Pickin’ Potato Bugs ‘n Livin’ the Dream

Deep in every woman’s heart, no matter how practical she is, lives a die-hard romantic. That’s the reason commercials promote products displayed against a field of wind-blown wildflowers, stunning sunsets, or white sand beaches bordered by intensely blue waters. All the while, a simple but sweet tune plays behind the scenes if it’s a TV ad. These commercials aren’t designed for men. Trust me.

After the early dating years, much of the romance that attracts lovers in the first place gets lost in daily survival. It’s hard to set a candlelit table for two when a ball game begins at 6 p.m. or cattle need fed before the winter sun sets. It’s difficult to maintain that passionate gaze that connected you and your sweetie back in your courting days while a toddler and infant throw their evening hissy. As a couple adds anniversaries, a few special occasions have to make up for a lot of get-through-the-day-chaos.

Despite messy, unpredictable reality, the essence of the sweet young thing who wanted Prince Charming to swoop her away on his white charger keeps fanning her ancient dream. Why else would so many women keep romance novelists busy writing and selling books enough to fill jillions of library shelves? Why else would Hallmark devote an entire channel to happy-ever-after endings? 

Folks, mostly female, reading those novels and watching those programs are typically between the ages of 30 and 54. According to one source, the Hallmark Channel’s family friendly programming was listed number 1 with 96% audience retention. Those viewers are loyal too.

So what’s a long-married guy have to do to add sizzle to his true love’s life? According to my husband, he should invite her potato bug picking. He’d tell you timing was important because both dusk and dawn add that special ambience. If you make it a contest, that really spices up your together time.

I guess it must work because we met in the garden the other evening for a round of insect collecting. I wasn’t familiar with the nymph stage of these hungry critters so he graciously showed me several of the little orange and black squishy bugs before the competition began.

Once I understood what to look for, we each took a section of potato plants and began searching. Remembering that I appreciate chivalry, he was ever the gentleman and let me have the area with the most obvious snacking creatures. While those were easy pickin’, I quickly learned to scan the undersides of leaves to increase my chance of winning.

He already knew this species is particularly fond of hidden regions of potato plant anatomy and had significantly more bugs in his jar. Seeing his half-full container inspired me to double my efforts. I swished potato plants so wildly that the objects of my hunt tumbled from their dinner table to the ground below. 

The extra time I spent searching for lost prizes gave my darling more time to increase his Kerr jar’s contents. Soon, I had to admit I’d lost the game. 

While that might have upset a more competitive woman, I looked up to see the moon rising against the fading blue eastern sky. Evening’s cooling breeze blew my hair away from my face and riffled through the oat field behind the garden, making rolling waves. Birds flitted past, adding their simple but sweet songs to our evening. While standing knee high in potato plants, I realized I was living the dream those advertisements promote with the best fella a girl could find.

The Beholder’s Eye

Living in the same region and sharing roads, doctors, schools, and hair stylists doesn’t mean people see a common experience from the same perspective. Everything that’s happened to individuals prior to those events colors their interpretations. It’s true of two kids who grow up in the same house with the same parents but tell two different stories about their upbringing. People spin their own explanations. 

A recent reminder of how humans see the same occurrence differently resulted from a post in a group including urban and rural Kansans. A member published stunning photos of musk thistle flowers. The photographer meticulously shot multiple views of purple blossoms, displaying them in full bloom and as compact buds. She edited artfully to accent color variations and focus on petal filaments or the green casing containing all those seeds-in-development. She added a note explaining how beautiful she found them.

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I liked her art, but my brain focused on the difficulty of removing those weeds from a pasture. I dealt with my conflict using avoidance—I didn’t make a comment pro or con about her eye-catching photos. However, others more certain of their feelings clicked the like button to tell this artist she’d won their approval. Some, country folks I bet, respectfully shared that it’s hard to look at a musk thistle blossom appreciatively, no matter how attractively displayed,  if you’ve spent time digging those prairie pests.

Several participants seconded that opinion. All worded their responses kindly, but they made it clear they didn’t see those flowers with the same affection the photographer did. A noxious weed was a noxious weed no matter how attractive a camera and editing made it appear.

A second reminder followed the first within a few days. It also involved plants. A friend who grew up in a large farm family thought people used their green thumbs to grow wheat as a cash crop and big gardens to fill dinner plates throughout the year. Spending time grooming a luxuriant yard wasn’t on that family’s radar. As a result, she thought a lawn punctuated with flowers, wild or cultivated, was pretty. For her, these colorful bonuses brightened drab buffalo grass.

When she married, she discovered another way to look at this situation. Her husband dreamed of having a manicured lawn. He didn’t like weeds interrupting the green turf surrounding their home, explaining how mad it made him when a neighbor’s wildflowers invaded his yard. I’d like to have seen his face when she responded, “But it’s so pretty. Don’t you love the colors?”

If you’re around long enough, you learn no one sees life the way you do. What one person sees as lovely may disgust another. This is certainly clear at the table. One sibling loves broccoli and another gags thinking about it, proof that value lies in the eye of the beholder.

If that photographer had dug much musk thistle, she might have taken its picture, but she probably wouldn’t have focused on its beauty. On the other hand, if a rancher’s grandkid grew up in a city, thistles might be pretty flowers that make artists smile.

Best Dining in the Region

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barbie’s Bouquet Ready for Pickin’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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