Revisiting Old Friends

Friends enrich our lives in so many ways, and during Christmas, I’m reminded that they’ve improved my baking skills. I’ve written previously about family recipes that link one generation to another. This year, I savored old friends’ and co-workers’ yellowing cards with their fading handwritten instructions to make cookies. As I examined each one, I thought about the hours that woman and I had spent working and sharing our lives. These aging pieces of paper connect us more surely than rope or chain.

Until I met Jeanette when I worked as a teller at Ellis State Bank, I don’t believe I knew what a snickerdoodle was. She included them on her Christmas cookie plate and hooked me forever. Like the woman who shared the recipe with me, these treats comforted whoever ate them. This mixture of sifted flour, eggs, butter, sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon baked into crinkly golden orbs could warm the Grinch’s hard heart. Looking back, I hope I shared some with fellow workers. It would have been easy to nibble on one every time I passed the snack table in our work area. I know that when our daughters see that customary family recipe, they must wonder who Jeanette is. I see her faint script and recall how welcome she made me feel as bride in a new town.

For holiday celebrations, my nuclear family made old –fashioned fudge as well as sugar and chocolate chip cookies. As a result, Nestlé’s chips and powdered cocoa were the only kind of chocolate you’d find our cupboard. Imagine my surprise during my first teaching job when Sue, the home-ec instructor, had students create snow on the mountain cookies that required melting bars of baking chocolate. After I tasted the first bite, I had to have the recipe and discovered how to melt these rich squares in a double boiler before stirring in other ingredients. Learning this skill added a new dimension to my developing kitchen efforts. When I look at Sue’s precise handwriting, I recall a confident woman who mentored my first two years of teaching. She didn’t hesitate to tackle difficult recipes or sewing patterns with teenagers as well as complicated coaching strategies with her ball teams. Her example encouraged me to live as boldly as she.

A few years later, I added another staple to my annual Christmas platter. Sondra, a fellow garage sale aficionado, introduced me to peanut butter kiss cookies. A former elementary teacher, her handwritten recipe is as tidy and precise as this dear woman who systematically mapped out our garage sale trail. Step-by-step, she guided me through the complication of taking ¾-baked dough out of a hot oven and centering chocolate stars in each melting ball to finish up a pretty and irresistible treat. Since I learned to make these, they’ve become my mother’s favorite cookie. To this day, I can’t look at Sondra’s handwriting without thinking of the fun enjoyed by two budget-minded young moms on a mission to score bargains every Saturday morning.

I have about twenty of these deteriorating cards stashed in the recipe drawer in my kitchen. Barring catastrophe, they’ll last as long as I do. Should disaster strike, saving these links to important people from my past will be a priority. I can copy the recipes. I can’t replace those handwritten words that transport me through time.

"The Day the Music Died"

Don McLean sang about Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper Richardson’s deaths when he wrote the lyrics, “The Day the Music Died” in his beloved “American Pie.” Current events make me think of another sad meaning to those memorable words. Anyone who’s worked with teens over the past forty years will relate. 

As a high school ball player and forensic team member, I recall quiet trips to events. Coaches didn’t turn on the bus or van’s single radio because they wanted us focused on our competition. The ride home was another story. Team members honed negotiation skills to select a radio station from the many choices others shouted out. Once noisy teens determined the favorite, they convinced the driver to crank the volume high enough that riders in the back seat could hear the lyrics clearly. Music was a group activity in those golden days.

Over the four decades of my teaching and coaching career, this changed. During my first twenty some years of loading kids in a district vehicle to haul them to distant schools, life continued much as it had when I was a participant. Passengers were expected to be quiet as they would be in a prayer chapel going to our destination. However, trips home began with lively discussions about what music to listen to and raucous sing-alongs to ever-changing tunes. This was karaoke before it became a popular party fun.

My favorite memories of these good old days revolve around December bus trips when girls who loved to carol filled the seats. Headlights guided us homeward over the dark plains while greenish console lights inside set a holiday mood. Sweet voices of tired round-ballers sang about hay-filled mangers, heralding angels, gift-bearing wise men, and silent nights. Following those serious toned old tunes, the vocalists would throw in a crazy version of “Jingle Bells” or “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” I may have been exhausted after a 16-hour day teaching and coaching, but I treasured those after-game songfests.

Technology that I normally loved assassinated these singalongs. Over time, as more teens climbed onto buses with personal devices and earbuds, travel became quiet as a morgue. Eventually, the driver or I  picked the radio station uncontested because the passengers were listening to individual playlists. By the time I retired, I had to wave my hands or tap someone on the shoulder to make contact. 

The positive side of this new reality is that no one has to listen to music he or she hates. Folks who don’t enjoy interacting with others slip into private worlds while sitting shoulder to shoulder and remain there until the vehicle stops. The negative involves the same issue. No one learns to deal with the frustration of other people’s preferences.

The element that makes me saddest is that pre- individual electronic devices, music brought students, coaches, and drivers together. It didn’t isolate them. Those mostly dead after-game soirees taught tolerance for other’s musical tastes, negotiating skills, and an appreciation for noisy camaraderie.

“A Baby Is God’s Opinion That Life Should Go On.”

Anyone reading or listening to news over the past few weeks must, as I do, long for comfort and continuity to counterbalance life’s new normal. What better way than to root ourselves in customs that go back enough generations that they’ve withstood the test of personal and national distress. Our family honored such a tradition recently with a shower to celebrate the birth of our youngest daughter’s first child. As I put away a dish passed from my grandmother to my mom and now to me, I thought about the generations of women who’ve gathered to celebrate an impending birth.

The women who used this dish immigrated from greener landscapes to the arid plains of western Kansas. Some lived through the Civil War, the Plains Indian wars, The Spanish American War, WW I, The Great Depression, WW II, The Korean Conflict, Vietnam, and recent events. My mother who was born in the midst of the Dust Bowl worked only a few blocks from Murrah Building in Oklahoma City and drove past its ruins and later the monuments to those who died that day. When I want to shut my eyes and ignore things that terrify me, I remind myself I come from sturdy stock. We do what is necessary to survive and thrive in a difficult world.

The poet Carl Sandburg states many families’ optimism in the future, explaining why it’s necessary to rejoice when a child is born. He wrote, “A baby is God’s opinion that life should go on.”  As I watched women who love our daughter delight in giving handmade quilts and leatherwork, practical gifts, and books, several thoughts ran through my mind. I appreciated the hours of labor those crafters spent creating heirlooms that will comfort this child and pass to future generations. I’m grateful for the gifts that ensure the safety and wellbeing of our new granddaughter and for the thoughtfulness of mothers who’ve already raised kids and know what a new mom needs to ease that first year. The growing stack of books next to the mom-to-be’s chair told me how this group valued the ties of language and ideas and wanted to pass on their favorites. One Great-Aunt touch all our hearts when she included a favorite book she received as a little girl. Each of these presents warmed my heart and validated Sandburg’s message.

While the adults enjoyed visiting and remembering their own early parenting experiences, toddlers attending helped pass out gifts and make sharp observations. One cousin-to-be wants that baby to come out to play. Others were more interested in the immediate delight of raiding the mint and nut bowl.  Each of these little ones reminded all of the adults of how swiftly infancy passes.

This long practiced custom of giving gifts to prepare new parents for their long awaited child states so clearly that our hearts cherish the hope new babies offer. Those of us who’ve raised our own, enjoy helping expectant moms and dads get off to a good start. It’s also a needed reminder to savor every moment and to work to leave a better world for the next generation.

Frozen in Time

This time of year folks tend to wax nostalgic, and, as a result, share long told family stories, old greeting cards and photos of the good ol’ days. I love hearing the tales, but the pictures are often better. I especially enjoy ones that depict festive clothing and social gatherings. Nothing charms me more than seeing a picture of skaters wrapped in heavy coats, warm mittens and muffs, furry hats, and flowing neck scarfs. Wintry scenes like these occurred wherever water was deep enough and temperatures froze for a long spell in western Kansas.  

These old greetings remind me of my grandfather’s adventures in Ford County, where he grew up along the Arkansas River. Family members taught him and his younger brother to skate as boys. Once they’d mastered their silver blades, the two of them traversed the frozen, winding waterway from their hometown of Ford all the way to old Fort Dodge. According to Grandpa, this was the fastest way to travel. To earn extra money, they ran a trap line along the banks. I don’t recall hearing stories of parties on the ice, but I’m sure if one occurred, the Bisbee boys were there.

Speaking of celebrations, old Ellis Headlights and Reviews are full of Big Creek Skate party stories. Apparently, events involving community members of all ages began in the afternoon and continued after dusk. Merrymakers built bonfires in the middle of the creek to light their way and provide warmth. This seems risky, but I’ve seen photos of Ellis residents harvesting ice to store in a warehouse near the old railroad bridge. It’s clear that the creek held considerably more water than it does now and got cold enough to freeze it several feet thick. That explains why revelers could safely stack logs and burn them right in the middle of the frozen creek bed without landing all of them in frigid waters.

A recent trip to a craft fair in Norton triggered some North Solomon skating stories. A friend and I found a cleverly constructed Christmas door hanger that used an old skate. The crafter had painted holiday designs on the leather uppers, strung the boot with red lacing, and tucked evergreens and bright berries into its opening. Immediately, I mentioned this was a great way to reuse old skates found at auctions and garage sales. My friend remarked that she still had the skates she’d worn down on the Solomon below Logan.

“What? You guys had enough water to ice skate right in Logan?” I asked.

That triggered more memories of skating parties she’d enjoyed as a child and teen in post WW II Kansas.  Sounds like Logan merrymakers had every bit as much fun as those red cheeked, frost nosed revelers in Ellis.

During these droughty years, it’s hard to imagine hosting community skates in our little towns on the prairie. However, when wet years come again, wouldn’t it be fun to start a new round of tales of little ones learning to skate with their parents and friends while young lovers hold hands and cruise up and down frozen tracks?

Immigrant Success Story

For a gal who grew up spending every fall hunting pheasants with family, you’d think I’d have been insanely curious about how these strikingly beautiful Chinese immigrants found their way to the Great Plains. Knowing me, I did look up these pretty birds in a well-used set of World Book encyclopedias. I must’ve settled for the simple answer that someone imported them from Asia. I’m certain the article was short and sweet, with few of the embellishments now found on the World Wide Web.

 

With the power of cyber space at my fingertips, I’ve since learned these ring neck wonders arrived first at Port Townsend in Washington State. An American consul general by the name of Owen Nickerson Denny discovered them during his service in China. There, local farmers netted and marketed these wild birds. This diplomat recognized not only their beauty but also their flavorful meat. According to Historyllink.org, Denny wrote a friend, saying, “These birds are delicious eating and will furnish fine sport.”

During his tenure in Asia, Denny bought enough birds to raise a fattened domestic flock for his own dining delight. As time grew near to return to the American Northwest, he conceived the idea of taking a breeding population home with him. He arranged in 1881to transport aboard the vessel Otago, 60 ring necks along with a few Mongolia sand grouse and chefoo partridges. In the shipment, he included native fruit trees and bamboo cuttings to transplant to his homeland. Only the pheasants and bamboo still exist in the wild.

While the birds survived the ocean voyage, they didn’t do well during the overland transport. Only a few lived long enough to establish homes on an island in the Columbia River. Authorities disagree on how well this population reproduced and expanded.

Still hoping to establish a successful breeding colony of these game birds, Denny imported a second group in 1882 and shipped them directly to Portland, Oregon, which was closer to the family homestead. These new imports quickly went native, and within a year, thriving populations expanded into surrounding counties. By 1892, Oregon established a pheasant-hunting season. If accounts are accurate, hunters harvested 50,000 of Denny’s pheasants on its first day.

In 1884, Denny arranged a third delivery to the original destination in Washington State. This time, the birds proliferated and expanded their territory into Canada. Anytime people see success, they duplicate it. As a result, hopeful sportsmen transported breeding pairs to other regions until you can now find descended stock in at least 19 American states. No longer called Denny’s pheasants, populations did so well in South Dakota that over a million now live there, and legislators named them the state bird.

Despite reduced populations the last few years in Kansas, this is still a great environment for these Asian immigrants. Our many fields of grain offer optimal food and cover for these beautiful and tasty birds. Just as many of our ancestors came to this land as new arrivals  and thrived, so have these creatures. They are as much a part of what makes this state amazing as we are.

Prairie Art Renaissance

Making art is a lonely business. Just as very few high school athletes grow up to sign professional sport contracts, limited numbers of painters, sculptors, photographers, poets,  actors, singers, and song writers achieve fame or financial success as a result of their efforts. Such individuals work in the privacy of homes and garages without anyone but family or close friends knowing they painted a luminous prairie sunrise or captured a reenactment of buffalo soldiers crossing the South Solomon River. Fortunately, for inspired spirits who call the prairie home, more communities are collaborating to share their efforts-- a deal that benefits both parties.

In addition to annual shows in Norton, Hill City, Nicodemus and Phillipsburg sponsored by area art supporters, Stockton business owners have teamed up to host an art walk on Sunday November 22^nd from 2 – 5 p.m. At this time, six downtown stores have invited regional painters and photographers to display work and chat with visitors. Anyone interested is welcome to meet these creators, grab a snack, and appreciate locally produced paintings, mosaics, and photographs.

Cheryl Calvin, owner of Sand Creek Mercantile, shares that this innovative group plans four such events throughout the upcoming year, exposing even more talent to the public. This approach keeps energy and interest high and offers supporters more occasions to appreciate varied styles and techniques.

Personally, I’m thrilled to see grass root support of regional art expanding. Few true creatives have the business acumen or training to promote their own work. As a result, you’ll find it sitting on dusty shelves or hanging on walls that no one sees. When individuals who have such proven ability get involved, it means local artists receive exposure and potential income.

 In addition, well-advertised campaigns attract visitors from surrounding areas, which expands a supporting business’s client base. Such opportunities open doors to consignment fees for gallery space. Even better, the public learns they can afford to hang hometown artists’ works on their walls.

Nature understands the advantage of symbiotic relationships where one creature or plant benefits another. Think of yuccas and the moths that fertilize their blossoms or cattle and the birds that pick irritating insects off these ruminating bovines. Our Great Plains landscape affords many examples of creatures whose lives benefit one another. Local businesses and artists working together provide a perfect pairing to help one another thrive while making the rest of our lives richer through their efforts.

Our region of the sunflower state pulses with the energy of accomplished artists. However, few of us have seen their work. Trade people who understand the benefit of inviting the public into their businesses not only to purchase a product or service but also to appreciate landscapes, still lifes,  portraits, sculpture, photographs and more  function like that all important yucca moth. They germinate  community spirit so our descendants can live the good life on the prairie in another hundred years.

Mining Gold in the Garden

Miners may have headed to the mountains hoping to discover gold nuggets and tiny gilt grains in streams and veins of rock. We’ve stayed home on the prairie and discovered it in our Kansas garden after experimenting with new crops. One such Eureka moment arrived in the form of beta-carotene, vitamin A rich sweet potatoes.

From the time my mother fed me pureed orange spoonfuls from a Gerber jar, I’ve loved the flavor and bright color of this still favorite food. Thanksgiving recipes incorporating butter, brown sugar, and marshmallows or pecans into the mix confirmed my cravings. With the advent of cooking shows and online recipe sites, I’ve discovered sweet potato pie, casseroles, fries, chips, and soups. Those dishes mean I no longer wait for holidays to gobble this favorite goodie. What I didn’t know until recently was that I could grow my own tubers and enjoy them fresh from the garden.

Our family has planted traditional potatoes many times over the decades and enjoyed the fun of digging them. It’s a thrill to stab a potato fork into the soil and turn it to see how many thin-skinned, big and little spuds one seed potato produced. Planting sweet potato slips doubles the fun for anyone who loves to guess what treasure lurks beneath those vibrant green plants and vines.

To grow these holiday favorites requires shoots you can buy at the garden center or start in the kitchen window in February or early March. While you plant a cut up russet or Yukon eye to produce the traditional tater, to harvest these sweeter forms of starch, you tuck a single leafy slip into a mound of soil. This produces a beautiful vine that generates orange-tinged gold underground. As a bonus, sweet potatoes are not in the nightshade family so gardeners can eat tender leaves as well as the tubers multiplying beneath them later in the season.

My husband dug ours recently and struck an unexpected Mother Lode. We planted 12 tiny slips, losing four to frost. Later, another plant succumbed so we were down to 7 plants. Examining  our reduced hopes, I wanted a large enough harvest to supply our family Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners along with  a batch or two of mashed or baked sweet potatoes for the two of us.

Conditions this summer must’ve been perfect for this crop because once my sweetheart turned the soil beneath the drying vines, he discovered various sized orange tubers in a large enough quantity to fill an old-fashioned washtub. One potato nearly the size of a football will feed our extended family! Others grew large enough to serve multiple  mouths per spud. Thank goodness, they aren’t all humongous. A few are small enough to feed a single diner.

It’s as if Midas with his golden touch produced these  grand champion sweet potatoes. If they were actual gold nuggets, we couldn’t find wheelbarrows enough to haul the money they’d be worth to the bank. We’ll let miners slog through the cold, dark, and damp to find wealth deep in the Rockies while our family celebrates our summer harvest of gold this holiday season.

Quilted Treasures

 I’d be the first to tell you I’m not a quilter and unlikely to become one unless catastrophe requires me to recycle old clothing remnants into blankets to warm me or my loved ones in the cold of winter. While I don’t have patience to construct such intricate coverlets, I admire those who do. When our youngest daughter learned to quilt in a high school FACS class, I was thrilled she’d continue a family tradition that has waned since my great-grandmother last sorted through her ragbag to come up with pieces to create a lovely blue and red star heirloom my mother treasures. While much of quilting is traditional and similar, like many other old time crafts, it, too, has changed with new technology and access to specialty stores.

When I examine older quilts, it’s clear the seamstress used up remnants of material or old clothing. Often times the design seems haphazard as the maker found ways to incorporate a prized child’s dress or shirt or a particularly lush piece of velvet or silk into a typically cotton or wool base. I feel like I can read the story of a family’s existence by running my fingers over these antiques at an auction or in a second hand store. 

A simple patchwork quilt I once bid for and won was made of dark colored men’s suits and ties from the early part of the 1900s.What a thrill to move my fingers like they were reading braille from one block to another and feel the differences in the weights and weaves of summer and winter fabric. The quilter had also incorporated skinny and fat ties from different eras into this construction as well. She hadn’t intended to be artful. She’d meant to keep a body warm during a drafty plains winter. After sleeping under my prize, it was clear the seamstress had succeeded. In no time, I was toasty. As dull and plain as this was, I found it well stitched and lovely.

My own ancestor’s quilt is much the same. It is made of practical, fabrics that started as every-day clothing and ended up as a charming bed cover. When I look at the tiny stitches, I feel I know this long  dead woman who had  to have been exhausted from raising a big family and helping to run a livery stable and boarding house in southwest  Kansas.  Somehow, she found time to make something so useful yet pretty out of rags.

Most quilts I see made today are every bit as lovely if not more so than their predecessors’ examples. The difference is that the quilter has visited a specialty shop to buy coordinated yards of fabric that please the eye and match a room’s decor. While the patterns may be intricate, new technology simplifies the cutting and stitching compared to those efforts of a woman working with simple tools by a flickering oil lamp.

A quilt display at the Dane G. Hansen Museum illustrated everything I’ve tried to express in this essay. As I walked from one presentation to another, I could see the differences between those made long ago from saved scraps and those constructed using modern techniques. Each one was beautiful in its own way. And, in case anyone is wondering, I wouldn’t turn down any gift of a quilt.

Girl Scout Memories

“Be prepared.” Since I was a little girl, these words have guided my life. I heard them bouncing through my four-in-the-morning brain as firefighters combatted flames in a large building less than a half block from my home. Between peeks out the front window to see how the battle was going, I busily threw prescription medications, toothbrush, clean undies, extra glasses, dog food, leashes, important paperwork, computer, camera, and other necessities in a big bag next to my purse. If we had to leave fast, I wanted to take our irreplaceable and emergency supplies with us.

After thirty-eight years of marriage, my husband has resigned himself to his wife’s early Girl Scout training that instilled the “Be Prepared” motto into her DNA. She could no more hear there might be a catastrophe than she’d have a plan to deal with the outcome. Despite a few awkward moments when he’s had to explain why the family has the equivalent of the kitchen sink packed in the trunk, this force that drives my planning hasn’t caused any major problems.

Following that early morning siren and the accompanying flashing lights and hoses stretched the length of the block, I tried to think why I was compelled to prepare to evacuate. Then the answer popped into my head. It’s because I was a Brownie and Girl Scout. From second grade on, I’d been practicing to handle difficult situations. After all, the whole purpose of this organization is to inspire girls to be the best they can be.

From the earliest years, members vow, “On my honor, I will try: To serve God and my country, To help people at all times, And to live by the Girl Scout Law.” In case you weren’t part of this group, the law involves the following principles: honesty, fairness, consideration, compassion, courage, responsibility, respect for self and authority, management of resources, and improvement of the world. It’s easy to see that anyone indoctrinated into this philosophy would make a responsible citizen.

As a kid, I thought I was just having fun tying various knots, learning first aid, practicing cooking, making sit upons, and eating s’mores. I didn’t realize those field trips and campouts where each girl had a job to complete were training future wives, moms, employees, and neighbors to handle whatever life threw their ways.

After holding and re-examining treasured scout pins I earned five decades ago, I have a new appreciation for those women who served as leaders for our noisy and not always cooperative groups. Since I, too, took a turn as a scout mom for our daughters, I know these organizers work around already busy schedules to plan meetings and activities to assist little girls in earning coveted awards. They had to reread that already worn manual to refresh their memories of the motto, the laws, and badge requirements. They missed date night with the hubs to spend an evening around a campfire with sweaty, pigtailed urchins who took that sacrifice for granted.

As a grandma now, I know scouting affected my life in uncountable ways. It made me a better, more prepared person. The women who led my early troops are probably gone now, so I’m going to say thank you to those gals who currently change the world one little girl at a time. You are making a difference.

It’s All in the Perspective

Last week I wrote about my gardening efforts to encourage black swallowtail butterflies to lay eggs. My hopes were that these would become caterpillar hordes that would munch my fennel and dill until bare stems remained. We’re almost at the naked stick stage, and I’ve learned that folks don’t always see things my way. We’ve had friends and family drop by to enlighten me about my insect cultivation practices.

The first visitor happened to be a farmer. His view of caterpillars in quantities great enough to wipe out the fern-like fronds of a fennel plant in a couple of days doesn’t jive with my dreams to expand this specific butterfly population. He tossed out a few agricultural terms that I’m pretty sure equate with killing pests. At first, I was traumatized to think anyone would consider my green, yellow, black, and white decorated worms as nuisances. However, I didn’t have to think very long to see why our friend might have this attitude. 

In another setting, I’d see these creatures much the same way. For instance, I don’t encourage tomato hornworms. In fact, when they show up in my garden, I’m on a determined mission to turn those vine-stripping monsters into premium fresh chicken food. I pour over my plants from top to bottom removing any sign of these destructive fiends. Ironically, they are closely related to the caterpillars I’ve been intentionally feeding. 

The giant worms that aim to destroy my tomato harvest happen to be the result of sphinx or humming bird moth pairings. Those big old fluttering things that trick our eyes into believing we’ve got a hummer sipping at our flowers lays its eggs on tomato plants. When those little ovals hatch, the result is that nasty green hornworm that can wipe out a garden in no time. The bottom line is that black swallowtail butterflies and sphinx moths are in the Lepidoptera order—cousins I’d say.

Our next visitor who rattled my perspective was my mother, an avid fisherwoman. She’s also an ardent gardener who doesn’t tolerate anything that damages her beloved plants. As soon as she got out of her car, I led her over to my half-eaten fennel plants to show her my 50 plus soon to be swallow tail pupae. The first words out her mouth were, “Are they good fish bait?”

Using these decorative bugs to catch fish hadn’t crossed my mind.  However, I have seen some lures at sporting goods stores that are every bit as brightly decorated as the guys currently devouring the greens I planted to tempt them into my flowerbed.

When I planted fennel and dill, I wasn’t planning on any lessons other than learning firsthand about the life cycle of black swallowtail butterflies. Despite this intention, this exercise has reminded me that nothing in life is simple. Everything we do is a matter of perspective, and that can alter something as unassuming as the mere change of a plant or the purpose for a worm. In my case, fennel is expendable. Tomatoes are not. Black swallowtail caterpillars are not fish bait. Earthworms are.

If You Plant It, They Will Come

Kevin Costner’s character Ray in the movie Field of Dreams listened to a mysterious voice telling him, “If you build it, they will come.” Against others’ advice, he sacrificed a cornfield to construct a baseball diamond in the middle of Iowa farm country. If you’ve watched this film, you know the end of the story. Shoeless Joe Jackson, members of the banned 1919 Black Sox team, and others show up to play some spirited games.

I loved the concept behind that story. When you listen to good advice and prepare, exciting adventures begin. In my case, the result isn’t nearly so mystical, but it’s certainly as rewarding. I listened to a biologist friend who is particularly knowledgeable about butterflies. She told me to garden not only to produce food but also to support this species. I’ve written before about adding dill and fennel to my garden. This year, I took that a step further.

I planted fennel and dill amongst my zinnias, larkspur, Indian blanket, bachelor buttons, and marigolds. Over the summer months, an occasional visitor would ask about that that ferny-looking stuff that smells like licorice.

“Oh, that’s fennel.”

 I’ve also had a couple of friends who remarked on the dill thriving in my flowerbed.

“ Yes, that’s dill. No, I’m not making pickles. I’m growing butterflies.”

Butterflies? 

Yes, butterflies. Specifically, black swallowtails. Each spring we see these stunning black-winged creatures with blue and yellow accents sipping nectar from blooming lilacs and later from our summer blossoms. By following my girlfriend’s advice and planting to attract these brilliant colored guests, I’ve seen scores of funny looking green caterpillars this summer. They’re each marked with details every bit as stunning as those sported by their parents. 

If gardeners provide enough host plants, adult females will lay yellow eggs on the leaves. After several weeks’ incubation under warm sun rays, these tiny deposits hatch into segmented creatures dressed in vivid green adorned by yellow, black, and white stripes, dots, and dashes. This developmental stage camouflages the pillow-like caterpillars  from hungry bird eyes, but humans easily spot their summer visitors munching lacy leaves. If you don’t see them on the plants, you’ll know they are digesting away by their healthy poopers dotting the soil and landscaping rocks beneath your greenery.

In years past, I was happy to see two or three of these ugly bugs in clown dress each summer. After adding additional fennel and dill, I’m tied up for several minutes each morning counting growing numbers chomping through the foliage. Two days ago, I counted better than two score of these potential butterflies gobbling fennel fronds.

I’ve discovered blessings often require patience, so I hope to see these little guys transition into the pupa stage. Despite research, I’m not sure how this works. I don’t know how these insects move from their feasting grounds to the site where they morph into a neutral colored chrysalis. I suspect this is going to be a live and learn lesson. I don’t know if I will see them emerge as butterflies this fall or next spring. What I do know is that I’ll ignore my husband’s requests to trim the fennel.

If every egg that made it to the caterpillar stage survives the transition to butterfly, my front flowerbed will be a brilliant colored sight next spring. All that fennel and dill should multiply as well, so we may have a record book black swallowtail swarm come summer 2016.

Unexpectedly Hosting a Mosquito Picnic

We’ve traveled lately and discovered how green the plains and arid Rockies can get when spring rains fall regularly and plentifully. For folks used to mostly desert-like conditions, it’s a thrill to see Kansas, Nebraska, and Wyoming pastures and meadows lush with belly high to a deer grasses and wildflowers blooming in every hue. What we didn’t enjoy was a mosquito ambush at an isolated rest stop.

For those of us used to lower elevations, it’s important to drink plenty of fluids when visiting higher altitudes. During this trip, I intentionally saturated my cells with water during and between meals to avoid those unpleasant headaches. Unfortunately, that also means a few more pit stops during a journey. One of those led to an adventure I’d just as soon have skipped.

The stretch between Rawlins and Lander Wyoming doesn’t have many options for travelers with full bladders, but the Department of Transportation has conveniently positioned a rest area at Split Rock. This pit stop offers tourists not only relief but a chance to learn something about local history and the environmental. Incidentally, it provided us a chance to meet at least a million newly hatched, starving mosquitoes.

When we drove into the empty parking lot, I was glad I didn’t have to wait in line for a turn at the one-holer. Even though my mind was on urgent matters like direct access to the facility, I did notice a cloud of small insects swarming the area. The part of my brain that could still analyze, thought, heck there’s a fresh caddis fly hatch in the area. After all, we weren’t far from the Sweet Water River, which currently has more water in it than I’ve ever seen.

Too bad my brain was so focused on finding a toilet. If it had been more alert, I might have realized I was about to discover I was the answer to starving mosquitoes’ prayers. Who knows how long it had been since they’d had a warm-blooded victim—perhaps since the last wagon train going down the Oregon Trail way back when.

The minute I got out and recognized these weren’t caddis flies, I raced to the door of the outhouse. Once inside, I had only a thousand or so vampires to contend with. I focused on relief while waving strips of toilet paper like a wimpy pompom to hold those hungry beasts at bay. I didn’t want the buggers to take advantage of the situation.

Afterwards, I fought my way back to the car through that horde of bloodsuckers. To  my husband’s distress, a hundred or so stuck close enough to me that they flew into the Toyota despite frantic slapping, arm waving, head jerking and other spastic movements that made it look as though I had a severe case of St. Vitus’s Chorea.

As I slammed the door, my spouse built speed on the highway while rolling down the windows. He intended to use cross ventilation to force invaders out to the green sagebrush flats where they could look for other victims. At least 90 percent exited. Unfortunately, we found ourselves periodically swatting and swiping as tough holdouts came out one by one to torture us.

With all the moisture we’ve had this year, I’m sure this isn’t my last brush with hungry insects. I’m thinking about investing in a case of DEET and making a lanyard to wear it around my neck all summer.

Shakespeare and Starlings

For a man who wrote easy-on-the-ear verse in line after line of iambic pentameter, William Shakespeare must spin in his grave to think he’s the reason millions of screeching, squabbling starlings swarm from shore to shore and border to border in America.

So who had the misguided idea to import these obnoxious creatures? In 1890 and 91, New Yorker Edward Schieffelin, a leader of the American Acclimatization Society, acted on a romantic notion to import examples of everything ever mentioned in a Shakespearian play to his hometown. Unfortunately, the bard included starlings in a scene in part one of Henry IV. That was the beginning of this cursed bird’s existence in the New World.

No one in his wildest imaginings would have thought 60 pairs of starlings released in Central Park at the end of the 19^th century would multiply to over 200,000,000 dumpy looking birds that now live in rural areas, towns, and cities across America. But that’s exactly what happened. While these raucous creatures tend to congregate in urban communities, they have spread into less populated regions, swarming in backyard trees and perching along fences like prisoners in a line-up.

 More than a few of these dark feathered, squatty-bodied avians found their way to northwest Kansas where their irritating mechanical noises interrupt picnics and naps in a hammock. We didn’t see many of them when we lived in the country, but now that we’ve moved to town, I’m frequently reminded why so few people like this bird.

First, they congregate in masses. Scores of them mow across the field behind my house, looking for insects, or they swarm in the cottonwood next to my deck. Their continual bickering chases songbirds away. Their repeated flyovers on the way to a branch lead to the need for some serious patio scrubbing. No matter where they land, they scrap and fight in ever changing tones like a gang of quarreling adolescents.

For birds that are related to the mockingbird and thrasher, starlings don’t sing lovely songs. Their vocalizations resemble the often-maligned fishwife and her shrewish shrieks. They’re guttural and shrill. If these birds imitate something, it isn’t likely to be the sweet trill of a robin. They are more inclined to duplicate the irritating sounds of car alarms and screeching mechanical objects.

By 1950, these dark feathered creatures had mastered Manifest Destiny and occupied the United States from Woody Guthrie’s California to his New York Island. Conditions agreed with them and those first few pairs have multiplied until there are more than 200 million starlings irritating fellow birds and human neighbors. 

Persistence is normally a desirable trait, but not in the case of these critters. Once a pair nests, they return year after year to raise several broods of young who will likely call that same area home. Once these guys move in, getting rid of them is an overwhelming challenge. These birds are stubborn not only about returning annually; this invasive species is notorious for evicting more desirable birds and attacking their young.

After reading the backstory to the starlings’ arrival in the new world, I’m still not a fan. Too bad Ed Schieffelin didn’t live to see the havoc he wreaked when he pursued his wild notion. There’s a lesson in this tale for the rest of us to ponder.

In the Donut Hole

While eating breakfast out of town, I overhead a woman at another table saying she hoped it stopped raining. Stop raining!!! In a similar vein, a former student who is a Facebook friend posted he’s tired of rain. Tired of Rain??? Despite frequent spritzes, real moisture hasn’t happened over our town. We live in a meteorological donut hole, which means we can watch bright reds, yellows, and orange pixels heading our way on the radar. As soon as they get close enough to inspire a happy dance, those vivid colors split into a Y shape or, even more dishearteningly, an O form, leaving us in either black or the lightest blue—a color that means we’ll be grateful for 12 raindrops.

We know people east of us with gardens saturated to the point nothing is growing. We’ve heard about those dealing with leaky basements and roofs. While we don’t want their tomatoes to wash out, their shingles to mildew, or their basements to overflow, we’d like to see running rivers and water-to-the- brim ponds and lakes. Currently, what ought to be an angler’s delight is all too often a basin of dry, cracked mud or powdery dust that won’t satisfy a thirsty cow or deer. Ponds and lakes with water are so low cows can wade through them and not get their hocks wet.

I am grateful for the precipitation we have received and hope for more to come. Heaven’s being bombarded with prayers of thanks and prayers for more. On that note, I’m careful to be specific to ask for enough but not too much. I don’t want to be like the town of Holly, Colorado, in 1965. Years ago, I read an article explaining how eastern Colorado suffered a terrible dry spell. Churches responded by hosting services specifically praying for moisture.

From June 14 to June 20, God answered those divine requests in spades. So much rain fell that the Platte and the Arkansas overflowed their banks.  Smaller creeks overflowed and roadways became torrential rivers. Within 14 hours, 15.5 inches fell just south of Lamar, Colorado. Holly’s not far away, so houses and streets flooded there as well.

We happened to visit my grandmother and uncle’s family in Denver during this wet spell. That annual holiday introduced me to the joys of bailing a basement out via bucket brigade. It rained so much we couldn’t haul water out as fast as it flowed in. Despite the inconvenience of vacationing during a downpour, all of us stayed safe, and the basement eventually dried out.

That wasn’t a reality for other families or property. Twenty-one people died in this deluge. That downpour destroyed millions of dollars’ worth of houses, cars, and roads. Other infrastructure was washed away or damaged so badly it required rebuilding. Such statistics taught me to pray specifically for only enough rain.

Living in that black zone on the radar frustrates those of us driving by dry ponds and dusty streambeds, but dealing with floods would exasperate us as well. Balance is the key. We’ll take our twelve drops and keep praying for enough but not too much.

  

Buttons, Handles, and Flushers

A nostalgic essay about the good old days when all food was slow and TVs only received two channels recently caught my attention. It made me think about the differences between my childhood and my grandkids’.

 The paragraph about not having a remote really struck home. The author explained how adults expected children to trudge to the television to manually switch from one channel to the other. I remember those days when dad would tell us to change channels. I might have been a grown up in my own home before I owned a television with a device that allowed us to flick channels without leaving our seats. That was just the beginning of technology that encouraged dependence. Now it’s expanded into restrooms.

 Soon after reading this article, I traveled and, as a result, visited several public bathrooms. Those calls of nature made me realize another cultural shift is taking place. Youngsters growing up today won’t know the time when people using such facilities had to flush their own toilets, turn water on and off at the faucet, and crank their own paper towels. Many stores and rest areas have bathrooms with automatic sensors that do all that for the users. 

As soon as a person rises from the commode, a flush is signaled. The benefit here is that stalls always have freshly flushed stools. The disadvantage is sometimes folks would like more distance before that electric eye sets off this reaction. I guess I’m old-fashioned, but I like being the one to decide when that swirling action begins.

Once users finish their business, it’s time to visit the sink. It doesn’t take long to realize they won’t be either turning a faucet handle or lifting one. In a flash, they notice the distinct lack of handles. Instead, they wave hands under the spigot, and, magically, water sprays over them.

Apparently, soap distributors haven’t jumped on board with automatic dispensers because folks still have to manually press a button to load their palms with foaming cleanser. Unfortunately, while getting suds, hands must move away from the sensing device at the sink, and the flow ends. I’ve discovered it takes a moment to reposition hands correctly to trigger a rinse. That little hesitation always produces a moment of panic. What if the spigot doesn’t go back on and my hands are all lathered up!

To add to this hygiene magic, modern children won’t know about either cranking their own paper towels or pushing the stiff button that forces the roll to spew out a single sheet. They certainly won’t get to use the old-fashioned belt of rotating cotton that I loved pulling out of that metal box  positioned above the sink. Nope, kids will think they wave their hands under a silver flue, and hot air instantly dries them. 

I see advantages to these changes. There is less trash in the bathroom without paper towels. If sensors  work, toilets flush every time they’re used. Despite those benefits, I miss being responsible for activating these devices. If we’ve made changing channels and going the bathroom automatic, what new changes lurk around the corner?

4th of July Traditions

Add a bucket, crank, rock salt, ice, canister, milk, cream, vanilla, sugar, eggs, and arm strong power to take any summer celebration over the top. As a kid, I loved arriving at a gathering where men sat or knelt circled around a good size wooden or plastic bucket and each took a turn cranking a long metal handle. Oftentimes, a child perched atop the bucket to stabilize the turning device. I knew when I saw this, it didn’t mean the guys were just telling good stories. It meant we’d soon be eating homemade ice cream.

To this day, my mom always asks if we’re having ice cream when we gather for the 4^th of July. Of course, Mom. It’s tradition. This national holiday signals that  it’s time to break out Grandma Lottie’s recipe to stir up a gallon of old-fashion goodness. Over the years, we’ve added extras such as homemade chocolate sheet cake and chock-full of butter hot fudge to accompany our sweat-busting, brain-freezing, tongue- tingling frozen concoction. These aren’t necessary. However, fresh cranked ice cream is a required part of this grand country’s birthday celebration.

In grandma’s early years, this was an inexpensive confection. Cows and chickens produced the milk,  cream, and eggs. Lottie saved to buy sugar and vanilla. Her iceman delivered a block of ice that the men attacked with an old fashion ice pick until it was broken into small enough pieces to put in the ice cream pail. After the women measured and mixed the ingredients and poured them in the canister, menfolk  lined the sides with the chunks of ice  layered with rock salt. They then took turns cranking that long handle. Youngsters got the early, easy turns while stronger men saved their muscles for that moment the mixture began to freeze and thicken. You could see how close the ice cream was to completion by how hard the guy in charge of the crank strained to keep that silver canister spinning.

Now days, we’ve simplified matters at our house. It’s more expensive, but it involves far less year-round labor. We buy milk, cream, sugar, vanilla and already cubed ice at the market and fresh eggs from local sellers. That saves feeding and cleaning stalls and coops throughout the year. It’s not quite as fresh as Grandma’s, but it works. We also cheat on the cranking.  About ten years ago, we bought an electric ice cream freezer. No longer does a family member have to sit hunched in half while he turn, turn, turns that long handle. I mix the brew, fill the cask, put it in the bucket, and pour in my layers of salt and ice. Then, poof, whammo, I plug it in and magic begins.

Now, instead of sensing how hard the canister is rotating, I listen for the motor to strain as ingredients solidify. The result is every bit as good as Lottie’s ice cream. However, I miss listening to the men sitting around that old wooden bucket, swapping stories while a little one perched atop the pail like an old-fashioned weather vane.

A Freeloader in the Garden

Something’s been eating my strawberries. Yes, the luscious berries that we planted two springs ago and carefully nurtured so we’d have fresh fruit over our ice cream and cake or sliced to sweeten a fresh  spinach salad. Since they first began blooming in May, I’ve harvested about 15 scarlet bursts of flavor that hip hop on my taste buds. Last week, I went to pick some for supper and discovered I’m not the only one that likes this spring treat.

We have flocks of birds zipping in and out of the yard, so I checked to see if beaks had pecked at the berry chunks still attached to the plant. Nope, whatever picnicked in Grandma’s garden took actual chomps from the ripest sections of the fruit, leaving hard green stems behind.

Trying to imagine what would devour my luscious treats, I remembered that at our former home, a box turtle would creep into the garden to sample tomatoes. Once in, it levered its pointed upper and weaker lower jaws to snap good-sized chunks out of the orange half of my BLTs. When I first noticed the actual bites out of my strawberries, my first thought was I had another reptile sampling the wares.

On a detective mission, I roamed through tilled rows, lifting lettuce, kale, chard, and spinach leaves in an effort to find and evict the invader. When I didn’t spot it, I inspected nearby plants and flower beds, thinking maybe it dined al fresco and then headed for a more sheltered area to digest its tasty meal.

Again, no luck. After searching fruitlessly (pun intended), I knew it was time to consult my planting partner, who is a much better sleuth than I. With decades of hunting experience, his sharp eyes zero in quickly on clues I miss.

It was the right move to involve my husband. After a short review of the rain-dampened soil, he turned to me to ask, “Do skunks like strawberries?”

“What?” I said. 

“We have skunk tracks in the garden, so that’s probably what’s eating your goodies.”

After a few moments on the internet, I confirmed my sweetheart’s suspicions. These stinky critters like berries of any kind. To confirm his findings, I remembered when our dogs got sprayed by a black and white kitty right in our back yard not so long ago. This current trespasser could be the very creature who perfumed our pooches.

Considering the super powers of this berry thief, we’ll have to strategize to make certain we don’t end up needing a hydrogen peroxide/baking soda bath. No tiptoeing through the garden in the wee hours of the morning or late at night. 

When my girls were little, they loved the book The Little Mouse, The Red Ripe Strawberry, and the Big Hungry Bear. The tiny grey rodent satisfactorily solved his fruity theft problem by sharing his red treasure with the bear. I don’t think this plan will work in this case. Once again, the potential of facing eye burning, stomach-wrenching stench forces me to consider other options.

I’m not certain, how this story will end, but I don’t intend to support that freeloading, strawberry thieving skunk much longer.  Stay tuned for further adventures.

Flour Sack Connections

By a generation, I missed wearing flour sack clothing. After drying dishes with Grandma’s treasured dishtowels that originated as such containers, I was relieved the Depression was over so I didn’t have to dress in something that started as a bag. However, over decades as I’ve listened to stories of those who did, I realize I missed making memories that people still talk about 70 to 80 years after the fact.

What’s interesting is the fondness I hear in the voices of the people who were children during this hard time as they recall those flour sack dresses, shirts, undies, towels, and quilts. Instead of seeing them as a mark of hardship, many women talk about how pretty the dresses were. One explained how her dad and older brothers would drive the horse and wagon into town to pick up that season’s supplies. Her loved ones spent extra time to look for the prettiest prints to bring back to their women who would later turn them into clothing.

Another lady talked about how her mom hand-stitched a pink flowery print into a dress pretty enough that it was passed from one girl to another as the “picture taking” dress for that family. After seeing some of the detailed handwork accomplished by that generation, I don’t doubt that it was every bit as beautiful as that storyteller recollected.

Others commented that their moms and grandmas had made them summer jumpers out of these sacks. I can see how the big ones would require only a few changes to turn them from a flour container to a young girl’s dress. A bonus is that they’d get softer every time they were washed.

Another woman talked about how she didn’t have a dress for prom. Her mom used those bright prints to create a special outfit so her daughter could attend this special occasion. After all these decades, I could tell how much it meant to wear such a pretty dress. On the other hand, I can’t imagine a modern teenager being nearly so happy to wear a gown that started as a flour sack to such a function. I also bet present day teens won’t recall their prom gowns with nearly such affection.

A gentleman involved in this discussion stated that he doubted modern companies would accommodate patrons the way milling companies did during that dark time. Another individual commented that it would be nice if current packaging were designed to suit dual purposes. I hadn’t considered that before, but it would reduce waste in the landfill if people took advantage of such forethought.

For those of us who came along too late to wear those flour sacks, we get excited when we find a box of them at an auction or a quilt or apron made of them at a thrift shop or antique store. These treasures connect us to our loved ones’ lives.

I’m glad I come from people who made and wore flour sack clothing. I’m glad I dried dishes with those old towels. I wish I owned a quilt constructed from those bright rectangles. Most of all, I’m glad I heard the stories.

August Fogs Predict Winter Snows!

Daily temperatures may still top the century mark during the next few thirty days, but soon they’ll start dropping. Knowing old Man Winter has already packed his bags and bought his ticket to Kansas compels me to google long-term weather forecasts each year. The irony is that I’ve done this long enough to realize weather predictors have worse batting averages than losing baseball teams. To prepare better for changing seasons, I also consider what meteorological prophets relying on folk wisdom have to say. Since August has just begun, I’ve planned a little experiment to see how accurate those old-timers were when they offered up this maxim, “Count the number of morning fogs in August to predict the number of upcoming winter snows.”

Considering the dismal success rate of professional forecasters, I figure that testing some of my ancestors’ tried and maybe not-so-true maxims can’t steer me any further off course than the Weather Channel does. After all, those generations alive before media started telling me what to think depended on their practical experience of watching nature and noting patterns to thrive and pass on their genes. These people whose survival depended heavily on their ability to anticipate storms have to have some pointers I can use.

Besides, some of those sayings like the one that states we’ll have a snow total that matches the tallest sunflowers makes sense. If we had a wet summer that made our state flower reach gigantic heights, it’s more likely a wet winter with piled up snow will follow. I’m not sure I can make such a big jump with the correlation between the number of August fogs and winter snows. So, I’m going to get scientific to test this prediction.

Every year I think I’ll remember how many mornings I awakened to find the field behind the house hidden by layers of misty, white fog. By the time I hang up January’s new calendar, I forget. So this year, I’m going to jot down those hazy mornings with big  X’s. That way I’ll have a permanent record to back up my not always correct memory. Now, I just have to remember not to toss it when I get my new one.

It wouldn’t hurt to have folks who read this column provide back up. If all of us kept track of those ground hugging clouds for the next few weeks, we could double check one another after the last snow next spring. We’d then see if our long gone relatives were on to something or if their words are as empty as those mists that will soon hide our prairie several mornings this month.

Wild Foods Waiting in the Woods

It’s morel time! Yes, the late April turkey season means it’s also time to heat up the cast iron skillet for these wild fungi my husband brings home from his turkey hunts.

 When my spouse first introduced me to these alien-looking treats, I wasn’t sure I should put something that ugly on the table. Of course, there was also the issue of worrying about poisonous mushrooms. He assured me he’d found and eaten morels since he was a little boy so I  needn’t  worry about dying an early death from consuming these. After I fried that first batch and helped devour them, I realized he knew good wild food when he saw it. These edibles capture the essence of spring—fresh, earthy, and rich.

Lovers of these seasonal treats get antsy when the temperatures rise and rain falls. Both are necessary for a decent harvest of an object that looks like a cup-shaped sponge on a stem. Recent dry years have frustrated even the best mushroom hunters.

My fungi finder has the greatest success when he returns to spots where he’s found treasure in the past. They are fungi so they reproduce from spores that spread when something, be it human, beast, or wind, moves the host. The act of picking them releases these reproductive parts so they do grow back in the same places under favorable conditions.

Finding these delectables is an iffy proposition that depends on perfect weather conditions as well as whether or not some other hunter—homo sapien or critter—gets to the patch first. To propagate spores for next year’s harvest, many ‘shroomers carry a net bag to store their finds so the microscopic organisms spread as the hunter carries the bag through the woods. This technique also prevents their finds from getting mushy.

Once those goodies are home, the cook needs to shake and brush off as much dirt and as many of the tiny insects that occupy those crevices as possible. No matter how small, each morel is its own universe and resulting home to a vast and varied population of tiny critters. Once they’re clean, it’s time to slice, halve, or dice. Avoid soaking or freezing morels. These actions may destroy every bug, but they leads to mushy mushroom syndrome.  Folks who harvest more than a mess, clean and dry them for later use.

Scores of morel recipes exist. For those who want to savor that taste of pure spring, go simple. Slice or halve them lengthwise, dip in an egg or milk wash, and roll them in either seasoned flour or cracker crumbs. Then fry them in sizzling oil until they’re crispy. Drain and serve the flavor of April and May on a pretty platter. We never have to worry about leftovers at our house when I serve them this way.

If you prefer more creative ways to serve these, I  have a friend who minces her morels, sautés them in real butter, and then encloses them in a cream cheese pastry that she pops in the oven until it’s golden. While I prefer fried, those woodsy popovers melt in my mouth.

Morels may be the ugliest food ever cooked, but they’re worth trying. Folks who invest the time to learn to identify edible mushrooms and the make the effort to find them hidden in wooded areas will harvest a tasty meal or two each spring. In addition, they’ll make good memories.

  

Lazarus Is Back!

Typically, my mom and I don’t name plants, but in this case, the moniker is perfect.

The first Mother’s Day after my mom moved to Kansas in 2008, I searched Hays for the perfect gift to welcome Mom to her new home. After scouring department store aisles, I gave up in defeat and stopped by a local garden center to buy a few plants so my trip wasn’t wasted. The moment I pulled up, I knew I’d found the perfect present. Its magenta color was gorgeous. In addition, that particular plant would remind mother of happy years in Southern California where a vibrant bougainvillea larger than this one grew up our fence.  

I was right.  Mom loved her new addition to the blooming pots in front of her house. Because it was in a planter, she could move it to best capture sunrays and yet protect this tropical native from scorching July and August temperatures. It thrived under her care and soon needed a larger home. Mom replanted her “baby” and nurtured those scarlet blooms.

By the end of September, she wondered what to do to protect the stunning foliage from harsh seasonal elements. It seemed a shame to let it freeze after it had grown and produced so many beautiful blossoms. Inside wasn’t an option due to poor natural lighting. After asking around, Mom found a spot in the Ag greenhouse and donated winter rent to house her treasure.

After the last frost date arrived the next spring, Mom ransomed her baby, reinstalling it on the east side of her garage. At first, the woody stem appeared dead. Both of us mourned and planned to find a replacement. Fortunately, we procrastinated long enough that little green shoots had a chance to develop and inspire a name for this seemingly expired plant—yes, that was the first time we called it Lazarus.

For the next three years, Mom shuttled the increasingly larger Lazarus into shelter each autumn and retrieved it each May. It did so well under her care regimen that mom repotted it at least one more time. After she brought it home each spring, she’d trim it to a stub and wonder if it’d come out of it. By August, that nubbin turned into a full size bush of flaming color and reminded us why Lazarus was the perfect name. 

This last fall, Mom’s standby wintering spot was unavailable. We hashed over choices, none of which seemed suitable. Just before the first freeze, we transported it to my sunporch where we hoped it wouldn’t get too cold. 

By late November, Lazarus dropped every leaf and looked truly dead. I broke the bad news and left the ugly remains on the porch until spring when I planned to pull the goldfish trick and replace mom’s plant before May. I intended head to the greenhouse in a few weeks to buy a similar sized bougainvillea to put in her big pot. 

I should’ve known better. After five years of Lazarus returning from the grave, it happened again! That dead-looking skeleton sprouted green shoots at its base the second week in April. As much as I hated calling Mom last fall to tell her miracle was dead, I couldn’t wait to announce this unexpected resurrection. I don’t know how long Lazarus will be with us, but I’m shooting for passing it on to one of my daughters after I’m gone.

What To Do with a Left Over Easter Lily…

Thinking about Easter brings to mind loss, hope, resurrection, sunshine, courting birds, greening yards, bunnies, colored eggs, and lilies. Yes, lilies. Each year, members of our church celebrate the lives of loved ones who’ve passed on with a parade of towering white Easter blooms. I love to walk into the sanctuary that first Sunday the white blossoms outline our altar. My nose picks up their sweet scent, and I think about how the first historical evidence of this flower was imprinted on a Cretan vase over 2500 years ago.

Just seeing the ladder of leaves that lead to the balloon-like blooms shouts Easter to me. When the florist wraps deep purple foil around the pot and ties on a fluffy, white bow, I’m transported across time to my first memories of this special holiday. I think of lacy dresses, shiny white patent leather shoes, basket- shaped little bonnets that I only wore one time a year. I recall soaring hymns like “The Old Rugged Cross,” “He’s Alive,” and “ In the Garden.” I can almost feel the warmth of my mom’s or  grandma’s bodies as I recall times I stood singing those songs next to these much loved women. My mouth waters at the recollection of ham dinners followed by homemade chocolate and lemon meringue pies. 

Now, those trumpet-shaped flowers are reminders of too many loved ones who’ve wrapped up their business on earth. Despite this overpowering sense of loss, I’m glad that our church family shares these recollections of good times and happy hearts. Here’s the dilemma. After Easter each year, each of us is supposed to take our plant home. 

That’s good for a week or two. Often times, ours is still blooming so we enjoy setting it in the window. Once the flowers dry up and fall off, it’s time to make some decisions. In our case, that means it goes to the lily bed out back.

The woman who lived here before us started the tradition with a leftover Easter bloom. Since we moved in, the plot has grown. Right now, it’s manageable and hasn’t taken over the rose garden. Looking ahead, I see issues.

Lilies spread, and if I keep adding to this bed each year, I’m going to end up with a yard full of plants that bloom only once a year. Granted, they are lovely at that moment, and the scent is heavenly, but afterwards, they are leggy, green plants.

I guess I need to keep in mind these are symbols of the resurrection, and they’re easy to grow. I can’t say that about everything in my yard. Once established, they bloom later than the ones we place on the altar at church so I get to enjoy them a second time each season. One article I read suggested tossing them on the compost heap. It’s hard to do that when these will thrive, and I’ll enjoy even more fond memories of a favorite holiday.

Practicing Patience in an Asparagus Patch

Longer, warmer days work function as a Siren call to gardeners.” It’s time. It’s time. It’s time to plant.” Tillers and shovels turn over winter-rested soil in plots around town while grocery stores and garden shops advertise seed potatoes and onion sets. Aggressive green thumbs have tiny shoots of lettuce, radishes, and spinach peeking through and stretching toward the sunshine. Our patch isn’t that far along yet, but we’re celebrating a landmark at our house—we picked our first homegrown asparagus this week!

Since I was a child, asparagus has meant springtime to me. This began when the eight-year-old me discovered a bed of the funny looking shoots in an abandoned field on my way home from school. I didn’t know what the alien-looking stuff was so a neighbor boy and I plucked a stem and took it home for my mom to identify. She immediately identified it and warned me not to trespass and steal. I assured her this came from an empty lot that didn’t have a house anywhere near it. Knowing what I know now, I realize this must have been an old, old plot growing where a home once stood.

Not long after that, my mom cooked asparagus for our family, and I discovered it tasted much better than it looked. Once I got married, asparagus became a rite of spring at our house because my husband liked it every bit as much as I did. We had a couple of fronds growing in the yard of our first home, so we looked forward to sampling the few bites we harvested each season.

Once we moved to the country, we found a few shoots growing wild along our creek. Again, we’d relish those fresh spears, but there were never enough to make a mess of our favorite spring veggie. We bought and planted crowns a couple of years in a row, but due to bad weather conditions, they never took off. I swore then that if I ever had a yard with good soil, I’d have my own asparagus bed with enough to share.

Finally, that dream is coming true.  One of first plantings in our new home was a long row of asparagus crowns. We studied the complicated planting procedures and followed them. We learned that successfully growing asparagus takes effort and time. We planted in April and didn’t see a single sprout until August of that year. We’d begun to think we’d wasted time, effort, and money. Despite their slow start, once those shoots peeped through, they thrived.

The patience part came into play the following spring. The asparagus rulebook says you can’t harvest asparagus the first few seasons it grows in your garden. You have to let those roots get well established, so you water it, tend it, trim back the foliage in the fall, and think longingly about tender spears of buttery goodness for at least two seasons. 

That brings me to the moment. We ate our first mess of homegrown asparagus this week. Each of us had enough on our plates that we could gobble to our hearts content.  This wasn’t a tiny sampling. It was a feast. The flavorful shoots were so tender they melted in our mouths. That isn’t something I can say about store bought asparagus.

So thirty-eight years into marriage, we finally have an asparagus bed big enough to harvest more than a few tiny tastes of spring. Watching us savor each forkful, you’d agree that it’s been worth the patience and the work.

The Homestead Act and New Trails across Kansas

Imagine reading flyers posted outside the local mercantile that promised affordable land with rich soil, a healthful climate, and railroad access. President Lincoln’s signature on The Homestead Act of 1862 led thousands to respond to these booster mantras. In addition, railroads promoted and profited from newly acquired government lands. As a result, schemers and developers publicized the region labeled “The Great American Desert” on maps as a way to live the good life and get rich at the same time. Man and machine-made trails soon riddled a country once traveled only by game, indigenous peoples, and a few hardy trappers and explorers passing through.

Dreamers and the downtrodden looking for opportunity headed west. W.R. Hill, a developer, joined with African American minister Reverend W. H. Smith to form the Nicodemus Land Company. They promoted a town site and farmsteads along the South Solomon River in western Kansas. One group interested in promises of country filled with plenty of wild game and affordable land included slaves emancipated from former Vice-President Richard Johnson’s estate in Kentucky. This group and others gathered what they imagined they needed to farm their own acres and bought Union Pacific tickets to the Promised Land.

After a long journey, these first immigrants arrived in Ellis in June of 1877. They discovered this was not the end of their travels. They still had a journey of about 35 miles to their new homes. This humble group that began an historic Kansas community walked behind a wagon filled with their meager belongings to begin the Ellis/Nicodemus trail, a route they and other newcomers would travel to and fro many times during the following months and years.

Keep in mind these fresh arrivals were from the South, a well-watered land with established agriculture. They arrived on the high plains at the beginning of summer so they would’ve scanned acres covered with still-green buffalo grass and emerging blue stem rather than thriving farmland. Used to seeing groves of hardwood trees, they’d have wondered at the scarcity of such on the plains and at the lack of variety they’d used to build and warm their former homes. Rivers where they came from were wide and deep, so their first jaunt across Big Creek in Ellis would have triggered some mumbles. What they say when they first saw the Saline and South Solomon?

For the next few years, the Ellis/ Nicodemus Trail became the standard route between the two communities. According to old Ellis Headlight and Nicodemus news articles, these newly minted agriculturists and businessmen brought grain to the mill, broken tools to the blacksmith, and their sick and injured to the company doctor available in the thriving railroad community of Ellis. One report described the excellent quality and quantity of broomcorn delivered by Nicodemus farmers. Another detailed how the railroad doctor set a Nicodemus man’s badly broken leg.

Today, that trail is a memory and a few references in old newspapers. If local historian Angela Bates has anything to say about it, this route will once again be marked and affiliated with the Nicodemus Historic Site. This path offers evidence that peoples of the prairie didn’t live isolated lives. It indicates connections between rural communities that still exist even if the roads between them are different.

Bohemian Halls in Kansas

I’ve grown up hearing America called the melting pot of the world. If you spend time traveling Kansas, then you understand the Sunflower State is the biggest bubble in that boiling mess. In a few hours’ time, travelers can visit Lebanon, Denmark, Norway, and Cuba. During that journey, drivers can drop south to Glasco, named for Glasgow, Scotland. Kansas is a state of many cultures, evidenced not only by town names but also by buildings designed to honor old-country customs.

It’s interesting to cruise our state checking out churches, schools, barns, old homes, and main streets of ethnic communities. It doesn’t take long to realize our ancestors brought their building styles from their homelands and recreated them in a region with little moisture and few trees. One of my favorite discoveries includes local Bohemian Halls. Once I spot one, I think immediately of either my favorite American writer Willa Cather or of singer Chuck Suchy and his tales of transplanted Bohemian culture.

For years I thought the Wilson, Kansas, area was the main destination for immigrant Czechs. Since then, I’ve discovered that Bohemians settled many regions of our state. One is Cuba, Kansas, off Highway 36. It has a wonderful ethnic hall where families gathered on Friday or Saturday nights to socialize and dance. It would have been a place to speak and hear a longed-for native language, evidenced by Ćeska Narodin Sin written above the entry. Not only is Cuba home to this Czechoslovakian National Hall, it also has a Czechoslovakian National Cemetery with Czech inscribed tombstones. 

A short distance south, sightseers can find another such site in the countryside near Delphos. Again, the closest town’s name misleads one to think of Aegean, not Czech, culture. Despite the confusing designation, this area welcomed many Bohemian settlers who cooperatively built this structure for common use. Current area residents maintain the building and grounds, continuing a longstanding tradition for surrounding communities.

Bull City Café in Alton is close enough to visit in the same day. What does that have to do with Bohemian Halls, you ask? In a former incarnation, the building was a Czech cultural center near Claudell. At some point, townspeople moved this edifice into Alton to serve as the local cafe. Once inside, you can view a Czech exhibit that explains this structure’s history. In addition, current operators have kept the old stage in place so diners can see where musicians of old would have stood to play and sing.

These are only a few of the Bohemian communities in our state. Interested folks can spend the rest of their lives cruising blue highways. Along the way, they’ll discover scores of tiny towns settled by people who left brought their culture and their halls to a new country. If walls could talk in these old buildings, I wouldn’t understand a word. I would, however, recognize festive rhythms of polkas and other folk dances and the shooshings all mothers use to soothe tired little ones. After decades of teaching high school, I’d also quickly identify the laughter of flirting couples. Some forms of communication are universal.

I hope these small towns find resources to preserve these remnants of their not so distant past. Such structures tell part of the story of dreamers who came to our state seeking a good life on the prairie.