An Unexpected Bonus

Two days before Thanksgiving, I heard distinctive turkey talk in my back yard. Tiptoeing, I crept with camera in hand to the deck so I could watch and photograph 20 Rio Grande poults, jakes, and adults. This flock wandered into town from a not-too-distant creek to inspect lawns and flowerbeds as their   keen eyesight located insects slowed by chilly morning temps. As I enjoyed this unexpected surprise, I realized that it’s only been in my lifetime that Kansans get to enjoy such a scene. From the early 1900s until Kansas Fish and Game reintroduced this once native species in the 60s, turkeys were extirpated from our landscape.

This conservation experiment took time to get off the ground. Early transplants got off to such a slow start that even in the late 70s, biologists were still trapping Texas and Oklahoma gobblers to rehome in Kansas. My husband helped release some these captured birds in western Kansas. I recall the thrill of spotting a flock foraging along a creek or river because seeing them was so unexpected.

In the beginning hunting seasons lasted only days and few drew licenses. Over decades, units and seasons expanded until almost all Kansans can now turkey hunt during spring and fall. In some units, hunters can buy more than one permit to harvest what some consider the best meat they can put on the table. Bird numbers are strong enough that modern nimrods can opt to stalk with bows, shotguns, or muzzleloaders.

While not every farmer appreciates this creature, many, like our former neighbor, are glad to see turkeys roaming wild again. That gentleman saved garden and table scraps to toss into the barnyard to attract them. The little girl who lived down the road used this flock as models for her 4-H photography projects and earned at least one first place ribbon for her pictures of nesting turkeys.

Supporting this game animal doesn’t benefit only our diets. Across America, wildlife departments have reintroduced these birds so that their populations have grown from 1.3 million to well over 7 million nationally. This has led to more than a $10 billion economic impact nationwide, with Kansas receiving an ample share of funds.

If you have a hankering to provide freshly harvested turkey for Christmas dinner, it’s not too late to buy a license and join the second half of the fall hunt. Camoup and pursue your bird in units 1, 2, 3, 5, and 6 from December 12 through January 31, 2017.

Maybe wild turkey feasts aren’t your thing. You can still enjoy a country drive to watch flocks forage along creeks and edges of fields. If you’re out at dusk, you might see these ungainly birds fly to roost in an old cottonwood tree. Seeing something built like a feathered basketball with a long neck and wings take to the air offers its own entertainment.

Thank goodness our state Fish and Game Department joined the national movement to restore turkeys to our state. Kansans can enjoy hunting, photographing, or simply watching them parade through the countryside or town.

I Nearly Didn't Make It

Those who live far from four lane highways and interstates must consider a new issue when we travel to distant appointments. In the past, you could figure a mile a minute on open highway in good weather. Tweak that for town speed limits and stoplights. Only during harvest season did you expect to deal with slow moving, oversized vehicles. Nowadays, travelers heading south down Highway 183 from Phillipsburg anticipate a slow jaunt not behind just one wind tower or blade in tow, but several. Fortunate drivers will cruise at a crawl until they pass those behemoths.

Recently, I’ve experienced instances heading to an appointment in Hays where I found myself thrilled that my family trained me to leave well ahead of time no matter what the reason. Here’s the dilemma. How early does one need to depart when caravans of wind turbine carriers take over a road designed for 65 mph traffic and roll along at 40 to 50 miles an hour?

The other day, my dentist worked me in for an emergency appointment at noon. I calculated mileage and slowdowns through the five communities along my path. Under perfect conditions, I’d arrive in 1 1/2 hours. In less than optimal circumstances, I’d need another 15 minutes, so I left 35 minutes early. You can imagine my chagrin when I spied slow-moving vehicle flashers at Glade.

Initially, I figured I’d pass the warning vehicle, turbine truck, and the pickup ahead of it with blinking yellow lights before Stockton’s city limit sign. No worries. I had yet to note two additional long, white, ultra-wide pillars and their escorts. My hopes sank when those became visible once I reached the region’s highest hill. Darn! I counted fourteen vehicles trapped ahead of me amongst these diesel tortoises’ creeping procession. I looked in the rear view mirror and noted at least four agitated drivers behind me. Nineteen of us were murmuring unkind thoughts about the economic benefits of wind generated electricity.

At Stockton, my bladder announced the arrival of that morning’s coffee. I’d passed one turbine team so there was no way I’d listen to nature’s irritating call. By Plainville, that organ screamed on high alert, but by then, I’d overtaken the other two units. Uncomfortable beyond belief, I writhed in my seat and set the accelerator for the speed limit plus tolerance once I exited town.

That 24 miles to Hays was miserable. Side roads called me to pull over until I glanced in my rearview mirror to see the bright orange end of that huge pillar trailing behind. In response, I squinched around until I found a tolerable position and maintained speed. No way was I letting either that convoy or a trooper slow me again.

By the time I reached Wendy’s, I had just enough lead for a pit stop that would permit me to stay ahead of my nemesis. I reached the dentist with two minutes to spare. That’s a close call for someone who’s been taught to arrive at least 10 minutes early to all life events.

Old Ideas Have Merit

Even though I clerked, waitressed, mowed, and lifeguarded to earn my way through college, I had only one career-- an English teacher. My husband’s path was similar. He worked first as a fish culturist for Wildlife and Parks, but when a game warden position opened, he applied and served in that field until he retired. Imagine learning during the last few years I taught that students currently graduating can expect to have 25 different occupations throughout their professional lives. How do you prepare youngsters for that?

 My colleagues and I offered students a foundation in basics along with practicing the ability to adapt. A task that seemed daunting until I discovered something important during genealogical research. Heavens, most of our ancestors’ jobs haven’t existed for generations or aren’t in demand today. Those dead relatives often recalibrated in mid-life when lost markets or industrial revolutions collapsed livelihoods.

Through family stories, I knew my genepool often worked as teachers, preachers, and storekeepers. Their other occupations surprised me. One fellow was a wool comber. I had to think about this until I realized he lived in rural England before factories existed, during a time when wool or flax was raw materials for clothing. Apparently, his task involved combing freshly sheared and washed sheep hair so that spinners could perform their magic. A weaver friend works with this fiber from the time it’s harvested until it’s turned into yarn and understands what this job entails. However, it’s her hobby, not her livelihood.

Another relative listed his occupation as tanner. This made sense since I know a professional who prepares elk and deer hides for those who make either furnishings or rendezvous apparel from scratch. However, he’s the only one I know specializing in this lost art on a grand scale. Besides, it’s a sideline to his western décor business.

A distant great-grandpa designated cooper as his profession. I looked that one up because I wasn’t sure what it involved. Before cellophane, plastic, and paper packaging were common, coopers either constructed or repaired barrels that families used for storage and shipping. While modern ones are molded from plastic of some kind, wood deteriorates. Finding functional containers at antique sales isn’t at all common while locating a cooper to repair one is nearly impossible.

One ancestor was a glover during Massachusetts’ early years. I wondered how he earned enough to support his large family before realizing colonial Americans wore gloves far more often than present day ones do. He’d have maintained a supply of sturdy hand gear sewn from hide as well as finer dress wear created from supple nubuck or suede. In addition, women bought cotton and wool gloves for fashion and warmth. Since he paid taxes and left a will, he must’ve had ample business.

A common factor in my predecessors’ jobs was that few required college degrees and most demanded specific skills a person could apprentice to learn. According to Mike Rowe’s Foundation at mikeroweworks.org, many youngsters sitting in desks today could fill thousands of available jobs if they trained for a semester or two at a vocational school rather than spending four years in college. Seems like old ideas still have merit.

What’s Gonna Happen to History?

One of my favorite pastimes is using primary sources such as letters, diaries, old account books, and news stories to interpret the past. Learning about history directly from someone who lived it sparks an interest that brings that era to life better than any textbook can. You can imagine the fun a retired English teacher and self-professed Cather geek is having reading The Selected Letters of Willa Cather.

Once I got over the guilt of reading postings my favorite author never intended for public consumption, I’ve relished every letter. I particularly enjoyed those offering insights into O Pioneers! My Antonia, A Lost Lady, The Professor’s House, Song of the Lark, and Death Comes for the Archbishop.

Her business correspondence reveals how involved this artist was involved in everything from the selection of covers, paper, fonts, and artwork and fascinates me. More personal missives disclose that she loved the West and those who called it home. Here’s a woman who left Nebraska to spend most of her life navigating life in the world’s largest cities. Despite her urban prowess, she tells one mail recipient that she’s “just a corn farmer.” In other notes, she details Southwest adventures and how she hopes her novels set in that locale make its beauty clear to those who’ve never visited.

Her letters aren’t terse communications. She writes so that you sense you’re eavesdropping on private conversation. I loved when she explained how novels poured from her pen. In one passage she mentions how writing is akin to channeling as if she’s the receiver of otherworldly signals. Though she’s been gone decades, I feel like I’m chatting with a friend to learn how her artistic process works.

In addition to insights into this Nebraska novelist’s published collections, Cather offers tidbits about life in the early 1900s. Her readers view Pittsburg, New York, Europe, and Red Cloud to learn about theater, opera, magazine editing, setting up apartments, socializing, and eventually World War I through her observant lens. Her commentary about editing is so frank that I’m sure she’s spinning in her grave to think private words are now public. Her anecdotes about France after the war personalize that tragedy more clearly than anything except battlefield photos can.

As I savor this peek into the past, it makes me wonder what future students of history will lose now that so few of us compose beautifully written conversations with friends, loved ones, and colleagues. Digital contacts are typically brief and to the point, sharing few insights into a writer’s character. Besides, once a computer program is outdated, it’s difficult to access stored material. How many of us have floppy discs we can’t open?

It’s a thrill to crawl inside the mind of a writer I’ve loved since I was a teen. However, this time machine made of postal notes sets off noisy alarms. Good historical research requires access to primary sources. If we have no well-written letters and journals for future historians to examine, scholars lose personal perspectives into the era they study. What a loss!