Ellis, Kansas—Nicodemus Settlers' Introduction to The Promised Land

                                             Re-enactment of 1st migration to Nicodemus
                                              performed in front of Ellis Depot 10/6/2012

In September of 1877, a group of former slaves, many from Vice-President Richard M. Johnson’s Kentucky plantation, traveled by train to Ellis, Kansas. Land speculator W.R. Hill, Hill City’s namesake, along with five black men, including Reverend Morris Bell, created the Nicodemus Township Company to attract these brave souls to western Kansas.

After paying $5.00 to join the town company and buying train tickets, this first group of Kentuckians and their luggage pulled away from the Sadieville, Kentucky Depot.  Each of these resilient pioneers left behind family, memories, and a familiar landscape to come to the prairies of Kansas, their promised land.

Following their journey, the immigrants arrived in Ellis, where W.R. Hill met them.  They exited the train at the small, wooden depot and viewed a dusty main street and the not so distant train yard.  Probably they heard cattle that had traveled the Western Trail lowing in the stockyards west of the depot. What they didn’t see were the trees and dense greenery of their recent home.

Hill provided wagons to carry their belongings across the undeveloped grasslands to Nicodemus. Each family loaded their goods and followed horse-drawn drays out of town to their first resting place at Happy Hollow, just north of what locals call the Irion Hills. This was their introduction to two days of walking across the plains to their new place of residence.

This step-by-step familiarization with their new existence must have stunned folks who had grown up among forests and verdant fields of tobacco.  Even the dry air inhaled differently than the humid air of their Southern origin. The birds were different, the flowers were different, and the buffalo grass was different.  This was a brave new world to these hardy people.

Unfamiliar to these newcomers, the route they traveled north to their homes began what locals eventually titled the Ellis-Nicodemus Trail.  For the next few years, this critical trade route between the two communities enabled Nicodemus to grow and thrive.

Farmers in Nicodemus would bring broomcorn, produce, and grain to trade for necessities at businesses such as Tom Daly’s store in Ellis’s well-developed business district.  Nicodemus did not have a blacksmith until 1879 so those needing such services traveled the 35 miles to Ellis to utilize the local smithy. Ellis had some of the nearest medical services for those in need. Finally, Ellis’s railroad was essential connection for delivery of necessary supplies and mail to Nicodemus consumers.

Today, Nicodemus, “the oldest and only remaining Black Town west of the Mississippi River” is a designated National Historic Site with the U.S. Park Service.  Each year Nicodemus descendants gather to celebrate Homecoming at the end of July and Pioneer Days in early October. 

Moms Are Moms No Matter the Species

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            

The Women's Grinding Rock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Many Critters Are Under That Tree?

All eyes in the stands focused on a bright yellow Volkswagen parked in the center of the Big top.  Both doors opened simultaneously, allowing two clowns wearing towering top hats and oversized, floppy shoes  to step into the spotlight.  Then two more clowns in bright, outsized  attire squeezed out, and then two more and two more and two more  like an out of control tube of toothpaste until there were 12 clowns crowding around that little  VW.  If those weren’t enough to dazzle the crowd, two more popped out. 

According to the internet, the actual record for clowns packed in an original Volkswagen is 17.  The circus I attended only had 14.  That feat generated a five minute round of applause and loud whistles that sent one little girl home wondering how 14 clowns packed themselves into that itty-bitty car.

I haven’t been so amazed by such an accomplishment until this summer.  Because of scorching heat, cattle and wildlife were desperate  for shade.  I marveled at how many large cows and little calves could pack themselves under a tiny cedar tree in the east pasture.  Several good sized cedars punctuate that plot, driving the herd  to divide into smaller groups to ooze into every inch of cool shadow thrown by those young trees.  The only things missing from the clown show I loved were floppy shoes and stove pipe hats.

It wasn’t only cattle seeking a cool place under a tree or next to a shed.  When we drove through Wyoming in late June, it was very warm.  We saw antelope lining up  single -file to rest in the lone shadow cast by a power pole.  Other practical pronghorns gathered near snow fences, maximizing those slender strips of shade.

We passed by one sun-drenched homestead where a  wobbly, old barn cast a dark silhouette.  A mule deer sporting a trophy rack crowded its massive body into anorexic dimness.  He had to turn his head sideways and rest his antlers against the rickety building to cool himself.  He probably would have gladly traded that magnificent crown for something much smaller to achieve a more comfortable position.

Back home, my chickens scratched out holes under the skinniest of branches.  Because these birds needed to let a breeze pass, they struggled to stay in these dim hideouts.  I watched them tuck themselves into the tiniest form possible while still extending their wings to capture passing drafts.

A juvenile squirrel braved proximity  to the house  and dogs so he could flatten his body into mud beneath the bird bath.  I’d watch the little guy panting in that tiny ribbon of relief and want to invite him into the air-conditioned house. 

The dilemma was that if I invited him in, I’d have to invite those panting cows and miserable deer.  Then the question would become, “How many critters would fit into my house?”  I didn’t want to find out.

Drunk Dogs and Wasps

When I first met my husband, a field-trained black lab owned him.  Rebel was one an intelligent beast with a once in a lifetime personality. The retriever and  man enjoyed a rustic bachelorhood  at Meade  State Fish Hatchery.  Dog and owner led an idyllic life hunting, fishing, and working fishponds set far from town and people.

Once Rebel decided I was an asset to his meal schedule and ability to lounge on the couch, this big, black dog made room in his Labrador heart for another human.  When our jobs changed and we transferred from the lake to Ellis, Rebel accepted another difficult adjustment to a previously perfect life.   He traded working  fishponds for retrieving evening papers and supervising a garden.

While he missed the freedom of roaming fish hatchery grounds  where he could roust game birds and help my husband feed and move fish, Rebel discovered  new delights.  We had a mulberry tree, a pear tree, and two apple trees.   You  ask, “Why would fruit trees be a bonus in a retriever’s life?”

This particular lab loved mulberries, pears, and apples—especially if they had dropped to the ground and fermented for a few days.  Yes, our lab was a lush during a fruit drop.

I’d  find him sleeping soundly amidst mounds of fallen mulberries.  His distended belly rising and falling  rhythmically as he breathed.  I laughed to see dark purple mulberry stains  circling his muzzle after one of his binges.  When he awoke from his snooze, he looked at me with unfocused eyes and wobbled as he rose to greet me.  A perpetually happy dog, these fruit indulgences didn't alter his loving personality.   

In early fall, if I called and Rebel didn’t come running, I knew I’d find him,  head on paws,  sleeping off a toot under our pear and apple trees.  Fermented fruit scent permeated the air surrounding this tiny orchard.  Low flying, inebriated wasps  fed on yeasty pulp or circled  above  over-ripe yellow and red orbs and Rebel.  To my surprise, these relaxed insects never stung me as I collected fruit they crawled upon. Their tranquility explained my dog's relaxed state. 

Certain  I didn’t want to encourage dipsomania in  our beloved pet, I found myself racing him to fallen fruit when I got home from school.  He’d give me  a hang-dog look that nearly broke my heart as I tossed his beloved apples and pears in a bucket.  We’d taken him from the freedom of the fish hatchery and moved him to town, and now I was depriving him of the one pleasure he’d found that made city life worthwhile.

Rebel has been gone for decades, and we moved long ago from that house surrounded by the pear and apple trees.  Despite passing time, the dog days of August and slow moving wasps remind me of that black dog that made room in his heart for a new member of the family and relocation to a neighborhood with paved streets.