Cottonwood in Its Own Voice

            Who would have thought all those years ago when I was a tiny bit of fluff wrapped up tight in a green pea-sized form dangling in a earring like chain off my momma tree that I would grow up to be the biggest old cottonwood tree in western Kansas. 

            I will never forget that warm May day when the temperature, humidity, and timing were just right to create an explosion, kind of like a nuclear explosion I suspect.  Anyway, all those other little cottonwood seeds and found ourselves airborne, floating on whatever breeze came by to tumble us along.  Back then, there weren’t any houses anywhere around, let alone any window screen or airconditioner filters for us to block.  We might have seen a tipi or two or three around, but that didn’t create any problem.  The little Indian children would have had fun playing games with us, running underneath us and trying to blow hard enough to keep us in the air.  It was fun in a fashion.

            By evening, the breezes settled down and they are wont to do, and the Indian children went home to their mommas who stirred nice smelling pots of stew and what not.  The day had worn us out, so when the wind let up, a bunch of us settled down into the moist sand along the creek bank.  Whooey, did that feel good. 

            I must have landed just right with my seed end down and my fluff side up.  As night wore on, I felt my little seed end kind of taking on moisture and puffing itself up as seed are likely to do when they have enough moisture.  By morning, I could feel things changing a bit. Little hairy, cilia like growth had sprouted off my seed end so I could root myself solidly into the creek bank.  I know my momma had exactly the same experience.  She’d sigh sometimes in the wind, remembering those days when she’d been a little fluff ball floating on the breeze.  “Once you’re rooted, you’re rooted.” she’d say, “so enjoy your freedom while you can.”

            Mine was pretty short lived, but once those little hairs grabbed hold of the soil and started sucking up every drop of moisture, I felt so good, I didn’t want to go anywhere else.  Heck, I was in the bend of a creek that hardly ever went dry, I didn’t have too many other trees around to keep the sun off me, and I hadn’t seen any critters passing by that had a fondness for teensy, weensy cottonwood sprouts.  We have a high sugar content, you know, and some of those four leggeds look at us like we’re critter candy.

            I noticed some of my fellow seedling got swept away by the morning breeze.  It didn’t bother me none.  I kind of enjoy spending time with myself.  As the summer went on, I could feel myself growing.  Every morning, I could hardly wait for daylight just to get a good look see at how far my top was from the sandy creek edge.  I must have been chlorophyll cranking machine, for I noticed new leaves unfurling every day.  The more of them I had, the more I could make.  I wanted to shout to all those other trees nearby, “Just you wait.  Someday, I’ll be the biggest tree around.”

            Years went by.  I didn’t see any more tipis and those darn buffalo quit coming by to rub their coarse hair off on my thick, corky bark.  They were particularly fond of cottonwood bark for their rubbing just because it has so much texture to it.  They could get a real good scratching  in no time. While things I used to see disappeared, I heard the whistle of that iron horse thing going by several times a day.  It stopped not too far down the creek to reel out some kind of long device that slurped water out of the creek.  I could nearly feel the ripples up my way.

            Not too far east, a whole bunch of my kinfolk took root and created a shady grove where the two legged came to frolic.  I think I heard ‘em say one time, they were picnicking.  Every now and then one of their young ones would climb one of my relation and get stuck up top.  Those two legged younguns could squall like nobody’s business.  I don’t think I ever heard a coyote or a wolf pup make more noise. 

            On occasion I’d feel the scratchy wool of a blue uniform coat leaning against me as its bearer snored like an old bear.  These soldier boys had a fort up the creek a piece, and some of them would wander my way to toss in their fishing line and spend some time thinking about folks back home.  I’d hear them talking to themselves or to each other about whatever possessed them to leave home and come out here where there wasn’t hardly a tree to be found.  I suppose that’s why they were so careful around me since I reminded them of their homes and their loved ones.

            At the same time, I was provided homes to a host of flying critters of the bird and bug types.  I had robins and blue jays and orioles and owls nesting in my branches.  Skittish little squirrels stored their nuts in the soft ground under my branches while the squirrels took up residences in my upper stories.

            The seasons passed time and again, and finally I noticed someone building a farmstead not too far away.  Their younguns would come play in my shade to while away the day.  I was glad I was as big as I was by then for they brought some interesting four leggeds with them.  They looked a bit like my old buffalo buddies, but their coats smooth and shiny, and heaven forbid, some of them had spots.  These critters also like rubbing up against me, but by then I was big enough to handle problems like that.

            My bark was good and thick, corky and very good protection from attacks by insects, animals, and worst of all fire.  Every now and then terrible storms blew in, whipping my poor branches all about.  I felt like I was being torn limb from limb, no pun intended.  These storms could brew up some fierce lightning.  Huge yellow jags ripped from sky to ground, tearing the air and causing a crashing and booming like you have never heard.  Once one got a mite too close and singed me.  I’ve worn the scar down my trunk like a badge of honor ever since.  I’ve seen what that stuff can do to lesser trees.  It will downright annihilate a smaller tree.

            Lightning isn’t the only trouble I have faced.  On occasion the sky opens up and the rain pours down until the creek, which is normally a placid little thing, rises up and rages over its banks.  Man, I have taken a bruising in those storms.  Every tree upstream that gets uprooted floats my way and bashes and bruises into me until it either races on by or gets dumped in a pile at my roots.

            These days, I am just a big old tree.  I am not a pretty as I used to be.  Bugs and winds have torn away a few of my branches, and that darn lightning scar keeps widening like a stretch mark on a pregnant lady.  One of these days I think it will be wider than I am.  But a few folks who know about come by to check up on me and make sure that things are okay.  One crazy lady brings a measuring tape every couple of years to see how I am growing.  I wonder what she’d think if I was to take up measuring her.  I did get even once when she brought her mother along.  I took a nick out of the older gals scalp that required six stitches.  I’ll bet she’ll be more respectful next time she comes to see me.

            Anyway, life is good.  I still have plenty to eat and drink.  I shade the littler trees, and now its my branches each year that are adorned with those dangling, green pearls that let loose a shotgun blast of seeds to find their own way up or down the creek bed.  If one of them is lucky, it will take root as I did and grow into a dandy old tree.

Cosmic Sand Pile

           Remember the joy a great dirt pile or a big sand box provided you as a kid?  As youngsters, my brother and I would spend hours creating our own geography which included mountain ranges, deep valleys, sloping hills, and raging rivers.  All we needed was dirt or sand, a couple of spoons or small garden shovels, and water.

As we grew more sophisticated in our play, we mastered road and bridge building and added our collection of toy cars and trucks and, eventually, army men to the worlds we built.  Without knowing it, we learned a bit about geology. 

With the hose or a bucket of water we could create torrential rain storms which wore down our mountains in no time, leaving our army men exposed on flat plains.  We could create bodies of water that ate away vast canyons equal in scale to the Grand Canyon.  Mud slides became an art--we could take out the other guy’s army, leaving tiny green men and their jeeps buried neck deep in mud.  What power!

Using compression, we generated mountain ranges which complicated the other person’s road and bridge building. By mixing vinegar and baking soda together in a crater atop our mountain we could simulate volcanic activity.  Sixth grade science class opened new doors to our creativity. 

Within our backyard we recreated the universe, and, at the same time, created an everlasting curiosity about geology in both of us.  To this day, the theory of plate tectonics intrigues me. 

What interests me more is the idea that geologists can trace rocks and minerals from our plains to great clefts in the Rocky Mountains.  Yes, some dirt in Kansas is really old, old Colorado dirt.  I suppose that is how trace elements of gold ended up in the Smoky Hill River, leading early speculators to believe Kansas would be the site of the next gold rush.

That brings me to my next wonderment.  We recently traveled to southwest Wyoming and visited Fossil Butte National Monument.  In itself, it looks like a barren chunk of earth rising from a sage brush plain that looks much like parts of western Kansas.  It runs north and south with gentle east-west meanderings for miles along the western Wyoming border.  What makes it special is the fact that it is one of the richest fossil fish sources in the world. 

At one time, this area was part of a great inland sea.  What interests me is that you don’t find the fossil fish at the base of the buttes; you find them toward the top.  This didn’t make sense to me.  Wouldn’t gravity pull all those dead fish down? 

When I inquired about this, the park guide explained that the top of the buttes actually represents what had been the bottom of the sea.  So... what was the bottom of the sea is actually higher than the present surrounding area. Erosion had done astounding work, eating away huge amounts of rock and soil, leaving me to wonder where all that dirt went.

In my mind, I try to imagine a cosmic sand pile.  Even with my greatest imaginary powers, I can’t fathom how that much dirt shifted from one place to another. What kind of force could move so much soil?  Would the United State have been a much taller yet narrower country if that dirt had not washed away?  How long did it take?  Where did it actually go? 

Geologists have the answers to my questions, but I have a lot of fun imagining a huge cosmic sand pile formed by a Creator having a great time.  I know that I certainly enjoyed my turn as creator in my own sand pile.

The Gold Coronado Missed

The search for gold was the compelling reason Spanish conquistador Coronado ventured into what is now Kansas. Every Kansas schoolchild learned early the story of Coronado and his unsuccessful search for the golden cities of Cibola. Ironically, I think he found a gold far more important than the metallic treasure he wished to find. However, he did not recognize the importance of the gold dust he most certainly found coating his boots and leggings as he rode and walked through the tall and short grasses and flowering forbs of Quivira.

     On a recent walk, I noticed a yellow dusting on the ground beneath the waving heads of brome and on the back of my little terrier that recently romped through this field of tall grass.  Upon closer inspection, I saw this golden dust was bright yellow pollen, collected solar energy in plant sperm cells that permits life to flourish.

     While many people think of pollen as trigger for a sneezing fit or the cause of their red, itchy eyes, bees understand that pollen is the essence of life.  Bees spend their entire lives flying from plant to plant, collecting the usually yellow powder on their leg hairs to transport it to their hive where they turn it into honey, their fuel source and our toast accompaniment. Butterflies, in their continual search for nectar, do their share of guaranteeing you and I have fruits and vegetables to eat by carrying pollen from blossom to blossom.  Perhaps most unique among pollinators is the yucca moth and the yucca.  Without one another, these two species would die out.  Only a yucca moth can transport the golden pollen from one yucca plant to another to ensure cycle of the species. That is undeniable treasure.  Without bees and other insects moving from plant to plant transferring tiny grains of pollen to plant pistils, creatures of every kind would miss their fruits, vegetables, grains, and grasses.

     In fact, this issue of successful pollination has been a concern in areas where massive bee die-offs have occurred or where pesticides have destroyed other beneficial pollinators.  Fruit trees and farm fields do not get pollinated, and the crop fails.  Even if we never thought about pollen being more valuable than gold at over $1500.00 an ounce, we do not eat if the pollen is not transferring. That puts a new value on golden pollen for sure.

 Without modern current scientific knowledge, indigenous peoples understood that pollen meant life.  To honor the role this plant dust played in their lives, the Puebloans and Navajo strew pollen as part of their religious practices. Washington Matthews (1902:42) explained the meaning of pollen: "Pollen is the emblem of peace, of happiness, of prosperity, and it is supposed to bring these blessings. When, in the Origin Legend, one of the war gods bids his enemy to put his feet down in pollen he constrains him to peace.

Not only do Navajo people value pollen as a religious symbol.  Based on books I have read by writers such as Leslie Marmon Silko and Frank Waters, Puebloan, Hopi, and Zuni peoples use pollen in some of their spiritual ceremonies.  Visiting after a feast day in Zuni Pueblo, I noticed a trail of ground turquoise and yellow pollen winding through the pueblo. I do not pretend to understand the significance of this practice, but I know I understand what they know.  Pollen is the real gold of life.

     While Coronado roamed through waist high grasses in Eastern Kansas and the shorter grasses of Western Kansas, he missed the real gold. The Seven Cities of Gold were right here all along—he failed to see the golden treasure that ensures existence, pollen.

Outdoor Christmas Greetings

During this season it is exciting to go to the mail box every day to see who sent Christmas cards.  Since I was a little girl, I have loved the annual greetings sent by friends and loved ones.  The clever or sentimental sayings are nice, but the best part after the letter is the picture on the front of the card.  

         

 Peaceful outdoor scenes top everything as far as I am concerned.  Every year I try to find a card with a picture that expresses how I feel about the out-of-doors, but very rarely do I succeed.  In fact, I am often left sending the clever or sentimental verse simply because I cannot find the card with exactly the right picture.  Of course, it would help if the picture could be 3-D and have a sound chip.  If it did, I know exactly how it would look and sound.

Last year’s deer hunt led me into a Christmas card setting.  One afternoon we were hunting in hills overlooking the Saline River.  The previous night windless snow had fallen for hours on end.  As a result, the hills were blanketed in pristine white.  Besides deer, coyotes, and rabbits, nothing else had walked the hills before us, so we were the first to disrupt the beauty, and as long as I didn’t look behind me, everything before me was unspoiled.

Just enough snow frosted the cedars dotting the hillsides to weigh down the branches .  Whenever small birds would light and then fly away, the movement would create a mini-blizzard such as one might see in one of those tiny snow globes.  Many of the little birds had discovered warm hiding places under the trees where noisy gatherings took place.

It was hard walking over the hills to the stand where we would watch for deer, but it seemed enchanted that day.  Ordinary, prickly yucca were disguised as amazing snow sculptures.  Because the snow had drifted so gently, it formed outlandish shapes as it landed on the spiny leaves and center spikes of this normal desert plant. No horticulturist working for Disneyland could have done a better job creating fantasy creatures.

Once we reached our destination, my feet ached from the cold, and I am certain icecicles clung to the edges of my hunter orange face mask.  (Speaking of strange creatures, I am sure my husband and I would have scared the most hardened monster movie fan.)  Disregarding the tingles of cold creeping into my toes, nose, and fingers, I sat where I had clear view of the river valley below.  

The grey winter sky silhouetted the limbs of old cottonwoods and hackberry trees. In front of the trees hugging the river bank, a cut milo field stretched, rust and burnished yellow, acre after acre. A few deer grazed unconcernedly at its end.  If I had been seriously after game, I would have been agitated the deer were so far out of range.  Instead, I enjoyed watching them browse the stubble rows. 

We were sitting midway down the hill next to large cedar.  To some degree, it sheltered us from the slight breeze that made the few falling snowflakes dance lackadaisically about our heads.  The low hanging clouds and the deep blanket of snow, which numbed my behind, also muffled everything around us.  It truly was like being in another world.  I could forget everything needing to be done at home and exist only in this enchanted Christmas card world.  

Despite the muffled sounds, I soon heard something coming from the north.  My husband, not wanting to signal our whereabouts or to break the spell of the moment, pointed in the direction from which the strange squawks and calls came.  As I focused, I realized it was an army of turkeys marching single file to feed in the milo field.  I tried counting them, but it was impossible to keep track of the descending horde.  Shivering despite Gore Tex and multiple layers of long underwear and socks, I was caught in a spell.  I barely realized how cold it was.

After watching the turkeys feed for some time, we saw them resume position in their single file line and march toward their roost, counting cadence all the way.  By this time, another sound edged into my awareness.  This one came from somewhere over my shoulder.  My husband noticed me looking over my shoulder toward the soft whistling, and he whispered in a frosty vapor that it was the “come here” call of the bobwhite quail.  I had heard the bobwhite call many times, but this was the first time I noticed this call. 

The call signaled whatever quail were in the neighborhood that dusk was falling and it was time to gather.  I couldn’t agree more.  It was time to head back to the truck and finally home to  family and toasty kitchen.

 For a brief time, I spent an enchanted afternoon in my own Christmas card.  That memory will warm me for many years to come.  

Chicken Fun

            

           

            I don’t know how we fully enjoyed life before we had chickens.  Morning coffee couldn’t get much better as we watch the mixed flock of Plymouth Rocks, Rhode Island Reds, Buff Orphingtons, and Araucana hens and roosters fresh from the roost. 

They start their morning on the back porch, which I found odd until I got up earlier than they one morning and discovered a porch speckled with lightly toasted June bugs the toads hadn’t eaten. Enjoying cooked food, the hens and their two roosters race first thing for these unusual culinary delights.  After finishing these crunchy snacks, the ladies and their gents head to the back yard, scratching through the cedar duff and the flower bed mulch for additional treats. 

            The girls definitely prefer to do their foraging in the pre-eighty degree temperatures of morning.  By mid-day, all of them find the coolest spot they can under a huge cedar tree by the porch.  I suppose they prefer to rest near the house so they don’t have to worry about predators while under Tucker the watchdog’s careful eye, and, most importantly, they will be close by when I walk out the door with a fresh watermelon or cantaloupe rinds.  They especially love fridge cleaning or old bread tossing days. 

            What begins as restful, settling murmurs and cackles rapidly turns into a squawk fest.  The momma hen, jealously guarding her half grown chick, leads him away from the horde so her baby doesn’t get trampled in the stampede for leftovers.  I try to broadcast the goodies in a wide arc so all chickens get a fair chance, but as in the human world, we have a couple of hens who try to have it all.  They run around grabbing bits of goodies from other chickens’ beaks, but in the end often end up with less than the others got or none at all.

            Once the feast ends, the girls settle themselves back into their beauty rest.  Watching them situate themselves provides its own entertainment.  The hens scratch the powdery dust before gracefully lowering their ungainly bodies into that loose earth.  As they settle, they create miniature dust storms.  Once they’re arranged satisfactorily, the quiet murmuring begins again—a nice counter balance to the drone of locusts.

            Not only do the chickens entertain me with their eating and resting rituals. Some of them have intriguing egg laying habits.  In the corner of our patio, we have a chimenea, which these hens consider an alternative nesting box.  Some hens consider it easier to pop into the round-bellied fireplace to lay an egg than to return to the egg boxes in the chicken house.  The first time I saw my hen settle into the sandy bottomed fireplace, I burst into laughter.  Now it's common place to look there for an egg or so each day.  

One lazy girl laid one in the middle o f the yard the other day.  I guess she chased one bug too many.

            To add to the entertainment, we decided to set one of the hens who wanted to nest rather than buying chicks and placing them under lights in the garage.  Our first experiment got a bit too exciting due to a bull snake invasion.  The momma did her job just fine until a six foot bull snake weaseled his way into her protected nesting area.   The gluttonous reptile swallowed four of her eggs before my husband caught it with the eggs in it. The snake must have frightened the hen enough that she let all but one of the remaining eggs get too cold.  When hatch day arrived, only one tiny chick picked its way out.

            A few weeks ago another hen announced her desire to set on a clutch of eggs by pecking me every afternoon when I went out to gather eggs.  We set her up in the special nesting site, and we’ll know Friday the 13th whether or not we have another lucky momma hen. 

            While the roosters make great alarm clocks each dawn, and the whole flock does a bang-up job reducing grasshopper populations while producing orange-yolked protein products, I most enjoy my chickens because they remind me to settle back and relish the moment.  Who needs tranquilizers when a flock of chickens can calm you down in a flash, make you laugh, and deliver several dozen eggs a week?

           

             

            

Chickadee Return

            The germination of this essay actually began several weeks ago, but my computer died so I had no way to share my thoughts at the time.  Ironically, in the meantime conditions changed, and I have to write a different article now. 

            Initially, I wondered what happened to all the chickadees that used to flock to our winter feeder.  For years, we could count on ten or maybe more black capped fellows swarming the feeder to gobble black oil sunflower seeds and dash from branch to branch as if they knew they were the day’s entertainment.  Suddenly in November of 2004 our chickadees vanished.

My husband and I asked several bird watching friends if they knew what had happened to the happy scavengers who shared our hillside for years, but no one seemed to know.  A few friends mentioned they, too, had noticed a reduction in the chickadee population, but they couldn’t account for their absence.

I got on the Internet to see what I could find out and discovered the 2004 Kansas winter bird count revealed diminished, if not absent, chickadee populations around the state.  I realized this wasn’t just local. Whatever was going on was going on all over the state.  One person in the article hypothesized that West Nile had taken its toll on these charming backyard feeders, but that seemed a bit odd, since we had chickadees at the feeder well into November, long past when mosquitoes would transmit this disease.

While we enjoyed the juncos, nuthatches, cardinals, and periodic visits from gold finches and blue jays, we missed our chickadees’ funny antics at the feeder.  As spring evolved, I longed to hear their cheery songs as they fought and scrapped over mates, territory, and food.  I began to wonder if every chickadee in the land had disappeared.

That was a negative as I discovered when I traveled to Leadville, Colorado, to attend High Mountain Institute in early June.  Chickadees flocked to their feeders and dashed from one evergreen branch to another.  I met a bird watcher from Albuquerque who assured me she saw plenty of these little birds in her backyard.  What a relief to know that one of my favorite birds hadn’t gone the way of the passenger pigeon, but I still wondered what happened to the flocks that once shared my hilltop.

Thanksgiving 2005 came and went without a chickadee sighting, so I had given up on their comeback.  Imagine my surprise on Christmas day when my mother, looking at the feeder, said, “Isn’t that a chickadee?”  I hastily assured her we didn’t have chickadees so she must have mis-identified the bird.  Just to be sure, I glanced at the feeder to realize mom had, indeed, spotted a chickadee.  What an unexpected Christmas present. 

Over the next few days I spotted a lone chickadee dashing in for a bite, and then one day I saw two flitting from branch to branch as they competed with the other birds and squirrels for a chance at dinner.  I don’t know where they’ve been, but I am glad they are back, and they are welcome to invite all their friends and relatives.

Captain Al Barnitz

Captain Albert Barnitz and His Letters and Journals

Following the Civil War, many officers born and raised in the East found themselves serving their country on the Kansas frontier.  One such officer was Captain Albert Barnitz, born in Pennsylvania in 1835 and reared in Ohio.  He studied first at Kenyon College and later continued his education at Cleveland Law College.  While there, he published a book of poetry titled Mystic Delvings.

Barnitz’s road to the Kansas frontier began after the death of his first wife who died in childbirth in 1860. Barnitz soon joined the 13^th Ohio Infantry as a three month volunteer in 1861.  Following that service, he enlisted in the 2^nd Ohio Cavalry as a sergeant.  By 1863, Barnitz achieved senior captain rank.

Following his recovery from severe injuries, Barnitz returned to serve under the command of George A. Custer in the Shenandoah Valley and fought his last battle at Appomattox.  He returned briefly to civilian life, but received a captain’s commission in the U.S. Army in 1866.  The following year he married his second wife Jennie Platt, and they began their Great Plains adventure as well as a series of letters and journals that shed much light on military and social life of that time period.

Barnitz served at several frontier forts, including Leavenworth, Riley, and Harker.  His wife Jennie joined him at several of these postings.  When they weren’t together, they wrote one another regularly. Albert also kept a journal of his experiences over decades.   Fortunately for posterity, they saved these documents.

Through these letters and journals, readers visit the years 1866 – 1869 on the Plains.  Robert Utley collected and edited these into the book Life in Custer’s 7^th Cavalry.  Barnitz and Jennie write about life in the military, life on the prairie, Hancock’s failed expedition, a battle with Indians at Fort Wallace, Camp Alfred Gibbs (near the current town of Ellis, Kansas), and about Jennie surviving a flood at the first Fort Hays.

Comments in Albert and Jennie’s letters reveal personal information about the Custers, Colonel Alfred Gibbs, Major Joel Elliott, Miles Keogh, and other colleagues.  Through this couple’s running commentary, readers see these historical personages as real people with human strengths and frailties.  In addition, readers see the evolution of Barnitz’s attitudes about these individuals and realize Captain Barnitz and Jennie’s opinions weren’t static.  This couple’s correspondence engaged Robert Utley completely as he read through their decades of text.

Their letters reveal Albert and Jennie’s love story, his desire to be a good officer, and his disgust with fellow officers who drank too much or abused their troops.  He provides excellent accounts of wildlife, plants, and weather in this region as well.

Because Barnitz had the observational and writing skills of a poet, he recorded the essence of military life during one of the most critical periods on the frontier to provide a time machine-like glimpse into a vanished era. 

Shopping Wimp Evolves into Marathon Shopper

Shopping Wimp Evolves into Marathon Shopper

My husband is not a shopper.  In fact, he has been known to come home with severe headaches and stomach complaints after a short Christmas shopping trip to the local Mall.  However, after twenty some years of marriage I have learned his shopping induced illnesses are selective. 

I first discovered this fact when we took a short jaunt to Kearney, Nebraska to visit Cabela’s, an outdoorsman’s paradise.  From our previous shopping endeavors I had assumed that we would be in the store just a little while.  After all, this was a man who became ill after ten minutes in the local discount store. 

Well, I was wrong.  I bypassed his offer to stay at the motel with an indoor pool where our young daughters could happily entertain themselves for hours.  I wanted to see what all the hoopla was about.  Besides, I was sure the it would be educational for the girls to see the exotic animals displayed in Cabela’s Kearney store. 

We learn from our errors, and I learned an important lesson that day as I switched a two-year-old from hip to hip after her short little legs pooped out in the first minute in the store.  Our six-year-old was interested in the fish tanks and trophy animals for about thirty minutes, twenty minutes past Mel’s old shopping record.

 At that point I was still holding out and having fun looking at the treasures.  Cabela’s buyers really have assembled an amazing collection of hunting, fishing, and camping supplies all in one spot.

However, cranky two-year-olds-- make that heavy, cranky two-year-olds-- and irritable six-year-olds diminish the luster of the most attractive store display. After a record hour in a store, I kept think my spouse’s looking and wishing was nearly complete.  In reality, he was just beginning.  He didn’t even require a second wind.   Finally, in desperation, I pulled him out of the store to return the girls and me to our motel.  He went back to Cabela’s for another three hours that day and again the next morning as the girls and I slept in.

This should have foreshadowed all our subsequent outdoor shopping adventures.  When we went to the Sidney store.

Similar events occured when we detoured to Bass Pro-Shop in Springfield, Missouri during a short canoeing excursion.  By then, I knew that simply passing through an outdoorshop portals increased his shopping endurance 100 fold.  The man who wilts at a mall was a marathon shopper when the prizes involved lures, deer scent, tree bark camo, belly boats, etc. 

What amazes me more than the increase in his endurance, is his self-restraint.  I know he would love to own much of what he looks at, but many times he exits the store with a few small necessities.  I don’t know how he restrains himself, but thank goodness he does.  Of course, then I have to follow his lead and resist that terrific elk imprint dinnerware for four that I really loved. 

The girls were much older and experienced shoppers themselves.  But good old dad outlasted them by a good two hours and an unaccompanied return trip the next day.  Thank goodness we had relatives to visit while he shopped. 

Similar events occured when we detoured to Bass Pro-Shop in Springfield, Missouri during a short canoeing excursion.  By then, I knew that simply passing through an outdoorshop portals increased his shopping endurance 100 fold.  The man who wilts at a mall was a marathon shopper when the prizes involved lures, deer scent, tree bark camo, belly boats, etc. 

What amazes me more than the increase in his endurance, is his self-restraint.  I know he would love to own much of what he looks at, but many times he exits the store with a few small necessities.  I don’t know how he restrains himself, but thank goodness he does.  Of course, then I have to follow his lead and resist that terrific elk imprint dinnerware for four that I really loved. 

Taking Our Exchange Student to the Shrine of Outdoor America

Outdoor America

Any good outdoors person knows that Cabela’s is a necessary stop on any vacation destination within 200 miles of this famed outdoor shopper’s paradise.  As good outdoors people, my husband and I always squeeze in a shopping expedition on our way to or/and from Wyoming.  We would always wonder what we missed if we drove past that green roofed utopia on I-80.

This year we took a French exchange student used to shopping Paris on our annual pilgrimage to the American outback.  Proud of our country and the beautiful sights within it, we wanted to share Sidney, Nebraska.

As some readers recall, I have shared previously my husband’s ability to morph into a marathon shopper once he crosses a Cabela’s door lintel.  The girls and I tried to prepare Alexandra for this amazing change in her foster father, a man Alexandra had already identified as a non shopper.

Normally a tireless driver, my husband asked me to take the wheel about an hour out of Sidney. This almost always occurs within an hour or so of reaching a Cabela’s store.      

    

It didn’t take him long to rest up for his upcoming adventure, but I didn’t see any reason to stop and switch drivers again.  The closer we got to Sidney the more animated he grew.  Obviously,  he looked forward to this part of the trip.  However, once we crested the hill overlooking the green roof of Cabela’s, all of us sucked in our breath.

The whole time Alexandra had been in Western Kansas, I don’t think she had ever seen a full parking lot.  She was amazed at the wide open space and the sparse population.  She considered her hometown of 25,000 small, so our little town of 1,800 seemed very small. Anyway, as we topped that hill, we realized we had inadvertently arrived on the last day of Cabela’s annual sidewalk sale.

Having gone through the sidewalk sale from beginning to end a few years earlier, we never would have intentionally arrived at such a time. (This is a grown man’s slumber party, Oklahoma land run, and Macy’s after Christmas sale all thrown together.  Serious shoppers arrive a few days ahead of time to set up camp.  They determinedly hold their spots in line so they will have a head start when the Cabela’s staff opens the gate allowing them to madly dash up and down narrow aisles filled with 8 foot tall shelves jam packed with bargains.)

 Considering that my husband avoids crowded shopping malls like some people avoid grizzly bear encounters, he astounded us when he set up camp and got in line for the early morning rush four years ago.  After returning from his overnight camp out looking battle-scarred and exhausted, he told war stories about his experience.

So upon seeing the giant white tents, the parking lots full of campers, trucks, and cars from every state in the nation and Canada, we knew we faced a challenge, the least of which was finding a parking place.  Every female in the car urgently needed to go to the bathroom, so we nearly cried thinking about how long we might have to wait to find a parking place.

The gods must have been smiling because I made only two passes through the parking lots before finding a space right in front of the store.  As I pulled in, my husband exited.  He leapt out, heading for the nearest tent, as I put the car in park. Not even four women with bursting bladders would beat him that day.

Our challenge had just begun.  Like all crowd situations, the men’s restroom had no line. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about the women’s restroom.  We stood for twenty minutes before we got into the bathroom.  Alexandra could not believe that many people came to a sale in a sporting goods store despite our explanations this wasn’t any sporting good store.  This was the ultimate experience in outdoor shopping. 

As I stood in line for the restroom, I had a blast watching the people race from one department to another looking for bargains inside the store.  One couple raced from shelf to shelf, piling their arms full of clothing, fishing gear, and camping supplies.  They could not possibly have had time to comparison shop or check sizes.

One man dashed through the line waiting for the women’s restroom so distracted that he walked into the ladies’ room instead of the mens’.  I can guarantee you he soon knew of his error. The entire crowd of hostile women set him on the path to the door with no line.

Upon finding relief, the girls and I set off on our shopping frenzy.  After all, this was a sale!  Following a sign indicating great bargains were upstairs, I headed toward treasures I could proudly show my other half when we met again. I soon discovered Cabela’s defines sales differently than I.  The first rack I saw was labeled “Outstanding Bargains!”  Imagine my surprise when I realized the outstanding bargain was a measly 20 percent off.  These folks don’t know the meaning of sale.

Disappointed, I comforted myself with a cookie and a coffee and found my girls who had made the same discovery.  Alexandra, our exchange student, could not understand any of this insanity.

Periodically, we saw our husband and dad dash by, and all four of us sighed with relief at the sight of his empty arms. After seeing other shoppers with arms full of merchandise, we wondered how we would fit his bargains into our already crowded vehicle.  Which girl would have to hold what for the rest of our trip?  Imagine our relief when he left the store with a bag small enough to fit under the front seat.

After tucking his treasures safely under the seat, he turned to Alexandra, pounding the steering wheel like a Bible thumping preacher and pointing at the crowded parking lot and store, stating, “Now, this is America! This is where outdoor America shops, Alexandra! ” 

Surprise Green in Fall

Following the hot, dry months of August and September, I looked forward to cool autumn nights. Because of the drought, I did not expect to see much autumn leaf color. In fact, it would not have surprised me to wake up one September morning to find all the tree leaves, brown and crisp, lying on the ground.

            Instead, nature pleasantly surprised me.  As the season moved from summer to fall, the cottonwoods and ash tree leaves turned bright gold.  The locust leaves assumed a rusty shade while elms and hackberry trees along the creek turned shades of brown I expected of all the leaves.  For a few days in the first two weeks of October, the trees along Big Creek presented a brilliant and unexpected show of color. 

By mid-October, the colors peaked, and I savored every remaining moment the leaves remained on the trees.  It would be only a matter of time before the leaf drop began.  One mid-October school morning, I left the house to go to work and noticed golden and russet leaves carpeting the patio and driveway.

As I drove into town, I noted the growing piles of leaves at the base of each tree.  I also watched gold leaves falling and catching invisible air currents on their way down.  The denuding had begun, and soon stark limbs would point skyward as the dead leaves began their job of renewing the earth. 

Fortunately, a few warm Indian summer days extended the time gold still hung precariously from ever more visible branches. Eventually a cold front blew in, and its winds blew the remaining leaves down, creating golden blizzards.  As the front blew the last leaves from their limbs, it brought welcome rain.  Although I regretted the winds blowing the leaves down, I enjoyed the rain drumming on the roof and plinking against the windows.

What I did not expect was a rebirth in my yard.  The trees know that autumn is here and winter lingers just around the corner, but the grass that went dormant during the dry days of August must be confused right now.  The lawn is greening up, and my flowerbeds, which I cleaned up a few weeks ago, are sprouting seedlings.

How strange to look out the front window to see bare trees ready for the long winter ahead, and then look at the lawn and observe the faint hue of spring green emerging.   My flowerpot has a revived petunia braving the cool nights and a thirst quenched mum blooming again.

This unseasonal greening of the grass heightens my awareness of the miracle of the prairie.  Though the weather, grazing, or fire may dictate what grows above ground, the true miracle lies beneath the surface of the soil. The root system lying beneath the ground can survive drought, fire, overgrazing, and any number of other assaults and still return when conditions are right. 

            I am reminded there is more to this prairie than what I see.  It is a complex system capable of surviving situations that destroy hybrid seeds and plants.  With our help, and very little of that, the prairie will renew itself time after time, just as the leaves on the trees will unfold spring after spring and tumble back to the earth autumn after autumn. 

Buffalo Grass Miracle

Weather in Kansas can leave a person a little schizophrenic.  If it confuses me, what does it do to the plants and animals that live under the elements all the time?  I know it is making the buffalo grass behave abnormally right now.

My husband has always been a believer in planting natural prairie grasses, buffalo to be specific.  His theory is that it takes care of itself and a little drought or stress will not kill it.  Of course, he is right.  It took me a number of years to concede, but now I will say loud and clear, he is right! 

Since we first got married, he has advocated low water use grass and trees.  The only plants he ever willingly splurged on, in terms of water, were a few tomato plants, and he insisted that we water them directly so not a drop was wasted. 

In contrast, I grew up in a family that planted lush, green grasses that required regular watering.  Leaving those lawns to fend for themselves was a death sentence.  Although it took a while to get used to the fact that by late summer, my lawn will take on a stressed straw look, I now understand my husband’s reasoning.

In fact, we now begin to look forward to those hot days when the grass growth slows down, and we do not have to mow so often.  By the time I returned from Fargo (where they grow beautiful cool grass lawns) in mid August, I crunched across our buffalo grass carpet.  The flowerbeds still bloomed due to regular waterings, but the grass had gone dormant.  Even the weeds had shriveled into themselves and given up trying to grow.

After weeks of searing hot days, the flowers joined the grass and weeds, and I gave up on our growing season.  I could not water fast enough or long enough to salvage the greenery around the house. Everything, including me, suffered a wilted, stressed look.

Now here is the schizophrenic part.  The rain began a few weeks ago, and the thirsty earth soaked up the water so quickly, no puddles formed in the drive.  I can usually tell by the size of the puddles how much rain fell, but in this case the pores between the dirt molecules absorbed every drop like a sponge. 

Within a few days of the second big rain, which did leave a few puddles standing, I noticed something odd.  A few weed seeds unfurled tiny green leaves and began an inspired skyward reach.  Then I noticed the lawn looking a little green too.  Impossible.  Buffalo grass would not reemerge just before winter, would it?

I did not want to mention this to my husband for fear he would think I had suffered some kind of  delayed heat stroke. Then when a ranching friend mentioned his buffalo grass pastures showed hints of green, I casually mentioned our yard looked a bit greener also.  Sure enough, the soaking and the warm days had confused this prairie staple into trying one last growthspurt. 

Cold nights and shorter days will take care of this little breath of spring that interrupted a beautiful autumn.  However, I am reminded at how resilient this prairie is.  Buffalo grass survives fire, overgrazing, drought, heat, and other stressors.  The root system underground is more extensive than what we see growing above ground. 

It will not hurt more of us to make the switch to native grasses and plants in our yards.  After all, a number of grasses and plants grow easily and attractively on the prairie.  In fact, a Web site I recently visited advocated planting a wildflower/buffalo grass meadow in place of a cultivated lawn and garden.  Like anything natural or organic, they wanted a premium price to plant one for me.  It is nice to know we are ahead of the game with our native grass and wildflower lawn.  A little surprise green in the fall is a nice bonus. 

Brown Creeper

            The months after Christmas until mid-to late March are the most difficult of the year to bear in my opinion.  Spring and summer have always warmed my heart as well as my back as I bend over tomato plants in the garden or flowers in the flower bed. Over time, I have learned to love fall with all its color and autumnal symphonies even though I know what comes next.  But winter—I struggle with.  It takes effort to celebrate these long, colorless days.

            That is until a couple of weeks ago.  While gazing at our dusty, forlorn yard, wondering how it will survive continued drouth, a small brown creature, looking a great deal like a moving piece of bark began to circumnavigate our elm tree.  It started at the bottom and moved corkscrew-like up the tree to the suet basket where it made a stop to noodle at the fatty, seed-laden glob.  Then it continued its upward spiral.

            At first, I thought our newcomer was a wren, but it didn’t fly like a wren, and it would be here a bit—make that a lot—early to be a wren.  It was small and colored much like a wren, but I have never seen a wren maneuver around a tree the way this little guy did, picking delicately with its little down-curved bill into crevices in the bark.

            I called in reinforcements, my husband that is, and we made a dash for the bird book and the binoculars.  I don’t do so well with binocs, so I got the job of scanning pages in the bird book while my other half noted its long prop-like tail, mottled wing feathers, and unique bobbing flight, much like a woodpecker’s.

            After eliminating all possible wrens, we finally found our fellow on the same page with the nuthatches.  That fit as it shared the tree with several nuthatches throughout the morning.  He would circle around, poking into nooks and crannies in the bark, snacking on a bit of suet, and then bobbing beyond our sight.  Certhia americana, otherwise known as a brown creeper, was our visitor.

            According to my bird book, this newcomer is a “common but inconspicuous small woodland bird.” According to a site I found on the internet, one writer stated, ‘"His head," he says, "which is as the sentient handle to a very delicate instrument, is moved with such science, such dentistry, that one feels and appreciates each turn of it."’ The article itself fascinated me as the author published his work in 1948 in a Smithsonian Museum publication.  Apparently, the brown creeper’s charm lay in the fact it isn’t often seen, and its movements are so artful one can’t help falling under its spell.

            For the past two weeks, we have made certain (not that any regular visitors have done without) that we have suet in the suet basket, even making an emergency stop in Hays when I realized I bought a seed block instead of suet for the suet station.  Our little visitor has rewarded us with frequent returns to the old elm.

            While the trees still stand leafless, the yard dry and dusty, and only a trickle of water runs in the creekbed, my days have brightened.  I look forward to seeing the brown creeper sharing the tree with hordes of nuthatches, juncoes, flickers, woodpeckers, and a growing flock of chickadees.  Little things and little birds do make a difference.

            

A Bridge Story or True Love

            I recently read something called a bridge story, a story designed to tie together two larger, more dynamic pieces of writing.  After that reading, the writer challenged me to write a bridge story—a challenge I have considered every day since I finished reading his story, unashamedly letting tears trace my cheeks and fall on his dining room table in response to his memory woven one well-chosen word at a time into a story that made my soul ache to read more. 

            Not many writers have the gift, the talent, or whatever it is that allows them to reveal life’s truths while telling what seems like an entirely different story.  It is only when the tale is over that the reader sorts through feelings that have rearranged themselves somewhere deep inside him or herself and discovers that he or she sees life a bit differently. Writers like Karen Blixen, Norman Maclean, and John Steinbeck generate these cosmic shifts in which shadows beneath trees appear a shade darker or lighter than they were before the story.  The trill of a bird or the humming of insects resonates at a different pitch than one noticed before.

Everything is different, yet everything is the same.  This writer that talked to me of bridge stories, that let me range about among his memories for a few short days, this writer left a partially constructed bridge that I am still figuring how to cross.

            We, my husband and I, went, we thought, to help with summer haying along a Montana river, at the foot of the Bob Marshall Wilderness.  The company we joined, the cooler climate, and the locale was enough to justify the long drive from western Kansas.  But as we drove from the busy highway to through a barely visible gate into an old growth forest of towering ponderosa pines, I knew I had crossed a bridge from one world into another. 

            When I stepped out the car to stretch travel weary bones, I noted the knee-high timothy and orchard grasses ticking at my calves.  Directly under the ancient trees, the grass barely grew, but everywhere that sunlight could snake and worm its way to earth, the grasses grew lush.  I noted five buildings, five log buildings dotting the meadow where we parked.  A large log two-story log cabin nudged itself into the base of a hill that would have gently melded into the meadow without the cabin’s presence.  A huge pole barn and ancient corral leaned and tilted to the south and west of the big cabin.  Directly west of the larger building stood three good-sized log structures, one with an inviting front porch.

            Through the next few days, I learned that not only could the writer write, he could build log cabins, barns, and corrals, including hand cut shake shingles.  Examining his handiwork, I saw love in every notched corner.  He had built this world in a place he loved for a woman he loved.  The south exposure front porch flanked by a sturdy lilac bush and huge pine was a gift to a woman who needed a tangible hope of the coming spring and summer in the meadow outside her big windows.  Even though she’s been gone a while, I sensed her presence as I gazed out at her and his spread, at her lilac bush, at bird feeders filled with hummers and chickadees and intrusive squirrels, at his corral where she watched him return after packing into the Bob Marshall. 

            Though the guns, photos, and books belonging to the old man line the walls of the house, her presence lingers, a bridge to a happier past.  Old tunes from the war years reverberate morning through night from a tape player sitting incongruously atop an old wood stove, a stove you know still burns hot on a winter morning. A stove you know the old man could teach you to stoke and bake a loaf of crusty bread in.  A stove that would warm a belly as well as a room.  Now sultry lounge singers croon love songs across the years, bridging past to present in an old cabin in an ancient meadow far from civilization and fancy dance halls.

            The old man never misses a beat of the music and notes the intricacies of the music and the voices themselves, marking that the singers used their voices as a well-trained musician would play an instrument.  I imagine cold nights by the wood stove with the two of them serenaded by voices from the past.  It is a cozy and comfortable imagining.  I wonder if they danced as they watched the snow falling and filling their meadow with a winter that seemed like it would never end.

           

            

What I Have Learned Living With a Bow Hunter

I grew up in a household that enjoyed hunting.  Every year my father made the annual pheasant pilgrimage back home to Kansas.  He also spent time hunting javelina and an occasional deer, but he was a rifle hunter.  The only kind of bow and arrow that we ever encountered was the colorful plastic variety one could find at the local dime store counter.  Yes, remember those. They had that great little rubber dealy that if you spit in it before you shot it, it would stick to any hard plastic item for days.  That was the sum total of my experience with bows and arrows.

Once I embarked upon married life, I discovered there was a hunting world that did not involve rifles, shotguns, cartridges, shells, or any kind of powder.  This world involved compound bows, arrows with razor sharp blades, skunk scent, deer scent, camouflage everything, unscented soap, and intricate devices to help the archer sight in on game.  The list of items a bow hunter requires for his or her craft is probably longer than any six-year-old’s Christmas list.  And, it is more fascinating to read.

In fact, like most young, poor newlyweds, we did not have all many belongings--or so I thought.  I had not seen my new husband’s hunting supplies.  It did not take long for me to realize he needed the whole spare bedroom in our cozy little house (read--very small house) for his hunting “stuff.”  And the whole back porch.  And the shed out back.  Bow hunters have a lot of “stuff.”

In time, I became familiar with his bow-hunter jargon, but the one thing I could never understand is why someone would be so picky about the laundry soap and bath soap he used when all he was going to do was sprinkle a little skunk scent on himself anyway.  In short time, I learned to check his pockets before I washed his clothes.  It only took one teensy leak from one of those little squirt bottles of stinky stuff before I knew I did not want that stuff leaking in my wash machine or anywhere else every again.

Over the years, my hunter has sworn off the skunk scent--thank goodness.   It got to be hard to greet him enthusiastically when he returned home from his deer stand.  However, he still has some of the oddest items lying about his “spare room.”  I’ll find a pair of antlers joined by a leather strap.  He uses these to rattle in a deer during the rut.  In addition, he has some really strange little item attached to his bowstring that looks like a mutant spider.  According to him, it is suppose to quiet the twang when he shoots. 

Now that we live in the country, he has spread out his stuff into the countryside. Last spring he began building what he called the mother of all targets.  And it is!  Not only does he mow our yard.  Now he mows a clear pathway to the target so there is no interference with his sighting process. He can shoot straight on from the ground, or he can climb into his strategically placed tree stand (read attached to a utility pole) to practice shooting from heights.

In the beginning, I thought he was going to a lot of work for a deer, but over the years, I have learned he gets to see more, hear more, know more than most rifle hunters. Many years, he doesn’t even get a deer, but he comes home with the best stories.

 One year, he watched two large bucks battle until their antlers locked, and one flipped the other over its back Ninja fashion.  As he told this story, I envisioned Outdoor Life buying roles of film of this event. Of course, he didn’t have a camera with him in the tree.  He has skunk stories and coyote stories as well as deer stories from his tree-top vantage.

Over the years, I have learned the point of his hunt is that it is more than bringing game home.  For him and other hunters like him, time in the woods, observing animals in their habitat is the best part of the hunt.  

     Even though I still rifle hunt when I do hunt, I take advantage of his experience, (No, not the skunk scent) and I sit under his tree stand as I wait for my deer to come by.  Does this mean I do a lot of sitting and shivering? Yep, it does. Do I get just a little insight of why he loves to get up in the dark, frozen hours of the morning to climb into his tree stand?  Do I understand why he never complains about not bringing home a deer? 

You bet.

Blooming Turkeys

Outback Steakhouse may advertise blooming onions, but I have blooming turkeys in a green field north of my house.  Like a rose going from a tight bud to full summer bloom, those big ol’ gobblers put on a show. Puffing their feathers and spreading their fan-shape tails into a full blown sail, they strut and rattle.  All this action occurs to woo nearby hens that coyly scan the area for insects and greens.

Spring turkey watching is always a treat for nature lovers, but this year it is spectacular.  Timely rains and Jekyll and Hyde temperatures combined to create a dense, green back drop for this year’s turkey extravaganza.  Wheat and alfalfa that just a few months ago appeared anemic and scraggly soaked up an all-day, gentle rain, turning it into a lush, velvety backdrop for those show-off toms.  Brilliant emerald fields highlight iridescent feathers of toms and hens to dazzle turkey watchers willing to find turkeys to watch.

Four mature long beards star in the pageant below our house.  A number of jakes or young male turkeys wander outside the inner circle of strutting toms, snagging a bite here and there while keeping an eye on the show.  My guess is that they are studying the dance steps so they know what to do next spring.

The hens, in my opinion, are most entertaining of all.  While the males fluff, preen, and strut, the ladies appear focused on dining.  Often their heads are to the ground as they seek some tasty snack. How can they stand so close to all those fluffed feathers, red wattles and blue faces, hearing that rattling sound toms make as they strut in choreographed steps, and not notice? 

As intent as they appear on anything but the toms, you would think they were totally unaware of their suitors’ energetic presentations.   If I didn’t see gangly turkey poults awkwardly following their mothers through fields and down roads in early June, I would guess the guys’ efforts were in vain.

While turkeys will always look like lumbering, big-bellied cargo planes as they fly to their evening roost, their spring dance has an unarguable elegance.  On the ground in full strut, the male turkey puts on a show worthy of Las Vegas headlines. When that show happens with rain-fueled Mother Nature’s greenery as a backdrop, it is even more dazzling.

It’s worth a morning drive along western Kansas roads and highways bordered by wheat fields and alfalfa patches to see this spring gala. Take any highway or country path and keep your eyes open and your camera ready.  Blooming turkeys will delight you.

Blitzkrieg on the Banks of Big Creek

The London Blitz involved nine months of German bomber induced devastation that drove Londoners to live in a state of constant alertness and awareness of where the nearest bomb shelter was.   While the banks of Big Creek aren’t faced with the drone of mechanical motors and sounds of carpet bombs exploding one right after another, we are faced with a dive bombing hawk intent on scoring a fresh chicken dinner.

As a result of these military-like forays, this bird of prey has forced my six hens and one rooster into a life of constant attention and awareness quite unlike anything they have experienced before.  Typically, these contented free-range fowl wander as carefree as chickens can over acres of grassland searching out tasty grasshoppers and other insects that go in the beaks as bugs and emerge from the other end as rich, yellow-yolked eggs. 

Since my flock came to this particularly relentless hawk’s attention, my formerly free- rangeing cluckers now hover in the shadows of  lilac bushes or  tree rows around the place.  When they hear the red tail’s distinctive high pitched “scree scree” or see his shadow leading the way on the ground, their contented clucks and cackles become strident squawks as they begin running for cover.

 Even without stress, chickens don’t run gracefully—think miniature feathered and billed Tyrannosaurus Rexes lumbering frantically to safety.  Awkward is the only way I can describe this agitated movement.  I do have to give the rooster some credit.  After sounding a roosterish alarm, he stays back like a good commanding officer to make sure his harem makes it to safety before he joins his girls.

The other morning our little camouflage terrier and I were taking advantage of the morning’s cool temps to water the garden and flower and herb beds.  Intent on watering, I barely noticed when Buster, our feisty watch dog, leapt up and raced barking toward alarmed and noisy chickens about twelve feet away.  

Immediately jumping to the wrong conclusion, I thought he was chasing a chicken.  I began scolding and calling him back when I saw the red tail swoop down to snag a young white hen with its outstretched talons. 

Buster knew his duty.  Ignoring his inattentive mistress, he continued to bark and jump at the tail feathers of the invader. Inspired by his bravery and wanting to keep dog and chickens safe, I turned the hose into a water cannon and began spraying the whole noisy group.

The little hen dashed desperately into the lilacs away from the distracted invader, Buster sounded like Patton giving the Germans heck until the hawk realized he was defeated, regrouped and rose back into a blue Kansas sky.

The war isn’t over yet.  I have to shoo the hawk away every day when he buzz bombs the yard.  The chickens live a restricted life as a form of self-preservation, and Buster, the watchdog, scans the skies like an air raid warden waiting for the next assault.  I hope that hawk will soon realize he’s defeated and head for new territories to terrorize.

Finding God's Sanctuary

            Ideas for columns come to me in the strangest places and at the strangest times.  Last Sunday, the flash hit as I listened to the minister’s sermon.  She began it with a story about a little boy who loved to wander in the woods.  He did this so often, and the woods were so dark and deep that his father became worried and suggested the boy find other places to spend his time.  Then the father asked his son why he liked to wander through the woods for hours on end.  The little boy answered, saying he felt closer to God in the woods.   After a pause, his father answered that God could be close to people anywhere. Thoughtfully, the son responded, “But, I am not …”

            This short story added fuel to an intellectual fire that simmers just at the edge of my consciousness most of the time.  What is it about nature that strengthens our spirit? One nature writer after another from Thoreau to Stegner suggests in some fashion that we must protect that which is wild, for through this wildness our spirits are strengthened.

            As the minister continued her sermon, she really hit home.  She suggested that in the quiet of nature we can finally hear some of the messages intended for us.  I know this is true for me.  Without nature’s silence, or perhaps it is stillness, I would miss much of life.  

            Things at work or at home can get crazy with details needing attention:  phone calls to make, papers to grade, bills to pay, shopping to finish, meals to prepare, laundry to wash.  The list goes on and on, and it would be easy to say I am too busy to stop and enjoy a sunset or too rushed to stop even for an instant to watch the sun rise.  I could easily ignore the grace of a soaring hawk or the antics of rabbits playing some form of animal tag in the pasture, or the crazy squirrels racing after one another in the cedars and cottonwood trees. 

            After I take an instant to stop and gaze at whatever caught my eye, I feel refreshed.  Sometimes, I have to say or think, wow, how awesome!  And I mean it in the true sense, not the clichéd sense.  Sometimes I just laugh because whatever the creatures are doing as part of their day tickles my funny bone.  On occasion, I am privilege to experience the sacred—an instant in which heaven and earth come together briefly but very powerfully. 

Missing these instances would not ruin my day, but making time to enjoy them improves any day and enhances a bad day immeasurably.  Stopping to pay attention to the beauty surrounding me reminds me that each moment is a gift, and we are intended to enjoy our gifts.  Sometimes I am like a little child with too many presents at Christmas who needs to stop opening presents and take time to enjoy the one in her hand.

Our world is like that.  Information, to-do lists, bells, buzzers, rings and sirens assail us from all sides.  A walk in the woods is exactly what I need to clear the noise from not only my head, but also my system.  I need to hear only the crunching of my feet on leaves and twigs.  I need to listen to the birds as they flit from branch to branch. I need to feel the rhythm of the grass, the sky, the earth, the water.  Soon my heart stills, my breath slows, and I am ready to listen. 

Like that little boy, I feel closer to God when I am out of doors.  I am pretty sure it has a great deal to do with my ability to listen in that environment. It is no wonder I figure out some of my toughest problems after walks along the creek or over the prairie.  I think this is what I relate to when other writers talk about nature strengthening the spirit.  I guess I am a lot like that little boy.