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.

  

Prairie Tree Cycles

First photographs  of Ellis reveal a railroad track accompanied by  hastily assembled buildings set in the middle of dusty prairie.  Even though the picture is black and white, it is clear sunshine and open space are plentiful.  What is missing is a tree.  Any shade to be found had to be man-made.

A decade later, photographic records reveal cottages with newly planted trees struggling to take root in an inhospitable environment.  The local newspaper editor petitioned residents to plant more trees throughout town and on farmsteads.

Look at a picture taken in the 1880s in the locale of the current stone house by Big Creek on West 11^th Street to see a thriving orchard.  Shade trees tower in the background, indicating how Ellis had changed from desolate prairie to an oasis in fewer than thirty years.

In another photographic series, rows of  trees grow near what is now Playworld Park.  In surrounding neighborhoods, healthy shade trees shelter houses and yards, providing respite from the sun and homes for birds and squirrels.

By the 1920s, Ellis looked like an Eastern community with its tree-lined  brick streets.  It is easy to imagine an autumn stroll through town and seeing hordes of neighborhood children breaking the prairie plane as they raked fallen leaves into golden mountains.

After the Dust Bowl’s dry years,  snapshots of Ellis reveal fewer shade trees and none of the optimistic orchards that grew at the end of the 19^th century.  Aerial pictures tell the tale of waterless months and the toll those took on lovely greenery that once adorned yards, parks, and streets. The oasis had diminished.

Since that dry decade, residents have replanted and nurtured  trees and bushes in Ellis and the surrounding countryside.  Mother Nature has done her own seeding along waterways, creating a ribbon of green as far as the eye can see.  Once again, families can hang a tire swing on a big old branch or set their lawn chairs under an accommodating cottonwood.  All that is changing with this current dry spell.

Watching this drought take its toll on western Kansas prairie plantings reminds us to value surviving flora.  Without significant moisture soon, many locals will lose plantings that have taken generations to grow.

Perhaps we ought to perform memorial services for the dead  since these plantings have been around longer than many of our family members have.  A thirty-year-old lilac in my backyard succumbed a month ago. Two more-brown than green yews outside our bedroom inhale last bits of carbon dioxide and expel final gasps of restorative oxygen.

Along Big Creek, decades old cottonwoods and ash trees suffer  heat stress.  Heart-shaped cottonwood leaves yellow long before Mother Nature signals the fall leaf drop. Some leaves just fall, skipping the colorful part of their existence.

What will future generations see when they look at pictures of our yards, parks, and streets?   Will they see this as another cycle that came and went, or will it be a permanent part of their  prairie existence. 

Whisky Friskey

“Whisky, frisky, hippity-hop, up he scampers to the tree top.”  When I taught pre-school years ago, my pint-sized pupils loved this finger play about a scampering squirrel.  Of course, they had to substitute their fingers for the squirrel and their other arm for the tree.  Watching them, I could see Whisky Frisky.

  Even before teaching pre-school, I was fond of squirrels.  My husband and I never begrudged squirrels the black-hulled sunflower seeds they artfully steal from the bird feeder.  In fact, we buy seed mixed with corn to keep squirrels coming.  We entertain ourselves watching these critters’ antics as they tease our dogs and antagonize birds while grabbing an easy meal.

Lately, we have had an exceptionally acrobatic squirrel visiting the feeders. We love watching him sneak down the old elm tree and dash the few feet necessary to climb to the platform feeder.  Taking possession, he shares with smaller squirrels or birds only when it suits this furry potentate.

 He eats until he has a sizable mound of empty shells beneath him. Then he checks to see that he can make a safe escape, zipping down the pole and up another elm with access to several tall cedar trees.  Once there, he retires to nap or scold, depending on his mood.

This Christmas we received a new feeder made of collapsible mesh with a metal top and bottom designed to hang from a branch in such a way to deter squirrels. Should is the operative word here.  At first, our fat, furry friend would sneak out to the edge of the branch where the feeder dangled.  He scoped out the possibilities and weighed the risks. Eventually, he decided to chance the tumble.

Carefully wrapping his hind feet around a slender branch, he maneuvered himself upside down over the feeder, easily by-passing the squirrel guard.  Once in position, he dug seeds from the mesh and gorged.  At first, he ate cautiously, but as his comfort increased, he was removing 20 -30 seeds per minute.   Some he ate.  Some he stored in ever-widening cheek pouches. He never noticed me timing him; he was so busy gobbling.

At first, he did slip off his branch a time or two, causing his human audience to gasp.  We made a point to keep the dog inside during our squirrel’s initial explorations into eating while dangling upside down.  Now he is so accomplished at dangling at a 90-degree angle to feast that neither he nor we worry about an accidental slip.  In fact, as I watched him recently, this squirrel tossed the sunflower seeds unopened to the ground and dug for tastier corn kernels, all while hanging upside down ten feet above the ground.  

At twice the size of other squirrels coming to our feeder, this one definitely dominates both feeders and nearby branches.  In any other circumstance, I’d think him a bully, but instead he’s our personal “Whiskey, Frisky with tail broad as a feather and tall as sail” and well worth the admission price of an extra bag of seed and corn. 

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Watering Holes Cool Local Critters

When public pools were first built during the WPA years, I am sure naysayers complained about  wasting water and effort.  However, in heat waves such as we have experienced this year, cool town pools draw young and old like a magnet draws iron filings.   On our hilltop, we’ve created the equivalent of the public pool for our bird residents.

As heat built, wicking away available moisture, we put pans of water in shady places for our chickens.  I expected local birds to visit, but the crowds approach Disney visitor proportions.  These pools are a haven for adult birds parenting just fledged adolescents, which leads to funny scenes at the local “pool.”

Young robins with mottled coloring and spindly bodies remind me of 6^th and 7^th graders who have reached adult height but haven’t filled out. Their parents come to drink and groom circumspectly.  The young come for a drink and end up splashing half the water out of the container. 

Orioles behave more cautiously regardless of their age.  Mature birds and adolescents come to the water alert and prepared to flee at the least disturbance.  When young robins join them, the bright orioles leave immediately. House finches and sparrows also tend to be businesslike in their drinking habits, focusing on the drink and skipping frivolity.

A flicker youngster and its mother refreshed themselves yesterday and discovered tasty insects in a nearby elm.  Watching mom teach her baby to search bark and pick out insects consumed at least 15 minutes of my morning. 

Mom successfully pecked gourmet delights out of the rough bark. However, her offspring hunted without victory until the mother regurgitated insect chunks into its wide open beak.  I imagine she will be glad when that full-size child finds its own dinner.

Raucous blue jays are a rowdy bunch at the water.  They never come one or two at a time.  A gang follows soon after the first jay lands on the dish’s edge.  It’s the equivalent of  neighborhood kids agreeing to meet at the pool at the same time.  Once the troublemakers arrive, even the chickens back off. 

These pretty but noisy birds are the equivalent of bullies who push and dunk everyone else.  By the time they finish splashing around, I have to rinse feathers out of the remaining water.

Ironically, one little visitor challenges the blue jays to the water.  We have a juvenile squirrel who sunbathes by the water pans.  He doesn’t mind the other creatures who come in to drink as long as the family dog is inside the house.

No matter how wild and crazy  the robins and jays splash, that little squirrel lays outside the dish, preening like he’s in the shower.  In between bird visits, he pulls himself up on the pan’s lip to slurp a good drink.

While the water dishes aren’t permanent like a WPA pool, they serve the same purpose in providing refreshment to the neighborhood.  The lady watching from inside an air-conditioned house gets plenty of entertainment as well.

One Determined Turtle Looking for Nirvana

Walking at the local track in the cooler hours of morning, I see what one would expect to see: robins splashing in a sprinkler fountain, doves cooing from overhead lines, and clouds of newly hatched gnats hovering face high.  One morning, however, something unexpected distracted my exercise mission.

While my husband jogs, runs, sprints, and walks at a snappy pace, I maintain a steady four minute mile, quarter after quarter.  It’s fast enough to make me sweat, but it doesn’t make me dread working out.  It’s also slow enough I can notice who is driving by, which dogs are barking down the street, and the cool temp antics of  hungry  birds.  This particular morning, I noticed an intruder in lane six when I was 100 yards away.

When I first saw the larger than a hockey puck, shell toting critter ahead of me, I assumed it was an ornate box turtle.  We see plenty of them in our region, and it isn’t unusual to find them high and dry on road ways or trails.  Due to the extended dry spell, I have seen more and more Kansas state reptiles traveling to look for better living conditions. When I passed this determined fellow, it’s distinctive shell and coloring informed me it wasn’t what I thought it was. 

By the time, I’d finished a second lap, my slow-moving companion had cruised as far as lane four.  I’d have to catch my husband when he passed to get an accurate identification of this out-of-place reptile.  It looked more like a water turtle than a land dwelling tortoise.

My spouse slowed long enough to tell me it was a slider, which meant it usually called a muddy creek bank  or water-side log home.  Unfortunately for that traveler, the nearest creek and creek bank consisted of dried earth scabbing and peeling like someone with week-old road rash.

I realized this far-from-home visitor was looking for the nearest damp spot,  which was the sprinkled grass on the football field.  I gained new respect for turtle noses or hearing if this guy could smell  or hear water splashing onto manicured turf all the way from Big Creek.  It also gave me more respect for turtle stamina since this slow-moving, shell-lugging creature had navigated its way up hill, across a rocky drive, under a fence, and onto the track.  No wonder Aesop let the tortoise win in the “Tortoise and the Hare” fable.

As I continued circling the track, this little ninja continued its journey across every lane on the track and crawled into the end zone.  By the time I finished my three-mile walk, the green home-toter was at a damp 10 yard line heading for turtle nirvana under a splashing sprinkler.  I could imagine a Friday night crowd cheering him on.

Every time I go to the track, I look for a pancake-size lump creeping across the football field.  If it is occupying the twenty-yard line, it’s going to get the surprise of its life when practice begins.

Spring Showers Mean Get the Mower Ready

Facebook has been a great way to reconnect with high school and college friends who live in other regions of the country.  Frequently, they post updates regarding their weather and how that affects their lives.  One friend who lives in the Pacific Northwest recently commented about how much rain they had and how she longed for extended rainless, sunny days.  After months of no rain and plenty of sun, I offered to split the difference with her to see if we could both be happy.  After these days of spring rain during Spring Break, it looks like Mother Nature gave me a peek at what my Seattle based friend experiences regularly.

Though eager to see the sun again, I love watching every drop fall. Taking my glasses off and walking out in the drizzle to check the rain gauge highlights each day, especially as I see that collection line rise with each visit.  When those drops totaled a half inch, I did a goofy little stomp my feet dance. 

When they added up to an inch, I sang off-tune nursery songs about rain.  When I woke up to more than a two inch total, my fifty-something carcass performed ballet jetés in front of that plastic container attached to a fence post. 

Rain-starved folks tend to be grateful for hints of moisture, which would describe most of us in this area last week.  The weather channel had predicted significant rain last week, and we got enough to wet the very bottom of the rain gauge.  Instead of complaining, most of us gave thanks that rain/dust freckles punctuated bug gut scribbles on our windshields.  While I was grateful for those reminders of heavenly blessing, I hoped to see more generous splotches or even a true mud splash looking like race car flames on the side panels of my Toyota.  Today, those prayers came true.

While my Seattle friend has to work mowing in around the daily rain showers, we rarely mowed last summer.  With a buffalo grass prairie yard, we mow when it rains.  Other than a few weeks last year, our mower collected dust rather than grass cuttings.  However, after looking at the green shooting through sere tendrils of dormant buffalo grass, we will mow at least a few times due to recent moisture.

Time to sharpen the blade, adjust belts and tires, do whatever my husband does to the fluid mixtures, and gear up for several hours of crisscrossing the prairie on the riding mower.  During the heat of summer, it is hard to get excited about mowing, but after months of no moisture and little hope for growing grass, I may volunteer to trade cooking duty for mowing duty and enjoy every sneeze and cough grass-induced allergies provoke.