A Bucketful of Sweet Possibilities

You don’t have to travel far to learn something new. During Spring Break, my husband and I jaunted to Courtland, Kansas, to explore Jamestown Marsh and other area sites. I expected to see migratory birds, including eagles, ducks, and geese. I hoped to visit the Pawnee Indian Village Museum to study more about early residents of my region. My to-do list also included antiquing and photography. One thing I never expected to discover was a maple tapping/syrup making operation. In fact, I thought of this as a New England only activity, never considering that Kansans could produce local maple products.

Along Highway 36, it was clear the trees realized spring’s official arrival was only days away. Tiny buds turned toward the sun. Robins hopped about farm and small town yards looking for a satisfying meal. Upon arrival at our destination, we noticed additional seasonal scenery. Scores of maple trees sported not only tiny reddish bud clusters, but also blue and silver buckets adorned their trunks, adding color to the landscape.

After cruising each street to confirm what we saw, we agreed someone was tapping local maples. Upon arriving at Snow Goose Lodge, the mystery deepened. We spied a sugar shack—a small hut containing a wood-burning evaporation unit—with a wood maple leaf cutout labeled, “Republic County Maple Guys.”

Fortunately, our curiosity was soon satisfied. Jim Elliott, lodge host and one of the participants in this colorful spring ritual, was simmering maple syrup as we drove in. He informed us that you could only tap the trees under certain conditions: day temperatures must be above freezing and night temps below. He said the operation typically has a two to three week sap collection window. Our timing was perfect to experience this activity in progress.

Jim and his business partners-- two young men, tap trees, collect sap, reduce it on a wood burning contraption designed for this, and then condense it further on the stovetop to golden brown, thick syrup they bottle to sell at local farm markets. Smelling the kitchen aroma as the well-tended stockpot simmered told me I want to return as soon as summer operations open.

Wanting to know more about maple syrup production in Kansas, I researched and found an article online about these entrepreneurs and their efforts. According to the Republic County Economic Development site, this is their third year of production. Each year, with the aid of local maple tree owners, the team has increased efforts enough to garner approximately 600 gallons of sap this season, which should render around 12 gallons of syrup. The article focused on value-added agricultural products.

Even more than goods to sell, I think about the value-added human product Mr. Elliott offers his business partners. The lessons these young men learn about identifying and carefully tapping trees, collecting sap, converting raw material to consumable syrup, and about marketing have to be a wonderful education for everyone involved. Those lads will have real life math, cooking, food safety, writing, reading, creative thinking, entrepreneurial, and people skills that surpass anything textbooks provide.

Maybe this is what value added is really about. Maybe it’s seeing opportunities to go beyond expanding markets and services. Maybe it’s finding ways to connect rural youngsters to local resources and using those contact points to teach expertise to make successful business people and employees who stay in Kansas and grow our state.

What began as a restful getaway turned into a bucket full of possibilities. Seeing three Kansans turn the  natural resources in their front yards into not only an agricultural venture but also  a skill and character building effort offers hope that anyone utilizing such assets can create sweet deals as well.

Who Decided to Switch the Clock?

I don’t know about you, but my system is still re-calibrating to Daylight Saving Time. You’d think with more than a half century to get used to my internal clock resetting two times a year that this semi-annual switch would go smoothly. Nope, the older I get, the more my carcass resents folks in high places not understanding that you can’t cut off one end of a blanket, sew it to the top, and say it’s longer. Not only do those in power mess with where you put this amputated hour, they all too frequently legislate change regarding when that reattachment takes place. It’s no wonder heart attack statistics increase in the days following this time shift.

Once I began researching DST I am more traumatized. I discovered I’ve been saying it incorrectly.  I thought it was called Daylight Savings Time, but, no—it’s Daylight Saving Time.  No second S. Some countries simply call it Summer Time.

Several informational sites credit Ben Franklin with DSTs existence, making participation seem patriotic. In reality, he was long in the grave before anyone actually adjusted a clock. This business began in England prior to WWI. Once hostilities occurred, Parliament enacted British Summer Time in 1916. Hoping to save energy here as well, America followed suit for seven months in 1918 and 1919. Due to lack of support for the time shift, lawmakers retracted it.

Time-pieces and humans ticked along satisfactorily until America once again went to war in 1942. Congress determined that this change would save energy to support the war effort so it was reenacted from February 9^th of ‘42 to September 30^th  of ‘45. After this date, states and localities adjusted clocks as they wished. If I’m cranky now, I can’t imagine what that did to people dependent on train and bus schedules. How would you be sure to arrive at a meeting on time?

I guess it was okay for individuals to miss schedules, but once TV and radio stations mainstreamed into American life, federal legislation regarding a consistent time change followed. The Uniform Time Act of 1966 ended confusion by starting DST on the last Sunday of April and ending it the last Sunday in October.  Except for Hawaii and Arizona, the rest of the nation jumped on that bandwagon.

Until the energy crisis of the 70s, those dates remained stable. Some of us remember the burble called the Arab Energy Embargo where we experienced eight months of Daylight Saving Time in ‘74 and ten in ‘75. While many believe agricultural interests support DST, lobbying by farm states and others returned it to End-of-April/End-of-October status.

Americans enjoyed predictability until 1986 when President Reagan signed into law PL 99-359. This act changed the beginning of DST to the first Sunday in April. It’s ending date remained the same. Nearly twenty years later, Congress passed the Energy Policy Act of 2005, which, starting in 2007,altered the beginning date to the current second Sunday in March and extended its run to the first Sunday in November.

Interestingly, medical studies reveal a number of concerns regarding this cha-cha with the clock. With each change, heart attacks and accidents increase. Classroom and work productivity decrease. Humorist Dave Barry gets cranky. And so do I.

I’m for punchin’ the same clock that Arizona and Hawaii do. I want time out of Congress’s hands.

Sore Hands No More

Frigid temperatures do more than raise the gas bill. Cold, frosty days redden and roughen flesh, leading to splitting skin on fingers and hands that hurts as bad as or worse than a paper cut. No matter how much girly girl lotion and cream I applied in January and early February, I couldn’t smooth out either the hangnails that snagged on bulky sweaters and hoodies or soothe away those painful, weather-induced wounds that formed at the edges of my finger and thumbnails and over the tops of knuckles.

I suspect that even if I never left my house during frigid temperatures, the effects of the furnace on my skin would lead to some discomfort. However, I was going outside and coming in several times each day while washing up at least once an hour to discourage flu and cold germs. This combination is a prescription for hamburger hands.

In desperation to ease the increasing pain, I used tried and true remedies that had worked in the past—even sleeping with cotton socks over grease-coated hands and buying dish soap guaranteed to heal raw skin. None of the products worked, and they depleted my bank account as I attempted to halt this attack on my body.

A fellow employee saw me gently massaging lotion into my irritated flesh and told me to avoid products containing petroleum products. She explained those unguents felt soothing when first applied, but they actually dried out skin. That explained why even though I’d just bought a brand new tube of something in that merchandise line a few days before, my hands were now bleeding. No wonder my almost raw digits weren’t improving.

I hadn’t found a cure, and the splits in my hands and fingers grew more painful by the minute. Unexpectedly, during a trip to get my mom some cold medicine, I spied a new product at a local drugstore. The sign above the display case promoted that it healed working hands that crack and split. Just what I needed. As a teacher, I hadn’t considered myself as a person with working hands since most of my labor takes place inside cozy buildings. However, my hands sure acted as if they were an outdoor laborer’s appendages.

When I asked the clerk about this ointment, she said farmers and road crew workers were coming in droves to buy it. After hearing this testimonial, I was sure I’d found the cure to my dry, cracked, bleeding hands. 

Sure enough, the ingredient list didn’t contain petroleum. Glycerin, water, and a whole bunch of words I can’t pronounce but didn’t have to do with the banned item filled up the component list. It didn’t smell, it wasn’t gooey, and it most importantly, it worked. Within a couple of days, craters that kept widening and growing tender to the point they awakened me from sleep began to disappear. Within five days, I could barely remember why I’d whined so much.

The lesson here is don’t go to the beauty product aisle when you’re dealing with outdoor hands. Hit the feed store or the place local farmers shop. These folks know what cures winter-roughened hands.

Secrets Leafless Trees Share

One of my favorite features of winter is being able to see bird nests in leafless trees. I like to figure out what species lives in a particular area so I can look for it when days lengthen, temps warm, and foliage hides those cobbled together nurseries.

Last winter, I spied a huge nest in a lone tree tucked off Highway 9. It was so large, I thought it might belong to an eagle, but my husband quickly let me know our national birds build more ambitious nurseries for their young—maybe big enough to contain a small human. I later saw an actual eagle nest with its family occupying it in Colorado and realized he was right. That still left me wondering what creature hatched its young in this particular locale.

Patience pays off.  I kept my eye on this haphazard collection of branches and twigs throughout the winter. Finally, I spied an occupant—or at least the top of an occupant.

I love to watch the sunrise as I drive to school and pay particular attention to anything silhouetted by that rosy morning glow. Imagine my surprise last week when I spotted two backlit pointed protrusions on either side of a rounded head peeking over the edge of that raggedy, round collection of sticks. I don’t know what creature originally assembled this contraption, but this year, a great horned owl is incubating her clutch of eggs.

Seeing this sight reminded me of a pair of great horned owls that spent much of late January and early February whispering sweet nothings to one another outside the bedroom window of our previous home. Once they’d mated, silence reigned until their eggs hatched in March. Then noise levels increased astronomically as hungry babies competed loudly for the first serving of regurgitated bunnies or other prairie delicacies. After they’d eaten, I’d often fall asleep listening to mom murmuring whooty nursery rhymes to soothe her offspring.

Happy to spot this new owl incubating eggs, I’m hoping the latest cold spell hasn’t put a damper on her nesting inclinations. I’m eager to observe mom and her offspring as days get warmer and the owlets grow big enough to fledge. If I’m lucky, that tree won’t leaf out before I drive by of a morning to see young birds perched on the edge of the nest, flapping wings as they mature.

Considering its location, I wonder if this is the owl or its mate that I saw last fall atop power poles that line that section of road. Usually, the big bird was just a black outline against the sky, but every now and then, I’d see it framed in my headlights as it dove after a rodent racing across the asphalt. 

Who knows how much longer I’ll be able to watch this new family in the making. Until either they fly away or unfurling leaves hide their home, I’ll appreciate this view twice a day, Monday through Friday. Those who say Kansas is boring haven’t discovered the treasures tucked into our landscape.

Gatherin’ Place

Some people like cities. They like the anonymity of blending into a crowd. They like choosing where to shop, dine, and have fun. Being unknown to a server is a relief rather than a blessing. For these folks, the intimacy of living in a small town where everyone knows your name and your business is too personal. On the other hand, there are people like me who love going into a local eatery where the wait staff knows my name and what I’m going to order. These establishments are the heartbeat of tiny towns.

In the same way that local schools weave together the warp and weft of a community , the local gatherin’ place—coffee shop—hometown restaurant-- links people’s lives like a quilter stitching one block to another or tying the top to the lining. It creates beauty and stability. Comings and goings at the local java stop establish a rhythm that outsiders soon learn so they too can join the club.

Area residents gather before hitting the office, their fields, or pastures. It’s good to down a cup or two of coffee while checking in with neighbors. It’s site for a mid-morning Bible study to gather.  It’s a place the Lions, Rotary, and Kiwanis meet, share a meal, and settle business in the middle of the day. It’s a interlude in a long afternoon.

In a world overtaken by impersonal connections these informal assemblies warm the belly and the heart as individuals look one another in the eye and ask, “What’s going on?” Then they listen. It’s sometimes the first place a person hears that someone needs help and arranges to offer aid. Somehow, it’s more powerful than reading a post on a phone or computer screen.

It’s a good place to hear who’s getting married or who had a baby, even before the preacher announces it from the pulpit or the local paper runs the article. You might find out whose heart is breaking so you can offer a meal or a kind word. People long out of the classroom and off the sporting field keep up with area youngsters’ successes. Some might say it’s gossip. I like to think it's connectedness.

Since I work, I forget how pleasant it is to join a kaffee klatch. This weekend I got  reminded how this daily ritual makes a person feel like he or she belongs. I returned to Ellis to meet a couple of friends for breakfast and a quick catch up. In Hays, we would have been anonymous. In that little town where I lived for thirty-six years, I knew everyone in the café.

A former student came to our table to introduce his little brother and girlfriend, telling them we were his former teachers. A past school board member dropped by to say hey, a neighbor from our newly wed year updated me on her life. It had been decades since we shared the same block, but we cared about what was going on in one another’s lives. It was wonderful to connect with folks who enrich my life.

It was a blessing the way that little visit reminded me that I still belonged even though I have a new address and new place to lift a cup. These little establishments are a hidden pleasure of small town living. Put this stop on your bucket list.