Another Checkmark off the Bucket List

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dodge Those Purple Splotch Bombs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heroes of the Pasture: Dung Beetles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How’d an Egg Get in the Water Pan?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fawn Nurseries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May Day: Adapting Customs to the Weather

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stitching Lives Together at Cottonwood Ranch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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