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.