. 

By late November, Lazarus dropped every leaf and looked truly dead. I broke the bad news and left the ugly remains on the porch until spring when I planned to pull the goldfish trick and replace mom’s plant before May. I intended head to the greenhouse in a few weeks to buy a similar sized bougainvillea to put in her big pot. 

I should’ve known better. After five years of Lazarus returning from the grave, it happened again! That dead-looking skeleton sprouted green shoots at its base the second week in April. As much as I hated calling Mom last fall to tell her miracle was dead, I couldn’t wait to announce this unexpected resurrection. I don’t know how long Lazarus will be with us, but I’m shooting for passing it on to one of my daughters after I’m gone.

What To Do with a Left Over Easter Lily…

Thinking about Easter brings to mind loss, hope, resurrection, sunshine, courting birds, greening yards, bunnies, colored eggs, and lilies. Yes, lilies. Each year, members of our church celebrate the lives of loved ones who’ve passed on with a parade of towering white Easter blooms. I love to walk into the sanctuary that first Sunday the white blossoms outline our altar. My nose picks up their sweet scent, and I think about how the first historical evidence of this flower was imprinted on a Cretan vase over 2500 years ago.

Just seeing the ladder of leaves that lead to the balloon-like blooms shouts Easter to me. When the florist wraps deep purple foil around the pot and ties on a fluffy, white bow, I’m transported across time to my first memories of this special holiday. I think of lacy dresses, shiny white patent leather shoes, basket- shaped little bonnets that I only wore one time a year. I recall soaring hymns like “The Old Rugged Cross,” “He’s Alive,” and “ In the Garden.” I can almost feel the warmth of my mom’s or  grandma’s bodies as I recall times I stood singing those songs next to these much loved women. My mouth waters at the recollection of ham dinners followed by homemade chocolate and lemon meringue pies. 

Now, those trumpet-shaped flowers are reminders of too many loved ones who’ve wrapped up their business on earth. Despite this overpowering sense of loss, I’m glad that our church family shares these recollections of good times and happy hearts. Here’s the dilemma. After Easter each year, each of us is supposed to take our plant home. 

That’s good for a week or two. Often times, ours is still blooming so we enjoy setting it in the window. Once the flowers dry up and fall off, it’s time to make some decisions. In our case, that means it goes to the lily bed out back.

The woman who lived here before us started the tradition with a leftover Easter bloom. Since we moved in, the plot has grown. Right now, it’s manageable and hasn’t taken over the rose garden. Looking ahead, I see issues.

Lilies spread, and if I keep adding to this bed each year, I’m going to end up with a yard full of plants that bloom only once a year. Granted, they are lovely at that moment, and the scent is heavenly, but afterwards, they are leggy, green plants.

I guess I need to keep in mind these are symbols of the resurrection, and they’re easy to grow. I can’t say that about everything in my yard. Once established, they bloom later than the ones we place on the altar at church so I get to enjoy them a second time each season. One article I read suggested tossing them on the compost heap. It’s hard to do that when these will thrive, and I’ll enjoy even more fond memories of a favorite holiday.

Practicing Patience in an Asparagus Patch

Longer, warmer days work function as a Siren call to gardeners.” It’s time. It’s time. It’s time to plant.” Tillers and shovels turn over winter-rested soil in plots around town while grocery stores and garden shops advertise seed potatoes and onion sets. Aggressive green thumbs have tiny shoots of lettuce, radishes, and spinach peeking through and stretching toward the sunshine. Our patch isn’t that far along yet, but we’re celebrating a landmark at our house—we picked our first homegrown asparagus this week!

Since I was a child, asparagus has meant springtime to me. This began when the eight-year-old me discovered a bed of the funny looking shoots in an abandoned field on my way home from school. I didn’t know what the alien-looking stuff was so a neighbor boy and I plucked a stem and took it home for my mom to identify. She immediately identified it and warned me not to trespass and steal. I assured her this came from an empty lot that didn’t have a house anywhere near it. Knowing what I know now, I realize this must have been an old, old plot growing where a home once stood.

Not long after that, my mom cooked asparagus for our family, and I discovered it tasted much better than it looked. Once I got married, asparagus became a rite of spring at our house because my husband liked it every bit as much as I did. We had a couple of fronds growing in the yard of our first home, so we looked forward to sampling the few bites we harvested each season.

Once we moved to the country, we found a few shoots growing wild along our creek. Again, we’d relish those fresh spears, but there were never enough to make a mess of our favorite spring veggie. We bought and planted crowns a couple of years in a row, but due to bad weather conditions, they never took off. I swore then that if I ever had a yard with good soil, I’d have my own asparagus bed with enough to share.

Finally, that dream is coming true.  One of first plantings in our new home was a long row of asparagus crowns. We studied the complicated planting procedures and followed them. We learned that successfully growing asparagus takes effort and time. We planted in April and didn’t see a single sprout until August of that year. We’d begun to think we’d wasted time, effort, and money. Despite their slow start, once those shoots peeped through, they thrived.

The patience part came into play the following spring. The asparagus rulebook says you can’t harvest asparagus the first few seasons it grows in your garden. You have to let those roots get well established, so you water it, tend it, trim back the foliage in the fall, and think longingly about tender spears of buttery goodness for at least two seasons. 

That brings me to the moment. We ate our first mess of homegrown asparagus this week. Each of us had enough on our plates that we could gobble to our hearts content.  This wasn’t a tiny sampling. It was a feast. The flavorful shoots were so tender they melted in our mouths. That isn’t something I can say about store bought asparagus.

So thirty-eight years into marriage, we finally have an asparagus bed big enough to harvest more than a few tiny tastes of spring. Watching us savor each forkful, you’d agree that it’s been worth the patience and the work.

The Homestead Act and New Trails across Kansas

Imagine reading flyers posted outside the local mercantile that promised affordable land with rich soil, a healthful climate, and railroad access. President Lincoln’s signature on The Homestead Act of 1862 led thousands to respond to these booster mantras. In addition, railroads promoted and profited from newly acquired government lands. As a result, schemers and developers publicized the region labeled “The Great American Desert” on maps as a way to live the good life and get rich at the same time. Man and machine-made trails soon riddled a country once traveled only by game, indigenous peoples, and a few hardy trappers and explorers passing through.

Dreamers and the downtrodden looking for opportunity headed west. W.R. Hill, a developer, joined with African American minister Reverend W. H. Smith to form the Nicodemus Land Company. They promoted a town site and farmsteads along the South Solomon River in western Kansas. One group interested in promises of country filled with plenty of wild game and affordable land included slaves emancipated from former Vice-President Richard Johnson’s estate in Kentucky. This group and others gathered what they imagined they needed to farm their own acres and bought Union Pacific tickets to the Promised Land.

After a long journey, these first immigrants arrived in Ellis in June of 1877. They discovered this was not the end of their travels. They still had a journey of about 35 miles to their new homes. This humble group that began an historic Kansas community walked behind a wagon filled with their meager belongings to begin the Ellis/Nicodemus trail, a route they and other newcomers would travel to and fro many times during the following months and years.

Keep in mind these fresh arrivals were from the South, a well-watered land with established agriculture. They arrived on the high plains at the beginning of summer so they would’ve scanned acres covered with still-green buffalo grass and emerging blue stem rather than thriving farmland. Used to seeing groves of hardwood trees, they’d have wondered at the scarcity of such on the plains and at the lack of variety they’d used to build and warm their former homes. Rivers where they came from were wide and deep, so their first jaunt across Big Creek in Ellis would have triggered some mumbles. What they say when they first saw the Saline and South Solomon?

For the next few years, the Ellis/ Nicodemus Trail became the standard route between the two communities. According to old Ellis Headlight and Nicodemus news articles, these newly minted agriculturists and businessmen brought grain to the mill, broken tools to the blacksmith, and their sick and injured to the company doctor available in the thriving railroad community of Ellis. One report described the excellent quality and quantity of broomcorn delivered by Nicodemus farmers. Another detailed how the railroad doctor set a Nicodemus man’s badly broken leg.

Today, that trail is a memory and a few references in old newspapers. If local historian Angela Bates has anything to say about it, this route will once again be marked and affiliated with the Nicodemus Historic Site. This path offers evidence that peoples of the prairie didn’t live isolated lives. It indicates connections between rural communities that still exist even if the roads between them are different.

Bohemian Halls in Kansas

I’ve grown up hearing America called the melting pot of the world. If you spend time traveling Kansas, then you understand the Sunflower State is the biggest bubble in that boiling mess. In a few hours’ time, travelers can visit Lebanon, Denmark, Norway, and Cuba. During that journey, drivers can drop south to Glasco, named for Glasgow, Scotland. Kansas is a state of many cultures, evidenced not only by town names but also by buildings designed to honor old-country customs.

It’s interesting to cruise our state checking out churches, schools, barns, old homes, and main streets of ethnic communities. It doesn’t take long to realize our ancestors brought their building styles from their homelands and recreated them in a region with little moisture and few trees. One of my favorite discoveries includes local Bohemian Halls. Once I spot one, I think immediately of either my favorite American writer Willa Cather or of singer Chuck Suchy and his tales of transplanted Bohemian culture.

For years I thought the Wilson, Kansas, area was the main destination for immigrant Czechs. Since then, I’ve discovered that Bohemians settled many regions of our state. One is Cuba, Kansas, off Highway 36. It has a wonderful ethnic hall where families gathered on Friday or Saturday nights to socialize and dance. It would have been a place to speak and hear a longed-for native language, evidenced by Ćeska Narodin Sin written above the entry. Not only is Cuba home to this Czechoslovakian National Hall, it also has a Czechoslovakian National Cemetery with Czech inscribed tombstones. 

A short distance south, sightseers can find another such site in the countryside near Delphos. Again, the closest town’s name misleads one to think of Aegean, not Czech, culture. Despite the confusing designation, this area welcomed many Bohemian settlers who cooperatively built this structure for common use. Current area residents maintain the building and grounds, continuing a longstanding tradition for surrounding communities.

Bull City Café in Alton is close enough to visit in the same day. What does that have to do with Bohemian Halls, you ask? In a former incarnation, the building was a Czech cultural center near Claudell. At some point, townspeople moved this edifice into Alton to serve as the local cafe. Once inside, you can view a Czech exhibit that explains this structure’s history. In addition, current operators have kept the old stage in place so diners can see where musicians of old would have stood to play and sing.

These are only a few of the Bohemian communities in our state. Interested folks can spend the rest of their lives cruising blue highways. Along the way, they’ll discover scores of tiny towns settled by people who left brought their culture and their halls to a new country. If walls could talk in these old buildings, I wouldn’t understand a word. I would, however, recognize festive rhythms of polkas and other folk dances and the shooshings all mothers use to soothe tired little ones. After decades of teaching high school, I’d also quickly identify the laughter of flirting couples. Some forms of communication are universal.

I hope these small towns find resources to preserve these remnants of their not so distant past. Such structures tell part of the story of dreamers who came to our state seeking a good life on the prairie.  

George Washington and the Mumps

After receiving scores of Presidents Day sale flyers in my mailbox, I’m flashing back to childhood celebrations of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington’s birthdays. Keep in mind we didn’t combine birthdays fifty years ago. We turned February into one long party. We feted Lincoln on February 12 and then Washington on the 22^nd. When you added in a Valentine party, February was a festive month for elementary students during Eisenhower and Kennedy’s terms.

Due, I’m sure, to Lincoln’s distinctive features, my classmates and I cut our 16^th president’s side view out of black construction paper every year. I recall the rhythmic sound of the teacher stapling these on a white bulletin board. Along with creating our annual artwork, we heard the story about Abe’s difficulties attending school. That tale made me grateful my classroom was a short walk from home.

February 14 distracted us momentarily from our patriotic lessons. Twenty or more of Abe’s silhouettes served to backdrop an equal number of red wrapped shoeboxes, decorated with crudely cut out hearts and lacy doilies. Candy and cookie-fueled primary students stuffed cutesy Valentines into those narrowly slit containers. Those who could wait hauled their loot home and spent the evening tearing open teeny-tiny envelopes to sound out sentimental sayings.

Recovered from our sugar high, we spent the next eight days practicing for the Father of our Nation, George Washington’s birthday blowout. This extravaganza involved  cutting out construction paper hatchets and cherries and young children waving American flags of varying sizes in a pageant directed by the most commanding teacher in the school.

I loved the hours of preparation that led up to these events. After pinning our hatchets and red fruits to stage curtains, dozens of scrappy grade-schoolers practiced marching in wide circles either to a John Philip Sousa selection or to “Yankee Doodle.” After we perfected parading until we could do it without a teacher’s intervention, we’d learn flag care rules. 

Our teachers drilled into our flighty brains that Old Glory must never touch the ground. They emphasized treating the red, white, and blue with respect. Once our rarely focused gazes acknowledged this solemn responsibility, an adult would hand each of us a handkerchief -sized American flag attached to a wooden dowel. I don’t recall classmates poking or stabbing anyone with these handy weapons. During those post WW II and Korean Conflict years, even little kids knew the American flag was more than a piece of fabric.

My greatest sorrow in grade school occurred during second grade. Mrs. Hill picked me to lead the flag procession that began the celebration, something I liked even more than receiving Valentines stuffed with extra lollipops. Unfortunately, two days before my starring role took place, I awoke with a temperature and swollen jowls. Those were the days before vaccinations, and I had the mumps.

While I sat at home examining a paper bag filled with red candy cherries my parents bought me to celebrate George Washington’s birthday, one of my classmates led the procession onto the stage. To this day, when I see red jelly balls in the candy bin at Orscheln’s, I remember the buckets of tears I cried at missing my moment in the spotlight.

Shake, Rattle, and Roll

Elvis wasn’t the only the person to note a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on. Lately, it appears that even more of it is taking place. Kansas residents have experienced plenty of recent unexpected movement as the earth repeatedly shifts under feet and houses. This messes with people’s equilibria and generates questions.

Sunflower state residents expect to read news accounts of tornadoes, blizzards, drought, and occasional floods. To some viewers’ surprise, residents can add earthquakes to the list of events that keep us on our toes. Frequency of these events has increased enough that some reports suggest property owners add insurance coverage and schools implement drills to prepare students. Despite more headlines, seismic movement isn’t new to this area.

Historically, our state has always had earthquakes. Keep in mind people need to occupy a landscape before someone records weather and geological statistics. The earliest record of a strong quake indicates one affected the Lawrence and Manhattan areas on April 24, 1867. The unusual earth movement caused shelved objects to fall, plaster to crack, and stones to loosen and fall from buildings as far away as Manhattan. Ongoing reports of notable tremors in Northeastern Kansas continued into the new century. 

While most of these events occurred in Eastern Kansas, seismic activity didn’t leave out the western part of the state. An intensity V event shook Dodge and Meade in 1904. In 1933, rattling dishes and swaying houses had citizens of Norton County exiting homes, wondering what was happening. A similar event rattled the same locale in April 1961. 

While weather usually dominates regional news, earthquakes claim more headlines as they occur more frequently, especially in the southern part of the state. According to January 2015 records, 79 seismic events rattled communities along the Kansas/Oklahoma border.

These reports remind me of my childhood in Southern California, where earthquakes occurred frequently. While schools in Kansas practice tornado drills, California practices earthquake survival. Instead of herding students to a nearby basement or inside hallway, the insistent alarm signals kids to crawl under the nearest desk or table and to protect the back of their necks with their hands.

I recall the quick shuffling to find a secure place and then the giggles as we looked around the room at one another in awkward positions that often revealed underpants or bare skin, depending on what our friends wore to class. Unlike children in Kansas who have seen the devastating power of tornadic winds, few youngsters in California have seen true seismic destruction. A buckled sidewalk or cracked wall along with items tossed off a shelf are what kids have experienced.

While most earthquakes I lived through were moderate, we lived in Southern California during the1971 Sylmar 6.7 earthquake, an intensity XI event. I recall awakening to a terrible screeching sound that came from the stressed, twisting joints in our house walls. Responding to training, my brother, mom, and I automatically raced to our bedroom doorways where we hung on to the doorjambs as the rocking and rolling continued. Our visiting grandmother refused to join us, saying if she was going to die, she was dying in bed.

After the ground stopped rolling, we picked up whatever had tumbled from cupboards and closets, dressed, and headed to work and school. Throughout the day, students saw playground goalposts swaying like giant pendulums during strong aftershocks, events that follow powerful seismic activity.

On the news that night, we realized people closer to the epicenter in the San Fernando Valley had experienced more devastation. Freeway overpasses with vehicles on them had collapsed as had a portion of a medical facility with resulting fatalities. Though we didn’t have the advantage of satellite news photos, onsite news reporters captured pictures of gas fires that broke out when lines ruptured. This was an enlightening peek at earthquake induced havoc.

While current reports don’t incline me to purchase earthquake coverage for our home, I think Kansans should learn more about earthquake survival and implement drills into the school year so children know how to respond. If nothing else, those under desk and table drills are good for a belly laugh or two.

George Washington Carver--Kansas Connections

The simplest snacks often taste the best, which is certainly true about a favorite go-to goody, peanut butter sandwiches. I can’t imagine life without Jif in my cupboard. A blob of this yummy goo combined with grape jelly slathered on fresh bread makes a fast breakfast, lunch, or supper. That same recipe creates delicious pre or post dinner snacks. In honor of this popular food item, January 24 has been designated National Peanut Butter Day. This red-letter event makes me think about George Washington Carver, the man often credited with inventing peanut butter.

Many folks know he taught in Tuskegee, Alabama, where he investigated hundreds of ways to use peanuts. However, few people realize he went to grade school and high school in Kansas. Before enrolling in Iowa State College, he homesteaded near Beeler, Kansas. Yes, the person responsible for my beloved PB and J treats has Kansas connections.

Born and raised on a farm near Diamond, Missouri, Carver moved as an adolescent to Fort Scott, Kansas, to further his education. Later, he followed friends to Minneapolis where he attended high school from 1880 to 1884. Upon graduating, he applied and was accepted to Highland College in the northeast part of the Sunflower State. 

Unfortunately, after he arrived, university officials rejected him due to his race. Disappointed, but having faith in God’s purpose for his life, George traveled west to homestead (SE ¾ of 4-19-26) and build a sod house near Beeler, Kansas, from1886 to 1888. Neighbors appreciated his polite demeanor, love of nature, sketches of local plants and animals, and accordion playing skills. For some reason, he decided he wasn’t meant to be a western Kansas farmer and moved to Iowa before proving up his land.

Once in Iowa, Carver studied art and music at Simpson College before going on to earn an agriculture degree followed by a master’s degree in botany at Iowa State College in Ames. Again, people noted this quiet, refined, Godly man who worked hard to accomplish his goals and practice his faith. Word of this brilliant scientist and his work found its way to Booker T. Washington, who recruited George to teach at Tuskegee Institute. Carver responded to Washington’s offer, “pledging ‘to cooperate with you in doing all I can through Christ who strengtheneth me to better the conditions of our people.’”

After he moved to Alabama, this brilliant scientist invested his time and talents to discovering and teaching others numerous ways to use peanuts, sweet potatoes, pecans, and other Southern crops. A deeply humble Christian who believed his purpose was to help fellow humans, this inventor patented only three of the many products he discovered. Peanut butter was not one of those. Instead of getting rich and living a life of ease, Professor Carver devoted himself to  rising early each morning, seeking God’s will, and working hard to improve Southern agriculture and living conditions.

Since grade school, when I first read about this amazing man, I’ve admired and wanted to know more about him. Imagine my pleasure at discovering his Kansas connections. On a warm spring day, it’s a pleasant drive down Highway 96 to connect to the trail to Carver’s homestead. Once there, you won’t hear him play his accordion. However, you’ll view acres covered with descendants of the native grasses and wild flowers he sketched while distant offspring of meadowlarks that sang to him serenade you.

Oh You Better Watch Out, You Better Not Cry, Belznickel Is Coming To Town

                One of the bonuses of teaching for so many years is that I’ve learned much from local speakers who have shared their knowledge with my students and me. In  1986, Lawrence Weigel, a regional historian from Victoria, began a tradition of speaking to my classes about local Volga German Christmas customs. Even though my grandma’s family came to America from this region, I’d never heard about the character called Belznickel that Mr. Weigel brought to life in my English classroom.

                This unique Christmas visitor wore a fur or buffalo hide coat and appeared in Volga German homes a few weeks before December 25^th. According to our presenter, not only did this caller dress in rustic, handcrafted clothing, he also wore clanking chains wrapped about his waist to warn youngsters of his arrival. Sometimes he even carried a coiled whip to add to his intimidating presence. I was as wide-eyed as my freshmen were upon learning about this guy for the first time. This wasn’t the Santa we knew and loved.

                My class’s informative guest told us this was an old-country custom intended to reinforce good behavior. Belznickel entered pioneer homes, where children lined up to confess the past year’s bad deeds. After owning up to their naughtiness, youngsters would kneel and pray. Belznickel might leave a piece of candy for repentant kids.

If a youngster failed to account for every shortcoming, this all-knowing being would remind the frightened child of his or her misdeeds with more than a few specific details. Our speaker went on to tell us about a time a teenage boy in his family had acted disrespectfully to this nighttime caller. In a flash, the dark Santa threw the miscreant into a burlap bag and toted him several miles away from home before turning the lad loose to find his way back home, a changed young man. 

                According to Mr. Weigel, this folk personality who originated in the early settlers’ original native land of Germany was a means of social control. Parents would inform a neighbor or distant relative willing to play the role of Belznickel about their children’s poor behavior throughout the year. During a visit, if the children failed to fess up, the dark Santa would remind them and perhaps make them hold out their hands for a switching.

                Several years after I first heard this tale, I discovered one of my younger colleagues at had survived annual visits from the Black Santa on Christmas Eve prior to the later arrival of Jolly Old St. Nick. My friend’s family also descended from German immigrants who had settled near Hutchinson. Like the pioneer children in Victoria that Mr. Weigel told stories about, this teacher along with her brothers and sister had to own up to their shortcomings under the watchful gaze of a Santa dressed in dark clothing as well as their watching parents.

                After hearing these stories, I realized Belznickel was alive and well into the 1960s and maybe 70s. Hearing my friend’s firsthand accounts left no doubt that these visits impressed upon youngsters the need to be good throughout the year in order to avoid getting to know the Black Santa too well.

                While I’m glad my grandma did not pass this practice on to her children or grandchildren, this old world custom intrigues me. Over time, I’ve found several Christmas decorations that depict Belznickel to display on a shelf or hang from our tree. When guests ask about the unusual Santa ornaments dangling among the evergreen branches, I get to share Mr. Weigel’s story and connect someone else with Kansas’s interesting past.

Elderberry Elixir

Despite the fact I had a flu shot the minute the doctor made them available, one of those germs invaded, took up residence in my ears, lungs, and sinuses, and has hung around with his buddies far too long. I’ve taken antibiotics and added a few homeopathic treatments to see if I can send this invader packing. Some of my self-care, which includes slathering Vicks on my feet and wearing cotton socks to bed, has offered comfort but not a cure. Several sympathetic friends recommended taking elderberry elixir, and one provided a bottle of his homebrew. When I looked up elderberries, it appears science agrees that syrups made from this native fruit have successfully evicted this nasty attacker and its accompanying symptoms.

The friend who gave me the tiny bottle of potent purple syrup started growing elderberries on his property so that he can manufacture enough immunity-boosting tonic to share with family and friends. After using it for several years, he swears it either prevents or reduces any number of respiratory illnesses along with other ailments. Research supports his personal anecdotes. In addition to curing these conditions, Chinese practitioners use medicines made from this plant to treat rheumatism and traumatic injuries. The bad news is that an 8 oz. bottle of elderberry syrup at a health food store dents a checking account considerably. For the same price he would have spent for tonic someone else concocted, our buddy bought plants from a local nursery to add to his landscaping and research how to make his own brew.

Elderberries grow wild around most of Kansas so cultivating them doesn’t require extreme effort. According to our acquaintance, he planted a few roots the first year, and, in no time, they grew three to six feet high, bloomed, and produced fruit. Soon, he harvested stems full of dark purple berries, knocked the fruits loose against the sides of clean five-gallon buckets, and began simmering the plump ovals into concentrate. He’s still experimenting with the perfect recipe, but following his initial success, he’s expanded his garden.

After looking up this therapeutic powerhouse, I learned folks use both blossoms and berries to make teas, wines, cordials, tonics, jams, and syrups. This single plant probably helped many a prairie granny woman or native healer fill a medicine bag with cures various ailments. I can see where the jams and syrups would prevent scurvy and other conditions caused by vitamin deficiencies. Before antibiotics, flus and chest colds could turn deadly, so pioneers and Native Americans welcome d a syrup that reversed or shortened symptoms.

Not only are these fruits good medicine, elderberries taste good. Anyone who likes making homemade jellies, jams, and syrups will love adding this flavor their selection. Add a pie filled with these succulent goodies to the menu and guests will salivate.

People need to know something else about this native plant. For all its benefits, those consuming it should be aware its fruits and flowers need to be fully ripe and heat processed. Individuals who consume raw products have found themselves suffering from a form of cyanide poisoning. Other wild berries produce similar concerns, so cooks need to educate themselves before tossing raw fruit in a salad.

Nearly out of my bottle of homemade elixir, I either need to find a stand of wild elderberries that I have permission to pick or take a lesson from our friend who grows his own and start my own berry garden. With such a flavorful treatment, there’s no reason to suffer through weeks of upper respiratory infections in the future.

Did You See that Sign?

Anyone cruising rural or urban highways has spotted a diamond shaped, bright yellow sign featuring a leaping whitetail buck. These deer crossing emblems alert drivers to potential car/deer collisions, and they’ve led to humorous incidents as well.

Curious sorts who google leaping buck logos discover references to a letter asking in seeming sincerity why the Department of Transportation doesn’t move those deer crossings to areas with less traffic. The well-intended writer points out doing so would reduce accidents. This little joke has made it to You Tube and other mainstream media sources. I suspect comedians like Jeff Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Guy have gotten some laughs at this concerned citizen’s expense. 

When I typed in “history of deer crossing signs,” I wasn’t looking for a funny story. I wanted to know why the antlers  are backward. I don’t know when it first occurred to me that these illustrations are incorrect, but I’ve known it for decades and enjoyed informing less observant friends of this mistake. It seems to me that if feds hire an artist to create a sign used across the nation, someone would make sure this specialist knows what a buck looks like in silhouette. 

What I found, in addition to the lady’s letter wondering why the DOT guides deer to cross busy roads was numerous responses noting the backward antlers and accompanying answers. Some folks don’t think the antlers are reversed. Those writers feel the sign correctly represents a whitetail buck, which makes me wonder how close those people have been to these critters. Practical sorts remind complainers that people crossing signs aren’t anatomically accurate either. Who has a gap between his  body and a Charlie Brown-style round head?

Finally, I found a response that addressed my question, which was why wasn’t the artist familiar with deer anatomy. If the explanation is correct, this has to be one of the longest lasting public acts of insubordination in the United States of America.

According to one citation on snopes.com, the artist didn’t feel appreciated. As a result, he or she created the backward antler sign to see how long it would take someone to notice. Based on the article, it was ten years before anyone even contacted the department responsible for codifying highway signs. By then, thousands of these inaccurate emblems marked public roadways, where they remain today. If this is true, I hope the illustrator found a more satisfying line of work.

These warnings have finally been around long enough to require replacement in some places. When we visited Rocky Mountain National Park in September, we noticed a few new signs alerting drivers to the possibility of deer crossing the road. To my relief, these new ones represent white tail antler anatomy correctly or as much as it can be in silhouette on a bright yellow background. 

I’m glad someone noticed and is making sure new signage isn’t a successful act of insubordination or of poor editing in the graphics department. I am going to miss seeing the incorrect ones and chuckling at this national boo boo. Maybe our government will offer old ones at a surplus auction so we can decorate the garage wall with a fond memory.