Time Traveling Pilgrim

Imagine a time traveling pilgrim joined your family’s Thanksgiving celebration this year. After you got over the surprise of finding in individual wearing a tall hat, short pants, stockings, funny looking shoes, and possibly carrying an antique weapon in your dining room, you’d have to wonder about the differences between 1622 and 2014. Questions might include what this visitor thought about modern homes, holiday foods, and current pastimes to celebrate a national holiday that ties contemporary Americans to one of the first English settlements in the new world.

Wouldn’t that guest be surprised to find our homes outfitted with thermostat-operated heating units that don’t require a body to cut and stack enough wood to last the winter. Next, imagine eyes widening at the sight of water running through a faucet into a sink that drains and the exclamations of surprise when the traveler discovered that a simple flick of a handle turned that fluid hot. Astonishment would continue as the newcomer wandered about flicking switches that turned lights on and off and rotated knobs that made burners glow and ovens heat. I chuckle to think about the first trip to an indoor bathroom. Surely, this guest would yell in wonder when he heard that flush.

After recovering from so many unexpected surprises, the company would join the family at the table. While the lack of King James-style thous, thees, thys, and thines in the before-meal- prayer would confuse him, he’d recognize gratitude when he saw it. Despite feeling unsettled by all these new experiences, he’d identify the tantalizing scents wafting off roasting turkey and baked ham. That creamed corn and whole cranberry sauce might look a little familiar too, but he’d be confused at the selection of olives, celery, and okra on the relish tray. French-fried onion-topped green bean casserole, marshmallow-crowned sweet potatoes swimming in a bath of melted butter and modern stuffing would defy explanation. Despite the traditional beginnings of this feast, Mr. Pilgrim wouldn’t recognize much of its contemporary presentation.

After dinner, everyone, including this guest, would cave-in to the post pig-out nap urge. He’d follow the crowd into the living room or den. After folks settled into their seats on the couch, recliners,  and floor, he’d wonder about those tiny figures in helmets and bright jerseys hitting one another and  chasing after an elliptical shape on a flat screen. A youngster playing X Box in the corner would add to his confusion. How did that child control the characters dashing about and firing weapons that didn’t require immediate reloading in this contraption? Another youngster tapping away at the keyboard on a cell phone would catch his eye at some point. What caused those frequent dings and vibrations accompanied by the teen’s chuckles? Why weren’t folks talking to one another?

Life has changed considerably since 1620 when pilgrims first arrived at Plymouth Rock.  Some changes are good and some require consideration. It’s worth taking a moment this time of year when we count blessings to think about how a predecessor would view the world we have created.

               

The Ugly Side of Autumn

How is it that gun-metal skies, golden leaves, and russet milo fields can stun the eye yet cause eyes to swell, noses to run, and throats to itch badly enough that sufferers want to take a wire brush after them? Every fall, these irritating symptoms remind me that spectacular seasonal beauty comes with a price. I don’t even have to stand in a field of this attractive grain. Living in the vicinity is enough to drive me and others nuts.

That price includes twice-daily, high-powered allergy pills that seem to control the itches and drips two or three of the 24 four hours they promise to deliver. Add to that pill supply multiple boxes of Kleenex and rolls of super strong, soft Viva paper towels to handle obnoxious drainage. Eye and nose drops sooth irritated, red eyes and inflamed nose membranes. Nothing addresses the incessant throat itching that induces pig-like snorts and grunts or the itchy welts hidden under long sleeve shirts and slacks. Hard to believe, but acres of gorgeous russet milo are the fiend in this annual curse for Great Plains allergy victims.

These folks are everywhere.  You hear them sneezing and hacking in the row behind or ahead of you in church or at the movie theater. They’re the person with bulging pockets of tissues. Janitors dump trashcans regularly to stay ahead of these snotty people. Out of the corner of your eye, you see them discreetly wiping a drippy eye or nose. They itch, so you notice them trying to scratch without drawing attention to themselves. It’s a cruel season for those sensitive to milo.

Steroid shots offer significant relief, but they have side effects that I prefer to avoid. As a result, I try to tough out the worst of these annual symptoms. Unfortunately, I used up all my luck this fall. No matter how I timed taking allergy pills, I couldn’t get control of the drips, itches, and weird noises . I tried natural remedies like eating locally produced honey. I even resorted to mind over matter practices to control that terrible irritation that triggered those disgusting pig noises. Despite great intentions, I learned my mind wasn’t stronger than the allergens produced by this beautiful grain. It took everything in me to resist scratching my throat in public. How do you explain to a class of teenagers that their teacher isn’t really hacking up a giant hairball?

The turning point was when I couldn’t sleep through the night.  Burning urges to ream out my scratchy throat defied even the most pleasant dreams. Midnight bouts of violent coughing disturbed not only human household occupants but also our pets. I finally caved. I had to have the injection.

I don’t know why I waited so long to call the doctor. Within four hours of receiving an almost painless jab, I was a new woman. The sneezing and coughing reduced to almost nothing. My skin felt like new flesh, and the urge to make porcine sounds vanished.

One little poke with a sharp needle and I don’t mind driving past field after field of reddish orange grain. Heck, I might even volunteer to join a harvest crew and get right In the middle of my fall nemesis.  

Travel before Modern Technology

Before my students read a section of Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca’s travel journal about his exploration of Texas, I had them write directions from their house to a nearby destination. It sounded like a simple assignment until I add these qualifiers. They couldn’t use man-made landmarks or addresses in their instructions, nor could they use vehicles or GPS systems. They were limited to foot travel, and they needed to depend on the sun and stars for directions.

                Once I limited their options, the noise level in class increased exponentially. “How can we give directions without addresses or things like elevators, highways, railroad tracks, and bridges?” The next question was, “How can we travel without a GPS?”

                “Hmmm, how can you? What do you have to use?” I asked.

                After a great deal of hemming, hawing, and investigating Google Maps and Google Earth to see what natural features might direct a traveler to the writer’s objective, these budding explorers set to work detailing how a visitor unfamiliar with this area might get from point A to point B with the least amount of difficulty. 

                When they shared their products with the rest of their classmates, we recognized the best instructions involved specific directions that often referenced the rising and setting of the sun or the location of the North Star. Another writing strength was the use of geometric terminology such as “Walk parallel to Middle Creek for so many feet or miles until you get to the big cottonwood tree, where you will make a perpendicular turn to the west.” Some students established guidelines such as walk at a steady pace for an hour. This certainly provided an estimate to guide others, and it gave me an idea of who had actually traveled such a route at some point in time.

                This was a difficult assignment with the objective of showing students how difficult it must have been when the first explorers journaled about their discoveries in this country. After we read the short de Vaca passage in our lit book, we realized our narrator wasn’t only unfamiliar with the landscape, its vegetation, beasts, or its human inhabitants. He or the translator wasn’t very good with using pronouns either. This made it difficult for us to know whom or what the author was referring to on his expedition across what is now called West Texas. During the time he describes, this place didn’t have a name recognized by Europeans. It was simply described as a land of little water and food. Because of his confusing pronoun references, it’s difficult to identify individuals or cultures he refers to during this exploration. 

                This task offered a peek at one obstacle newcomers faced before section lines and roads divided our nation into an easily navigable grid. After completing our directions, my students and I realized that highways and technology make travel easier. I think we all have more respect for folks who entered uncharted territory and tried to explain to others how to follow. It also makes me appreciate KDOT and their efforts to guide travelers safely to their destinations.

Passing the Candy Bag to the Next Generation

Our daughter sent us a picture of our granddaughter dressed up as a pretty princess for her first trick or treat outing. Our kids waited until their daughter was almost four to let her join the ranks of smiling goblins knocking on doors in search of goodies on Halloween night, and it’s clear this cutie pie enjoyed her adventure. Her smile radiating above her flowing white dress switched on a deluge of happy memories from my brother’s and my years as beggars who also loved this holiday.

As a fan of “The Rifleman,” “Gun Smoke,” and “Combat,” my brother often costumed himself as either a cowboy or a soldier. He had the necessary plastic rifles and pistols along with hats, vests, and bandanas in his toy box. If he was tired of the old West, he had an equally fine collection of imitation WW II armament that he and dad used to aid actors on the TV show “Combat” during their firefights. At every commercial break, father and son chased Nazis down our hallway and out of closets. For Halloween, Kent could smudge his face with black and be ready to defend the neighborhood outside our front door as well.

During regular playtime in our yard, the tomboy side of me joined the boys in their shoot ‘em up western and army games. However, for Halloween, I didn’t want to be Festus to my little brother’s Matt Dillon. Some years I wanted to be a pretty spook so mom would let me sort through her flowing skirts, rope necklaces, bangle bracelets, and glittery earrings until I’d assembled a costume that would make a Roma princess green with envy. This was one of the few times she’d let me wear her eye shadow, lipstick, and rouge, which might explain why I often chose this costume.

As much as I loved to glide down a dark sidewalk in full gypsy array with my mother’s necklaces and bracelets clinking rhythmically against one another at each step, some years I dressed up as a sad- faced hobo. In the early 60s, folks still talked about men who’d ridden the rails during The Great Depression. Apparently, I found this notion romantic. I’d slide into mom’s too big britches, tie a piece of rope around my waist to hold her pants up, and wear one of dad’s huge shirts with tails that nearly reached the sidewalk. Some years, mom would draw a dark beard on my face with her eyebrow brush and once, she applied coffee grounds to my cheeks so it looked like I had scruffy whiskers. Top that with one of dad’s old felt hats, and a pig-tailed blonde became Freddie the Freeloader.

Halloween was a heady day for two youngsters who rarely roamed the neighborhood freely. We’d lug our brown paper sacks from one lighted doorway to another, knocking and chanting the requisite Trick or Treat. If we were lucky, a local mom handed out homemade popcorn balls. If we were unlucky, the grocery store had a sale on saltwater taffy just before the big night and the neighbors stocked up on my least favorite candy.

Times have changed considerably since my brother and I were trick or treaters. Despite the passage of time, the look on our granddaughter’s face in her first Halloween photo tells me that she has discovered how much fun it is to be a goblin one night a year.

Dead Right and Rumble Strips

There was a time that I found rumble strips—you know, those zig-zaggy indentions down the middle and sides of highways—to be nothing but obnoxious. They make terrible sounding vibrations when crossed, regardless of whether drivers intend to  pass over them or not. They remind me of a dentist using the big drill to grind out a chunk of old filling. My feelings about those asphalt irritations changed the day  those rough-carved asphalt concaves saved not only my life but my mom’s. Since then, I’ve new respect for that once disturbing noise.

Prior to my attitude changing  experience, my familiarity with those indentions bisecting highways was how they sounded when I passed another vehicle or when I cruised too close to the edge of the highway.  Once I hit them, I knew it. Not only did the sound remind me of getting my teeth fixed, the non-stop shuddering rattled and shook everything loose in my vehicle.  If I didn’t hear something clattering before, I did after hitting a few rumble strips.

Because I’d never fallen asleep driving, I hadn’t needed them to awaken me to get back in my own lane. I didn’t recognize their value until the day that thunkety-thunk-thunk-thunk told me I was about to get run over by a big red truck on Highway 36.

Mom and I had driven west from Phillipsburg, heading toward the Prairie View turnoff to Logan. Not far out of town, I noted a semi hauling a big trailer speeding up in my rear view mirror. No problem, I thought. We had time for it to pass long before we reached our exit. 

Even though I slowed enough  the driver could easily swing around  me in the open lane, he didn’t.  Every time I checked my mirror, I saw more of his grill creeping up on the back of my little Toyota. As we got closer and closer to our left turn, I wondered how he’d slow enough to avoid running over us. So he knew my intentions, I flicked on my signal far in advance.

Initially, it appeared the driver backed off. I breathed a sigh of relief and positioned my car to turn across the east-bound lane. Despite feeling safer, I began checking every mirror. Imagine my surprise when I heard that ominous, familiar vibrato.  I knew I hadn’t crossed the center line, and there was nothing in the rearview mirror. Quickly, I looked over my left shoulder, where I saw the passenger door of my nemesis. That enormous beast had zipped round me on the left in a turn lane. Yikes!

Thank goodness I didn’t turn. Once the behemoth sped ahead, I breathed deeply and completed my maneuver. Then I thanked the Lord I’d heard that warning sound I once deplored. Mom and I sighed with relief that we hadn’t become statistics.

Now days, I savor that growl whining out from beneath my wheels as I pull out to pass. I also discovered last winter  it comes in handy when I drive through deep snow. Even if the road isn’t cleared, that vibration tells me I’ve driven too far toward the ditch.

When I took my husband up to show him where I nearly died that October day, he noted the double yellow line that means no passing. Then he calmly informed me that I was right about being indignant, but if I hadn’t heard that warning and proceeded to turn , I’d have been dead right. Thank goodness for rumble strips.

 

April May Not Be the Cruelest Month

Decades ago, the poet T.S. Eliot told us April was the cruelest month. For years, I’ve accepted his word on this without question. After all, her weather is a bit more than schizophrenic, switching from balmy spring breezes to stinging ice pellets in a matter of hours.

After this past Saturday, I’m thinking September may beat my birth month out for this title. How do we go from stunning 90 degree temps one week, late summer blooms, happy butterflies and jewel-toned hummingbirds fattening themselves on autumn –tinged nectar to curled and blackened leaves and no lovely creatures flitting from one blossom to another overnight?

In less than a fortnight during early September, Mother Nature switched gears on her big and little darlings. Humans replaced shorts and t-shirts with slacks and sweaters. Some turned on furnaces to burn off that early morning chill caused by temperatures in the 30s. Unfortunately, birds and insects caught mid-migration didn’t have the same options people had to adapt to this harsh change.

Within 24 hours, weather that had provided a lush fall banquet for flying creatures sent any still moving to fly south as fast as their wings could carry them. Unfortunately, some were either too busy eating to pay attention to the shift in the barometer, or they just didn’t get going fast enough. I don’t know the answer. However, after that tomato-killing frost, I saw monarchs with wings like stained glass windows frozen to death, their bodies flattened on the ground beneath their last perches.  

Recent autumns have spoiled me into believing the first frost wouldn’t come until after the beginning of October. Though I’d noticed a slow-down and smaller sizes in tomato production, I assumed we had at least a month before we had to worry about Jack Frost swooping into our yard with his chilling crystals. I was sure the Weather Channel frost advisories were just apocalyptic hype sometimes promoted by the media because it draws ratings. Even my husband, who reads weather better than most, thought the meteorologists were crying wolf. 

While covering my tomatoes might have lengthened their season by a couple of weeks, nothing I could have done would have saved either the two little hummers frequenting our plastic feeders or the butterflies still flitting from one zinnia or cosmos blossom to another where they extended their curling tongues to taste one last bit of Kansas summer.

Fall is a still my favorite season, but  Mother Nature has put me on notice that I can’t count on enjoying weeks and weeks of bird and butterfly watching. I’m wondering how long we have before we see only stark skeletons of once fully dressed trees. She may also be telling me that this winter will be a bit rougher than those in the past were. Perhaps I better prepare better for this and stock up on sunflower seeds and suet blocks to feed overwintering birds.  

Summer Fun at Vacation Bible School

 As a kid, I loved going to Vacation Bible School. Even as a four-year-old, I could tell the day’s structure was perfect to educate a youngster. Children, teachers, helpers, and leaders gathered in the sanctuary to begin the session with prayer, music, and a chance to plunk coins noisily into a metal offering plate. At that age, I didn’t appreciate the time grown-up leaders spent organizing classes, activities, and snacks.

Back then, it seemed like everything just happened. It never occurred to me our music teacher not only had to play the piano, he or she had to keep track of what songs students had sung  the past few years of VBS and select new ones.

 As we marched into crafts, I never stopped to think that our teacher had to come up with age appropriate and inexpensive projects for at least four classes. That individual also had to make sure the activities weren’t repeats of past years and that they were difficult enough to challenge older youngsters but easy enough that little ones didn’t end up with glue and cotton balls in their hair and up their noses.

Those who taught Bible stories didn’t have to worry so much about repeating the story as they did about what a three-year-old can do compared to a fifth grader. Ten-year-olds can interact with the actual lesson much better than those little ones! Questions big kids ask usually have something to do with the message. That isn’t necessarily true in the toddler session where stories of cats, dogs, bugs, and other subjects can derail the teacher’s original topic.

Our recreation coaches made similar adjustments. What engages a big kid is usually different from what entertains a tyke. If a little one can’t pull the trigger on the squirt gun, the water games won’t be fun. Twenty minutes take forever if activities don’t match interests and abilities. When they do, times zips by.

With all this play and studying, participants needed an energy boost—just the job for the snack committee. After townspeople donate goodies, the kitchen crew manages those twenty-minute shifts with military precision. They prepare, serve, and clean while navigating around energetic little ones.   

Just as they did when I was a kid, church communities still unite each summer to offer local children a chance to learn about God while having a glorious time. To get momentum going, someone volunteers to organize the whole shebang. This person usually manages a home and day job in addition to picking VBS curriculum, finding helpers, ordering materials, and setting dates. Remember, this event takes place in the summer so that means coordinators work around vacations, fairs, and ball games.

In modern times as well as the past, little ones entertain and inspire grandparents, parents, and neighbors with energetic songs and memorized Bible verses in the final program. That short presentation lasts about as long as it takes to eat Thanksgiving dinner and reminds VBS staff that their jobs are important. Like that famed holiday dinner, VBS requires hours of planning and effort before everyone enjoys the outcome.

The Ol’ Swimming Hole

“Marco.”

“Polo.”

“Marco. Gotcha!” 

“You peeked.”

“No, I didn’t.  I caught you fair and square.”

I loved daily visits to the pool when we stayed with our grandparents during the summer. From the moment sunlight flooded into my upstairs bedroom to pop my eyelids open in the morning until the lifeguards opened the doors, I had only one thought on my mind--to swim until my swim-suit wearing, whistle blowing heroes shut lights off and locked gates. It didn’t take long after I’d checked in  with my season ticket before I was out the dressing room door and in head tuck-diving position near the deep end ladder. Kansas summers were for swimming, and I lived to splash, race, and dive in those refreshing blue waters.

As a youngster in the 60s and d 70s, I thought everyone took Red Cross swimming lessons and could stroke their way across the pool so they were allowed to go off the diving board. What a surprise when I discovered that many older people weren’t swimmers. When I innocently asked why they hadn’t gone to the pool to learn, the answer startled me.

 As youngsters, their community didn’t have a pool. Oftentimes, it wasn’t until the WPA built one that folks could enjoy seeing the bottom of a swimming hole. Those elders had done their splashing in creeks, rivers, ponds, and lakes if they swam at all.

During those dry years, many didn’t have a pond where they could dogpaddle on a hot day. As a result men like my uncle in Southwest Kansas joined the navy during WW II and learned to swim as an adult in military training. He wasn’t alone in this experience. What I considered a childhood rite of passage didn’t occur because there wasn’t anywhere to swim.

To a girl who’d learned the Australian crawl not long after she’d learned to walk, that required mulling.  No pools in these hot, western Kansas communities! And what was this WPA people mentioned?  Grandpa straightened me out on that. He explained it was the Works Progress Administration, designed to provide jobs for those who needed work during The Great Depression. These individuals built pools, park shelters,  and golf courses among other projects. 

When I visit towns like Ellis, Hays, Holton, and Herington, I marvel at the attractive stone structures that bear testament to this difficult time in this country. These pools were state of the art in terms of design and filtration systems. In addition, they weren’t useful only as watering holes where kids frolicked on scorching days. Skilled architects needed work as much as the laborers and masons who dug holes, poured cement, and set stone. These gifted artists designed attached concession stands and dressing rooms to please the eye as well serve specific functions.

I learned the WPA built 805 pools across America during the 30s and 40s. Communities continue to preserve and update them so that young and old can cool off during the dog days of summer. While not every town got a WPA swimming hole, word got around about how nice these were. Today, you rarely visit a Kansas community on a hot day without hearing youngsters hollering “Marco Polo” as they blindly chase friends through the water.

Planting for Butterflies

It’s funny how humans can plant parsley in their garden because they want to dry it as seasoning only to discover this action changes planting practices forever. This happened to my hilltop garden and me a few years ago after I tucked my first batch of breath-freshening herb into soil that was already home to lavender, chives, and oregano. I’ve continued this practice at my new address where I sowed the equivalent of a plant welcome mat for many varieties of visiting butterflies.

Once I introduced parsley to my herb bed, I noticed a big black butterfly with blue dots on funny looking wings fluttering about the new green leaves. This required photos, which I then posted on Facebook. A friend who is a veteran lepidopterist or butterfly expert soon identified my visitor as a swallowtail. I could have discovered my creature’s identity online if I’d looked, but doing it this way prompted my contact to ask if I’d also planted fennel as a butterfly attractant.

That question made me stop for a moment. I’d planted that parsley for me, not insects—even pretty ones. Her question led to my considering adding to my garden for the sake of creatures and not my taste buds. Once my friend slipped this noisy thought into my head, I visited the greenhouse to buy fennel, dill, and a butterfly bush. Colorful action in the little fenced off area increased as my thriving vegetation enticed more and more vivid visitors.

I googled Kansas Lepidoptera sites to learn that people who create butterfly havens introduce both host and nectar plantings. Hosts include dill, fennel, parsley, alfalfa, clover, hollyhocks, sunflowers, and milkweed, among others. Various trees and forbs also nurture a variety of butterfly offspring. Flowering plants provide nectar as an adult insect sipping beverage while host plants offer a nursery for egg laying and caterpillar nutrition support. Spend time online, and you’ll soon have a clear idea of which winged critters will find your yard desirable.

It didn’t take long to understand the benefit of expanding my garden. While we had scores of little white butterflies hovering over cabbages and yellow ones that liked alfalfa, we didn’t see many lovely swallowtails, painted ladies, viceroys, admirals, and monarchs. (Kansas has enough species of butterflies to keep your mind busy learning their names and attributes for months.) Once I added more herbs and other butterfly attractants, we saw even more delicate winged guests regularly.

By late summer, not only could we observe these flying works of art, but also we noted their colorful offspring in the form of caterpillars munching away at the herbs I’d planted. I hate to think of all the years viewing such treasures was a happy accident because I hadn’t intentionally attracted these creatures. Lately, I’ve added an orange milkweed and plan to introduce several pink flowered native monarch host plants next spring. My plan is to see monarch caterpillars filling up on newly added garden goodies during the annual migration a year from now.

This summer, I’ve had adult swallowtails gobbling nectar and  their caterpillars mowing down herbs. I haven’t managed to find a pupa yet, but it’ll happen. They’re bound to be hidden nearby. Perhaps I should more closely examine the plantings I’ve added so I could watch butterflies.

The Worst Day Fishing Is Better Than the Best Day at Work

I recently overheard someone at an area coffee shop say, “The worst day of fishing is better than the best day at work.” I’m not sure I agree 100 percent, but any day with a baited hook tossed out, waiting for a nibble is a good day. You’re near water, catching sunrays, listening to birds twitter, and smelling that nose teasing scent of mud, water plants, and fish. If you happen to reel something in to put on the dinner table, it’s a bonus.

With the recent abundant rains, western Kansans are seeing water in long dry ponds and in city lakes like the one in Ellis. Anyone who’s lived in the area for a while remembers catching or seeing someone land a good size bass or catfish out of these pools. It was a blessing to spend an hour before or after dinner enjoying quiet time on the creek bank and maybe hooking a big one.

With the extended drought, hopes of snagging a trophy or even minnows turned into dusty dreams. Deep holes that once housed massive channel cat and huge carp made fine homes for ant lions as the water evaporated. Thoughts of netting those lunkers that survived in ever shrinking deep spots were for naught. There was nowhere to transfer the monsters. Any wannabe Tom Sawyers and Huck Finns who loved to fish had to wander the crick bottom examining big and little skeletons of creatures that were once the object of anglers’ tall tales.

Since big rains recently filled some of these water holes, you can see a sparkle in your favorite fisherman’s eyes. Some of these ponds in Ellis, Graham, and Rooks Counties are full to the brim and look like an angler’s paradise. Despite appearances, those of us who live around here know there hasn’t been time enough to re-establish aquatic populations. Even if the Department of Wildlife, Parks, and Tourism races to stock these, it’ll take a while to re-establish the numbers necessary for serious success. 

So what does a guy or gal say to a visitor that tosses a line in a creek that was dry only few short weeks before? This seems like a trivial question, but it’s warranted some philosophical thought. How do you know for sure no one has caught some big fish somewhere else and transferred them into this body of water? If folks enjoy spending time relaxing outdoors with a pole in hand, do you take their excuse away from them? Is it morally right to dash dreams? 

The individuals involved cussed and discussed the topic a considerable time before agreeing that a bad day of fishing was still better than a great day at work. So while we wait on restocking and regeneration of vibrant fish populations in these freshly filled water holes, it’s not a bad thing to claim a spot under a big old cottonwood and cast out a worm. The worst thing you can reel in is hope.

Fourth of July Fun

“Gramma, wuuuhms (worms), pops!” giggled my three-year-old granddaughter, calling from western Kansas. It’s July 3, so I realize her parents have taken her to buy childhood firecrackers such as black snakes and those little poppers that I, our daughters, and now our grand love to throw on hard ground. Sure enough, my little caller’s mother confirms that’s what happened. This is G’s first year to enjoy these holiday favorites, and she wanted to share her excitement.

This sweet, unexpected phone call sent me down memory lane to my own first visits to firecracker dealers. It’s been long enough since those shopping trips that the recollections count as antiques. I still remember the feel of silver coins, probably dimes and a nickel, in my hand and the sense of importance as my parents took my brother and me to select patriotic noisemakers.

Back then, folks didn’t have air conditioning the way they do now, so we were hot before we started shopping. It seems the stands were always under some kind of awning, perhaps old military tarps left over either from Korea or WW II. I recall stepping into the shade and appreciating cooler temperatures in the dim, gunpowder scented interior. The bad part was it made it harder to see kid- friendly fireworks displayed on homemade plywood and saw horse tables.

While I was older than our granddaughter when I picked out my first 4^th stash, I still needed to stand on my tippy toes to peer at the dazzling merchandise with pictures of black cats and Chinese letters and wrapped in crinkly cellophane. Our parents guided us to sparklers, snakes, poppers, and a string of tiny ladyfingers they would help us light. Miracle of miracles, when we handed the clerk our sweaty change, she gave us each a free punk.

Once we bought our treasures, our father selected some surprises of his own. He was partial to Roman candles and cherry bombs, which were legal then. As we climbed into the furnace-like car to go home, he made it clear that we were not to touch his fireworks. After I met a boy who’d had a Roman candle burn and scar his chest, I understood why Dad was so emphatic about this.

Back home, the oven-hot sidewalk became our launch pad. Our parents sat on the porch step, watching us arrange little black kernels that would become long, spiraling, snakes. We oohed and aahed watching them writhe and stain the cement black and grey. After those were ash, it was time for a popsicle and pockets full of poppers that we threw from distances and close up. We even stepped on them to make them explode. 

After our stash was shredded tissue, our dad helped us use our spicy smelling punks to light one ladyfinger at a time and throw it safely away from our bodies. He had us save one string so we could hear a bunch pop at one time. When we’d had our fun, he would light a cherry bomb or two far enough away from us that we were safe, but close enough the explosion vibrated our eardrums for a spell.

After dark, we slurped bowls of mom’s homemade ice cream and watched dad launch his Roman candle display. While these don’t compare to modern pyrotechnic displays, they were magical to late 50s and early 60s youngsters. To end the evening, my brother and I waved lit sparklers and danced wildly about the yard. 

We must have fallen asleep before our parents carried us inside. I’d be so surprised to wake up on July 5^th to a yard full up burned up snakes, exploded popper tissue, shredded firecracker paper, and torched sparkler skeletons. Cleaning up wasn’t nearly as much fun as lighting them.

I’m so glad Little Miss G called Gramma about her wuuuuhms and poppers. I enjoyed her excitement and my memory.

Labor of Love

Picking and shelling peas is a labor of love, not practicality. After three evenings bent over knee-high vines finding and shelling full pods, I conceded the payoff—healthy calories—doesn’t match effort expended. Some folks might wise up and start buying canned or frozen peas at the market, but they’d miss what some researchers call the intangibles.

A first value added of this pea crop was that day in January or February when too many gray days made me doubt the arrival of the first spring robin. Blue as an indigo crayon, I searched garden catalogues online (that’s how they come nowadays) and planned this summer’s garden. After looking at all the pea varieties, I decided which ones would perform best in our region and decided to add snow peas to our selection for something different.

Our next bonus was the day we decided we could till our now warm enough patch of soil and microbes. Anyone who loved playing in the dirt as a kid has to love that magic of turning hard packed earth into loamy particles that sift through fingers like fine flour. When you combine what you feel and see with the rich scent of fresh turned soil, that is a red-letter day on the calendar.

Plotting the garden’s layout is another joy for those of us who relished planning wars or building new worlds in our sandboxes. Arranging areas for barracks and battlefields in that square confine got creative juices flowing in childhood. Now planning where to put peas, tomatoes, onions, peppers, potatoes, strawberries, asparagus, and melons for maximum development stimulates dreary weather-dulled brain cells. You never really know if you made good decisions until you see the outcome in mid-July.

When you look at corn seeds in your palm, it’s hard to imagine that one shriveled yellow or white nugget will produce two ears with approximately 700 kernels each. That’s a return of about 1,399 times what you invested. I’d love to see my savings perform so well. Peas don’t pay off nearly so effectively, but still for the one you plant, you harvest 40 to 100. Who on Wall Street can claim better yields?

Gardening isn’t only about the end result. You have to factor in getting your daily dose of vitamin D while weeding. Time hoeing and repacking soil along rows or making wells around tomato plants doubles as meditation or prayer time. Some people pay for CDs with nature sounds to improve their relaxation practices. Soothing noises come free with gardening.

When you’re outside tugging invasive grass out by its deceptively long roots or picking potato bugs or tomato worms off your plants, you’re listening to at least a dozen different birdsongs and untold numbers of insects as they hum and buzz. Most gardeners meet s beneficial neighbors as well while they check dense rows of green to discover they host bees, praying mantises, ladybugs, a toad or two, a lizard, and maybe a garter snake hiding amidst the foliage. 

I like to maximize these bonuses so we set two metal lawn chairs near the garden. After I’m done picking, I can enjoy evening breezes and insect serenades whileI sit there shelling peas for supper or maybe just letting sweat dry from my hair and face.

Finally, canned and frozen peas don’t compare with the color and flavor of those fresh picked from the garden. No matter how much butter or spice you add, those little green orbs taste better when you grow and shell them yourself. Cheaper is not always better.  

Sci-Fi Flesh Dissolving Monster or Lawn Pest?

Nothing is more enjoyable than sitting outside on a cool Kansas evening listening to live music and watching the sun set. That is until a couple days later when you realize chiggers showed up at the same party you attended. Over 48 hours, music and breeze-induced peace and relaxation turns into itchy torture. The hungry, invisible insect larvae ruin family picnics, exciting baseball games, plum picking, and a thousand other pleasurable summer activities.

I always thought these miniscule red bugs were actual insects, but after researching them, I’ve discovered they’re larval stages of the harvest mite. In the egg stage and insect stages, these critters could care less about dining on human flesh. Unfortunately, in their in between condition, our bodies are a great choice for a tasty meal.

Another misconception I had was that these guys drink our blood. Nope, that’s a tick and mosquito activity. Chiggers inject enzymes that dissolve flesh. A couple of things go on after this point. Surrounding cells soup up, and nearby skin hardens, often forming a firm bump. This area contains the chigger’s stylostome  or feeding tube. Yep, we’re talking bug straw into your liquefied cells. Is that science fiction or what?

I’d also been led to believe that these unseen beings laid eggs in my skin so that painting the irritation with nail polish would suffocate the little devils. No, these are larva. They aren’t sexually mature, so there aren’t any reproductive activities occurring. That intense, sleep disturbing itch is the human body’s reaction to those enzymes turning tissue into consumable goop for these temporary occupants.

It takes about 24 to 48 hours for this chemical reaction to produce the telltale lesions around ankles, behind knees, near underwear and waistband lines, and armpits. (Making people itch in those areas is inspired cruelty, don’tcha think?) As a result, you have to be careful when making assumptions about where your bites originated. It’s best to consider where you were the day or two before when you want to cast aspersions on a specific lawn or park.

To avoid insane torment, you could stay inside. However, you’d miss good times. You could wait until outside conditions were either below 60 degrees F or above 99 degrees F. Temperatures at those extremes tend to dampen fun any way so that’s not a good option. You can liberally use bug spray containing DEET. If you don’t want to do that, you can soap yourself and shower extremely well after an outdoor adventure and hope for the best. Do the same for your clothing so you don’t put old clothes on the next day and reintroduce this problem.

If you are targeted, it’s two or three days of serious annoyance. Unlike ticks and other insect, chiggers don’t inject disease-causing bacteria as ticks do. Infections and complications occur because people scratch, break skin, and introduce infection. It’s best to ignore that particular itch.

Because nothing live is in the bump, it’s useless to coat it with nail polish or other lacquers. Calamine lotion and cortisone cream provide some relief. Benadryl may help, and it can aid people in falling asleep despite nagging reminders of the good time that was.

My great grandpa was sure chiggers had to be one of the greatest curses sharing our planet. I agree. It’s a sad day when you won’t trek through tall grasses because you might pick up invisible critters that make your life miserable for a week.

Barbed Wire and Torn Jeans Go Together Like Peanut Butter and Jelly

Some people like to buy jeans with holes already in the fabric. I, however, prefer my new britches with only traditional waist and leg openings. Unfortunately, because I’m not good at crossing barbwire fences, I’ve ripped some fashionable extra tears in my denims.

 One pair had a rent in the upper inseam that I was able to mend well enough to wear them in public. The other I managed to catch by the seater, and no matter how tiny my stitches were, I couldn’t piece that “L”shaped rip together without a visible patch. Regardless of how many young folks buy jeans with intentional rips, it just isn’t cool to be in public only to realize your needlecraft failed, leaving your undies on display.

Despite initial appearances, this article isn’t really about torn jeans. They’re simply a result of ineffective efforts to get from one side of barbed wire to the other. People who’ve lived long in this country know fence crossing is an art. It isn’t something you wake up one morning to discover is your area of expertise. If author Malcolm Gladwell is correct, you’d need to climb over about 9,999 such enclosures before you were an expert. While I’m not sure that number is necessary, I know it takes practice to perform this feat without damaging fence, flesh, or pants.

Before you think about your own well-being or that of your clothing when crossing these barriers, you have to be sure the fence doesn’t get messed up when you either lift a leg over or stretch the top and middle wires wide enough to allow an  adult to squeeze through. Fixing fence is no fun, so you don’t want to set yourself up for stapling line back on posts or having to splice it. If you’re responsible, you aren’t going to mess up a landowner’s hard work and then not repair it.

Once you’ve made sure you aren’t damaging that wire barricade, you need to decide whether you have long enough legs  or  superhuman leaping power to get yourself over the obstacle without jabbing yourself in some tender parts. It’s difficult to maintain composure among a group of friends and hunting buddies when you’ve hung your inner thigh up on a metal projectile. It’s more challenging to act like everything is fine with your nether regions attached to that fence, and you can’t find a place to grab the torturous cable without catching hand flesh and ripping it as well.

If you can’t make it over the obstacle, you need to squeeze your hunting-gear-encased torso between taut lines and then drag your legs through one at a time. For folks who don’t practice yoga regularly, this is difficult. You’re also depending on a fallible human to spread those lines wide. Sometimes the responsible party gets distracted. All the apologies in the world don’t make it feel better when you’ve been twanged between two strands of barbed wire—and that’s after you get your clothes and hair detached.

I’ve ripped enough almost-new jeans to wonder if some outdoors person who wasn’t very good at crossing barbed wire fences was responsible for making torn denims fashionable. I don’t have to pay extra for torn pants. A trip out of doors updates my wardrobe considerably.

Get Home When the Streetlights Go On

After pulling weeds, mowing lawns, playing, or swimming under hot summer sun, evening breezes provided welcome relief during games of softball and freeze tag played at dusk during my childhood. As a youngster, I loved being outside under lavender, apricot, and rose tinted  skies when cool winds blew  and tangled hair into Medusa-like snakes and tickled sunburnt skin. This was a such a positive part of my life that I still enjoy replaying mental videos of evenings my brother and I invented new games or enjoyed old standbys with neighborhood kids after supper.

These end of day activities also trained me to respond physically to streetlights flickering on just as Pavlov trained dogs to react to ringing dinner bells. No, I didn’t start salivating when those bulbs lit up, but I did know to hurry home for the night if I wanted to continue to stay outside with my pals until later  streetlights brightened future June, July, and August nights. Mom’s tone was clear about following this directive, and I knew she meant what she said. Decades later, seeing this golden glow silhouetted by twilight still triggers a need to hustle inside for an evening bath and a good read before bedtime. 

These days, as I enjoy cool evening breezes on the patio, I hear kids competing loudly for the next shot at the basketball goals a few blocks away. Just north of us is a community park where children swing, slide, struggle up the climbing wall, and toss sycamore balls and acorns in the air. Their laughter floats into my yard on cool evening zephyrs. Their voices and giggles transport me back to my own carefree childhood and the recollection of knowing a streetlight turning on meant it was time to halt my fun and skedaddle home.

Apparently, this signal still works because many nights when I’m working in the flowerbed or garden, twilight sounds shift from singing birds and laughing children to that faint electronic buzz emitted by towering lamps high overhead. It isn’t long before insect hums accompany that manmade sound. Chirping crickets and buzzing cicadas in nearby trees join distant frogs and Wodehouse toads to add a rhythmic backbeat sounding like quickly shaken maracas and a throbbing bass in the descending darkness. Most little kids and their noises are tucked inside lighted rooms or already in bed as beetles hum and pop when they fly too close to those yellow beams.

Despite these intriguing reverberations, I often don’t stay outside long enough to hear all the nigh t sounds. Due to my mother’s effective training during my early years, this body still responds to that cue drilled into me as a little girl. You’d better get home as soon as the street light goes on. Even though it’s been eons since I had to follow that command, every fiber in my carcass answers to that golden flicker. It’s a magnet that pulls me indoors.

Skunked Again

It’s been a while, and I let down my guard--the consequence, not one but two skunked dogs. In town, to add insult to injury.

When I lived along the banks of Big Creek, almost three miles west of Ellis, I expected dog/skunk encounters every year, and we had them. I kept a supply of ingredients to make my magic de-scenting potion and knew I’d use them every few months. A year and half of living in the small burg of Logan with no Pepe Le Pew encounters spoiled me. I never thought about the fact that skunks don’t read city limit signs.

After a Friday night cruise into the countryside to watch dusk descend over green pastures and wheat fields, we arrived home ready to settle in for the evening. It wasn’t three minutes before that acrid, eye-burning smell rode a gentle south breeze from behind our shed into windows open to welcome fresh spring air. That was a joke. About the time my nose hit high alert, my husband let me know what triggered the stink bomb.

 Yes, our beloved grand-pups had insulted a black and white kitty as it passed through their territory. Working in tandem to drive the invader away, they’d come close to that trespasser’s backside. The direct shot blasted both with enough stench to coat ten pooches. Their hangdog looks told me they knew it.

I hurriedly concocted a triple dose of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap before slipping into raggedy clothes I could toss if necessary. One at a time, I doused each pooch and scrubbed relentlessly. After the first bath, my insulted nostrils and eyes couldn’t tell if I’d succeeded or not in banishing the offending odor from dog one’s fur. Using shop towels, I rubbed him down and lugged him outside to shake remaining droplets from his coat.

Round two with pet number two began soon after. That chunky boy didn’t seem quite so odiferous, and he’d had a recent shearing at the groomers, so he was a little easier to de-scent. Due to his size, he was  harder to maneuver in the laundry room sink, but we got the job done and kept the water where it belonged. He, too, got a toweling before I transported him outside to join his partner in crime.

It didn’t take more than a sniff of dog one to realize it was good thing I’d made so much of the special elixir. That guy needed a second dose of my un-skunking solution. He must’ve read my mind because he tried to scurry out of reach, but it was too late. He was heading back to the washtub and the last of the skin tingling cleanser.

Both dogs had that unmanageable hair look caused by a recent bath. I’m not picking up much residual scent from the boys, but that skunk certainly laid a shot pattern over our yard. Every time I walk out back, I can tell it visited. I’m hoping good rain will  take care of that problem.

Memorial Day Memories—Learning Family Stories Around Headstones

Peonies blooming, flags flying from light posts, and alumni celebrations signal Memorial Day’s arrival. For some families it’s time to camp at the lake or picnic in the backyard. No matter what I do to celebrate this holiday, this last weekend in May is a reminder of trips to the family cemetery and lessons learned about long dead ancestors.

Just saying Memorial Day brings back memories of Grandma Lottie lugging her store of floral arrangements up from her basement. She’d lay them all over her back porch and examine them for wear and tear--no worn out arrangements for her deceased loved ones. Then she’d make certain each had appropriate metal clothes hangers clipped in two to anchor them into Southwest Kansas soil until it was time to retrieve them for another year.

After she’d inspected and repaired her wreathes and bouquets, she’d relegate them to boxes destined for particular cemeteries where deceased relatives rested. By the time she and grandpa finished, the trunk was full and the journey ready to begin.

I’d find my place in the backseat of their Mercury and we’d hit that asphalt ribbon guiding us toward Dodge, Jetmore, and Ford. I loved sitting behind them, listening to their reminiscences of people I never met. 

During these drives over green prairies, I learned about a family branch that immigrated to northwest Kansas in the early 1870s. Once there, several families homesteaded and formed the little community of Devizes, named after their hometown in Canada. One of these great greats was a Methodist Circuit rider who served rural residents living in dugouts along Beaver and Sappa Creeks. After the Cheyenne Breakout in 1878, he buried some settlers killed in that incident.

I always wondered if his tiny wife, daughter of a ship captain on the Great Lakes, saw the similarity between waves on huge bodies of water and the ripples of wind moving prairie grasses in rolling surges. I know she saw the grass because she hid her children in it when she heard Indians traveled near their homestead.

Another side of the family moved first from Kentucky to Indiana and then to Kansas as their families expanded and they needed more resources to support them. We have photos of their homestead, livery stable, general merchandise store, and boarding house in Ford, where they settled. By the time I came along, I realized I’d only see that family name engraved on headstones at the cemetery. We descended from the female side, and that great grandma’s name changed when she married into the Canadian branch I mentioned earlier.

At each gravesite, Grandma and Grandpa continued sharing tales of those who rested beneath our feet. Though I’d hardly met a single soul resting in those hallowed plots, I thought I knew them personally. I learned what they drove, whether it was wagon or a Model T. I learned who their children were and what they served at family dinners.

Through these annual narratives, I understood what it took to survive and thrive in a land that nature designed to suit nomads. Looking back, I’m sure these pilgrimages with my grandparents triggered my love for this prairie that brought me home to Kansas.

Be the Hero of Your Own Journey

This time of year is more than budding flowers and nesting birds. It’s promotion time for scores of young across the country. Friends have posted photos of precious preschoolers wearing mortarboards to receive tiny diplomas. Others celebrate their own or their loved one’s high school and college graduations. Seeing these pictures on Facebook as families rejoice over this life event reminds me that all of us are on a journey, hopefully a hero’s journey to live a worthy life.

In literature, students read about heroes such as Odysseus, Beowulf, and Atticus Finch. They analyze the differences and similarities in those adventurous lives. Some classes examine scholar Joseph Campbell’s version of the hero’s journey and learn to recognize archetypal calls to adventure; thresholds to cross; tests, mentors,  helpers, and hinderers; ordeals; seizing rewards;  traveling the road back; and discovering freedom to live. Anyone interested enough to know more can find models of this ancient pattern if they wish to look it up.

It doesn’t take long before an attentive reader realizes this prototype is also the story of each of our lives. Adventure in some form or another calls every one of us multiple times throughout our existence.  For some, it’s a siren call to foreign lands as missionaries, travelers, employees, or soldiers. For others, it’s a summons to marry and unite lives. This choice often results in children, an undertaking which certainly requires mentors and helpers to overcome hinderers and problems. To be alive means to join this hero’s journey. To recognize the steps along the way makes it more fulfilling.

It’s obvious new graduates stand at a threshold. Everything that’s been predictable is about to change. In short time, these people on the cusp of a new existence go from parents’ support and home to their own households and jobs where they are responsible to maintain employment, pay bills, and handle challenges. They realize they make their own decisions and no longer depend on someone else to tell them what to do.

Suddenly, it’s clear the guidance they received from loved ones helped prepare them for this day. I recall those early months on my own when I dug deep to remember what loving adults had taught me about budgeting and making do. Fortunately, I came from a resourceful bunch who taught flexible problem solving so handling difficulties might have caused stress, but it didn’t throw me off my intended path.

That’s the value, I think, in knowing the predictability of the hero’s journey. You know you’ll face tests. You know you need to find and recognize your helpers as well as your hinderers, and sometimes the difficulty is differentiating between the two. You know there will be rewards. Once again, it’s important to look for them. Sometimes they’re small and easy to miss. However, those who seek will find those treasures and can offer gratitude for large and small boons in life.

I’ve decided recognition is the operative word. We must learn to see and value individuals and moments, which adds richness to life that some never enjoy. For me, that adds up to that final part of this journey-- freedom to live. Truly being alive means savoring an awareness of those who enrich our lives and those instances where we experience life in that instant; whether it be catching a big fish, reveling in  a splendid sunset, snuggling a baby close in the middle of the night, or comforting an elder passing on.   

This time of year and its graduates remind us that we, too, are on a journey. We might travel a different path than they, but we also share helpers, hinderers, and rewards. Acknowledging these along our way improves the quality of our own lives. Happy trails.

Forget the Time Machine--Time Travel via Old Newspapers

Time travel has been the focus of many a story over the years and recently was in the news with reports about American scientists investigating its possibility during WW II. Michael Crichton explored the concept in his novel Timeline, which required rearrangement of participants’ molecules. Both of these examples are too daring for me, but I’ve found a way to safely journey through time that’s safe for my students and me. All it requires is access to old newspapers, which are available at the local library.

My introduction to exploring the past via microfilm was my master’s project. I studied the history of Ellis schools and discovered the treasure trove of additional information available in those little canisters of film. I learned about the first library, fire department, and street bricking in Ellis. Spinning through those little reels introduced me to not only the first schools and teachers but also declamation societies and fancy dinners and dances. I discovered Teddy Roosevelt campaigned locally. Reports of murders and natural catastrophes as well as support for victims intrigued past readers just as they do today.

Once I found this resource, I had to share it with my students.  I created a research scavenger hunt tied to a personal interview or study of an individual’s diaries and letters so my kids could scour the past to help them better understand not only their lives but also their communities.

Depending on the year they studied, Ellis and Thunder Ridge pupils discovered dates their towns got electricity and indoor plumbing. They were surprised to learn that early phone numbers contained only two or three digits. Analyzing costs of living created culture shock. The idea you could buy four or five gallons of gas for a dollar was novel. Local groceries advertising rib-eye steaks for 53 cents a pound and a gallon of milk for less than 20 cents made them long for the past until they found out what the average annual salary was. Once they learned that people earned much less, they didn’t long so much for the good ol’ days.

In a day when fewer people traveled great distances to shop or seek entertainment, towns like ours offered movie theaters, skate rinks, and bowling alleys, as well as several grocery stores and hotels. Students were surprised to discover how many services were available locally just a few decades ago. In discussions generated by their research, they analyzed why rural communities can’t support as many businesses today. They also understand that modern transportation makes it easier to jaunt to a nearby city where they have more selection.

The interview component of their assignment personalized their research. These teens visited with elders to learn what life was like for them.  If their chosen individual had passed on, they could read diaries and letters to answer their questions. One student met her great-grandmother born in 1922 this way. As she poured through old documents, she found grade school autograph books and stories of dating pre-WW II style. During the war, her grandma recorded a night when her community pulled their black out curtains as a security measure.

Other students discovered marriage during Depression years often meant young couples honeymooned by visiting relatives and returned to share a home with parents. Pre-antibiotic and pre-vaccine eras meant death commonly visited families. They also discovered ways people pulled together to accomplish work and enjoy good times.

Reading their reflections completed following this assignment allowed me to see that old newspapers and diaries have a broad appeal. Several students commented they’d found a new love for history. Almost everyone acknowledged that they gained an appreciation for those who lived in our towns before we did.

Almost Empty Nest

I’ve observed a great-horned owl on her nest for the past three months. This triggered my reflections on similarities between human and critter parenting experiences. It also added questions to those already swirling about my busy brain. One of those is do birds experience a sense of unsettledness like the one humans have when their young first leave home? After surviving those aching months when our youngest moved from home, leaving an unnaturally quiet house behind, I recall a moment when my husband and I looked at one another, and said something along the lines of, “We’re going to have to relearn what a world without kids in it is like.”  

As humans, we spend more time rearing offspring than wild creatures do. As a result, the empty nest stage jars our senses at first. To make it through those first weeks, we review photos and videos of earlier times with our youngsters. These remind us how clever, inventive, and cute they were. Thankfully, human parents have late teen and early twenty years when kids are out more than they are in to prepare for a future where only adults occupy the house.   

Seeing that great-horned owl and her nest progress from egg -laying to ready-to-fledge time has triggered a flood of memories about raising our girls. To compound these emotional flashbacks is the fact our eldest and her husband are experiencing the infant and toddler years with their two little ones. Between my watching these escapades through grandmother eyes and snapping weekly photos of maturing owlets, reminiscences of early parenthood invade my mind every time it wanders.

In February and early March, that owl momma attended her incubating eggs obsessively. Once they’d hatched, she’d fluff her feathers and spread wings wide to keep her babies toasty on frosty mornings. As weeks passed, I observed two downy heads peeking over the edge of the nest under momma’s watchful golden eyes. Eventually, days grew warmer and growing babies’ feathers filled in.

 As the nestlings matured, they crowded their home. Eventually, Mom ventured out to forage. I’d spy her leaving her young, who now occupied the entire bowl of their treetop home, gazing after her as she swooped low over the prairie searching for rodents.

Lately, her babes are often alone when I drive by. If that mom is anything like a human mother, she enjoys this freedom. While she’s hunting, her children mind the boundaries of their world, but like their human counterparts, it seems they inch closer to the edge every time I pass. The other morning, one daredevil stood on the lip of its nest, stretching developing wings.

One day soon, momma owl will come home to find her nest empty. I wonder if she’ll be as surprised as I was to discover my young had left home. Do owls reconsider their time management since the need to feed and clean up after offspring has ended? Will she soon perch atop power poles as she did last fall?

Whether human or critter, parenting cycles follow predictable patterns. For a time, babies tie mommas close to home with barely a moment to go to the bathroom alone. Slowly but surely, little ones mature, freeing parents from total dependency. In what seems like a flash, those youngsters develop until they’re ready to live on their own, leaving behind parents to figure out what to do with that extra time and space.

I guess we know what I did with mine. I started owl watching and telling you what I saw.

Spotlight on School Plays

While folks in northern and western Kansas might be a long way from Broadway’s bright lights, we enjoy our fair share of drama on the boards. Our actors are youngsters in our communities, and our directors are often teachers by day and drama coaches by night and weekend. Local wizards of the sewing machine and serger, forensic coaches, carpenters, welders, and likewise talented people are costumers, set builders, and backstage help.

Seeing one of these productions can’t help but remind a person that it does take a village to raise a child or in this case a cast full of lots of families’ children. The thespians commit a slug of outside time to learning lines, coming to practice, and helping assemble costumes and props for their scenes. During the day, they’re diligent students keeping up with the demands of at least seven different classes. After school, many go out either for sports or work part-time in local businesses. Somehow, they fit in family time.

While the kids are in class, the director keeps up with planning, teaching, managing, and grading for the courses that occupy those kids’ days. Somewhere house and yard work as well as the mundane duties of life like bill paying require time. By evening, that individual has slapped on his or her director’s beret and begun turning these usually normal teens into fairy tale characters, imaginary rabbits, or other theatrical manifestations.

Hours are never long enough for important things like eating, so parents provide catered meals to keep their offsprings’ metabolism running at full speed. Between times, they run errands to gather hats, capes, suits, dresses, and other necessities to add finishing touches to their children’s productions. Often they serve as ad writers, photographers, and publicity teams who interest area residents to pay to see the show.

After weeks of repeated entries from stage left or right and struggles with muffed lines, it’s time to put the spectacle on the road. Depending on the community, first run audiences are either the grade school students and future hams or local residents and loved ones who hanker to see their darlings perform. No matter what, everyone expects to appreciate the show. No nasty big city critics in these crowds.

During an evening or matinee, locals kick back and let the performers whisk them into another world. While enjoying the production, it’s easy to forget how much effort went into such a show. That hour and half play required hundreds of hours to devotion and labor from scores of individuals. In return, ticket holders get grins and giggles. The actors and stage crew savor working together as a team to provide a great show. Besides a few gray hairs, the director enjoys the satisfaction of knowing he or she coached, nudged, and otherwise prompted youngsters to go outside their comfort zones to bring unfamiliar characters to life.

Everyone, audience included, will share memories and stories that turn into local legends.  After I watch one of these plays, I never see those kids the same way again. Always, when we meet, even if it decades afterward, the aura of the personalities they’ve brought to life shadow dance behind them as permanent fixtures in their life stories.

Four Letter Words

Most of us have heard about four letter words. The minute you mention them, many immediately think naughty words. But this time of year, hope is a four-letter word. As is soil, seed, rain, bird, root, stem and grow. Four letter words-- every one. As I roamed about my yard planting hollyhocks, bachelor buttons, sweet William, zinnias, and other butterfly attractors, I kept thinking, I hope for moisture and that the hard little hulls I tucked in the earth would sprout roots and stems to unfurl skyward under warm, spring sun.

With the advent of t-shirt and shorts weather, I see people walking about area towns with a spring in their steps. All of us are tired of winter’s leafless silhouettes. We’re weary of seeing only sere grass and stick-like bushes. Our senses ache for hues of green and brilliant blossoms.

Even birds agree. Those not yet on the nest warble noisy courting songs, perform antic dances, and ruffle feathers, hoping to attract mates. Who can help but smile while watching such crazy expenditures of energy, knowing it’s one of those four letter words—hope-- that drives each of us to do all we can to make the most of these few perfect days of spring.

During a painting class I recently attended, students explained to our waterlogged Wyoming teacher that we need rain. Unlike us, she’s seen an excess of moisture recently, so she struggled to relate to our craving for wet stuff. While we enjoyed the mild temperatures and balmy days with her, she treasured 24-hour sequences that didn’t require use of snow shovels. She  wasn’t looking forward to the predicted rains and snow on her homeward journey. Despite her dismay at the weather reports, we were giddy, hoping precipitation might move our way.  

Without moisture, we look forward to more blowing dust, bare fields, dirty cars, as well as stunted vegetables and blossoms if we can garden in our communities. Rain brings optimism for green yards, wheat, and a harvest. Those clouds building on the horizon have no idea when they pass us by and sprinkle on another town what they do to those thirsting for water-laden droplets.

We’re so dry here that folks normally indignant when rain ruins their plans behave gleefully when they have to move track practice or outdoor picnics inside. Those of us wearing spectacles relish coming indoors from the sprinkles to wipe our glasses dry.

Not only have the few little dribbles we’ve received perked up spirits, they’ve also jolted dormant perennials into production. Bushes that were tawny canes days earlier have sprouted hordes of pale green buds. A wheat field behind my house turned lush blue-green and grew at least two inches in nothing flat. I should have set up a stop action camera on it. I’d have captured amazing footage of high-speed growth.

Yep, this time of year, four letter words rule. Dirt, bird, seed, rain, and hope are important elements of spring. I’m all for saying as many of those words as I can in mixed and unmixed company.