Winter Morning Shadow Plays

            One of my favorite childhood memories or perhaps even adult memories involves using a bright light to cast finger shadows of rabbits, birds, and other creatures onto a blank wall. One morning, I noticed Mother Nature playing her own shadow games on Big Creek below my kitchen window. These engaging and active silhouettes encouraged me watch further and discover what fun the “old girl” could concoct using barren branches, agile squirrels, and flitting birds.

            A number of factors played into this shadow extravaganza.  First of all, water filled the creek that winter and provided a surface to reflect dozens of scampering critters bobbing in the overhead branches at any one time.  Also, the creek hadn’t frozen for long periods due to unseasonably warm temperatures. This sharpened the mirror-like effect on the slow-moving stream. Next, the red line on the thermometer recorded mornings chilly enough to invigorate squirrels and birds, but not so cold that it forced them into still, huddled energy preservation mode.

Another bonus was unnaturally clear air—no fog, no mist, no moisture of any kind obscured mirrored images. Finally, weekends provided time to be home around 8:30 a.m. when the early sun popped over the hill in just the right spot to profile a myriad of cottonwood, ash, and locust shadows onto the winding brook.

            What I saw when I gazed out the window onto Big Creek was a most unusual circus.  Shadows of furry, acrobatic figures chased one another from one darkly silhouetted high branch to another up and down the bank. The inconsequential forms seemed to fly as they leapt across open space. I suspected a previous May’s tornado created greater gaps than the squirrels were used to based on some of the stretches their images made as they reflected vaults from one landing to another. 

Amazingly, those breaches didn’t faze them as they launched wiry forms from limb to limb across spans of about 300 feet. The fearless rodents blasted off across open territory with the fearlessness of the Flying Wallenzas. 

            Every now and then I spied one of the reflected creatures performing a flip or winding itself artfully around a branch like it wanted to enhance its routine. Working in tandem, several choreographed a chase scene to rival the chase in The Thomas Crown Affair.  In addition to the fury critters’ mirrored dives, leaps, twirls, shadows of big and little birds hovered and darted in and out of the darkly profiled scenes. Where to look first became the morning challenge. Who cared about coffee?

            I don’t know how I missed this show on earlier weekend mornings unless that year’s presentation had more to do with previously mentioned factors—unnaturally warm temperatures and lack of moisture in the air that provided clarity we normally didn’t experience winter mornings.  Whatever the reasons, I’ve recorded this shadow play in my memory banks so I can sit back on future mornings and smile at the antics of frisky squirrels turning somersaults in my mind.

           

Some Things Do Get Better With Time

In the rush of daily life, it’s easy to forget indoor toilets are relatively new to housing construction. Those who’ve never relied on an outhouse don’t understand how relieved residents were when they had a solid privy resting on a concrete foundation. Thanks to Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration, 600,000 American families enjoyed stable, sanitary facilities behind their homes.

The WPA focused on projects that improved life. Few communities could fund band shells, picnic houses, and swimming pools without federal dollars and the necessity to provide jobs. However, those weren’t the only projects that enhanced the USA. Health organizations had insisted from the early 1900s that Americans needed higher sanitary standards. Shallow pits and poor outhouse drainage led to epidemics related to fecal exposure. Scientists determined that concrete vaults at least 6 feet deep reduced such risks. This was a perfect goal for this department.

Most of us have visited WPA pools, buildings, and other monuments to hard work and hopes for better times. Depression era toilets add to the projects local labor teams and resources constructed. With so many built across the country, remains of facilities must still exist in western Kansas.

This information might help find them. Bureaucrats selected a standardized design that involved a poured underground vault planned so the top served as the outhouse foundation. Wisely, someone included a surface level concrete pot and vent hole. Cement flooring and seat construction offered better sanitation than wood construction did. Wisely, this design required screened vents to prevent fly-borne disease. Such models significantly improved public health.

While the vaults and seats were standardized and mass-produced, the actual wooden shelter depended on local materials and preferences. The plan called for a 4 x 5 frame and braced wooden door. While building crews followed similar plans, researchers note structures varied throughout the country.

Although labor teams installed over 600,000 outdoor commodes during that era, few remain. If you want to visit a Kansas WPA outhouse, you must get permission to search old homesteads for concrete foundations. Once you find one, don’t fall in the hole.

 If seeing the wooden “house” satisfies your curiosity, a landowner in McPherson County moved one onto his property years ago. The Sherman House Bed and Breakfast in Elk County transported another one to a site near their flower garden and named it “The Flower Pot.”

A trip to Franklin County Indiana offers the opportunity to check out ten such relics. For your reading pleasure, their museum has an edition of the “Indiana Community Sanitation Program Regulation Manual, Sponsored By United States Public Health Service, Indiana Division of Public Health Works Progress Administration.” This would be helpful if you want to install a reproduction on your homestead. In addition, they’ve posted official outhouse maintenance rules tacked to a surviving privy door.

Personally, I want to observe one of these as an historical object. While WPA construction has many charms, I’m happy with my indoor toilet.

Sandbox Bliss

Temperatures dropped and snowflakes flew long enough to blanket our yard and the field behind it. Despite a chilly reminder that winter isn’t quite over, I have spring on my mind. Recent days warm enough to wear short sleeves reminded me to deliver our grandkids’ sand and water table so they could enjoy it over spring break. Our youngest grand has already tried out hers out. Seeing a photo of that little blonde dumping shovels full of sand into her bucket recalled memories of her mom and aunt’s happy hours in their sand-filled tractor tire.

While we weren’t farmers with our own big equipment, friends who made a living driving a big John Deere offered us one of their gigantic discarded tires. We rolled it to a spot close to the back door so I could do dishes or cook while listening to our youngsters’ cheerful chatter as they sifted sand, wetted it, and used old measuring cups and bowls to mold castles and other fanciful structures inside their three-foot-wide rubber moat.

When I had time, I joined them in creating architectural wonders or baking luscious desserts concocted from ingredients available within their tire and the surrounding yard. Each of us selected a dainty plastic pan to form our pastry. Once we finished packing dampened dirt, we’d slowly remove our creation, hoping it didn’t crumble during the process. Using leaves and flowers we found in the yard, we decorated our culinary delights. The girls were wizards at designing inedible works of art. As good as these looked, only a chicken pecking for a little gizzard grit would enjoy eating them.

Every now and then, I’d hear wild shrieks and race outside to see sand flying. This signaled the girls had found a live bug in their dirt. Shovels flew like windmill blades to eject unwelcome intruders. Enough insect protein found its way into the sandbox so I didn’t have to worry a wayward amphibian would starve if it managed to fall or be placed inside that deep walled tire. I did intervene the year baby toads infested the yard.

Unbeknownst to us, the girls collected dozens of miniature toads and corralled them in their sandbox. These mottled -skinned creatures dug themselves shady holes and waited for flies and beetles to land within eating reach. At dusk, I discovered our daughters leaning over the tire to say good- night to their captives. This population was too great for the available resources so I intervened and made the girls relocate their livestock to a less restrictive environment. As they carried handfuls and pocketsful of toads to freedom, I heard them talking to them like I talk to my dogs. Gadfrey. Toads as pets in the sand box.

I suspect our grandkids will soon weary of bright colored sand and water tables. They live on ranches where discarded tractor tires abound. It won’t be long til our daughters join their tots to once again bake sandy confections and check for insects and toads. Heck, Grandma might have to see if she can still whip up one of those pies.

The End of an Era

Recent headlines that Bass Pro Shop purchased Cabela’s empire for 5.5 billion dollars triggered lively conversations at our house. Like many folks, we’re wondering how our outdoor shopping habits will change. We frequently visited relatives in Sidney, so we had a front row seat to watch this corporation expand out of a red brick warehouse to its current multi-store empire during forty years of marriage. Over those years, I’ve written several columns about family adventures at this American landmark. Recalling our affection for Cabela’s led to memories about its predecessor—Herter’s.

Coincidentally, I happened to pick up a boxed 903 Herter’s deer call at a garage sale this weekend. When I handed it to my husband, he immediately recalled glorious hours he spent pouring through old catalogues to make his childhood hunting, fishing, and trapping wish lists. Watching him share these happy reminiscences gave me a peek at a boy filled with dreams of Daniel Boone-style adventures. I’m guessing this current generation of outdoor enthusiasts feels the same when they flip through Cabela’s catalogues.

As soon as we started talking about old Herter’s mailings, my husband could tell me exactly which ones he saved. He could also detail accounts of his orders of fishing lures and hooks as well as his hunting and trapping supplies that included decoys, traps, and a special knife. For a youngster who grew up a few hundred yards from the Kansas River in the Flint Hills, Herter’s offered the very best Canadian Guide-tested materials to guarantee success in the field and on the water.

 Hearing him recite this litany reminded me of distant days when delayed gratification ruled young lives. I heard disappointment in his voice as he recounted the high school canoe trip that took him and friends to Waseca, Minnesota—home of Herter’s actual store. Unfortunately, the travelers arrived after business closed and left before it opened.

Like many fellows who grew up during the 60s and 70s, he didn’t have much money, so he hauled bales, pulled weeds, and performed other farm chores until he fill out that order blank and attach a cashier’s check. From our earliest dates, I heard from relatives and friends about how hard my husband worked to reach his goals. When he bought my engagement and wedding ring, Herter’s missed his order until he replenished that account. However, until they closed, he relished reading and rereading each page of their seasonal mailing and planning the next year’s list

Like many friends, we began marriage with little more than a few hand-me-downs and a supply of old catalogues, traps, decoys, and fishing supplies bought throughout the years. Before we got on our feet, Herter’s went bankrupt and closed. Since then, we’ve diligently scouted auctions and garage sales to find remnants of George H’s outdoor empire. We’ve collected boxed deer, crow, duck, and quail calls along with the famed Bull Cook book sent as a Christmas gift from my brother. He shares my husband’s love of pouring through those old catalogues and finding memorabilia in dusty corners of second hand stores and garages.

The business deal between Bass Pro and Cabela’s makes me wonder if a new generation of outdoor enthusiasts will stash catalogues and treasure purchases carrying Cabela’s logo the way we saved our beloved Herter’s ephemera. It’s the end of an era. Who knows what will take its place?

If Walls Could Talk

Some mornings I wake up to imagine I hear car and camera calling me to join them for another Kansas road trip. Coffee mug in its holder and hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel, I’m ready to explore dusty roads and fading communities along rural highways designed to knit together regions of our state. These journeys   help me appreciate hardy souls who built homes, businesses, churches, and schools with their hard-earned cash. Early pioneers had no access to federal or state-funding modern residents take for granted. As a retired teacher, I’m drawn to aged academic buildings like iron filings to a magnet.

Lately, I’ve visited a number of dilapidated towns to photograph deteriorating schools before they vanish from the landscape. Local historical societies have pictures of these brick wonders in their glory days, but I want to record the moments before they return to dust. Something about a once elegant structure in crumbling ruins captures my imagination more completely than reading old yearbook essays does.

Certainly, I feel nostalgic as I ramble around foundations to sense the layout of classrooms, auditoriums, and gymnasiums. Even more than a longing for a less complicated, slower-paced existence, I ache for that time when people incorporated handcrafted details to beautify a simple public building. Almost every one of these deteriorating edifices is exactly that—an edifice.  In a region distant from specialty guilds and artisans, who would complain about city leaders assembling unassuming structures with no embellishments? Visit these ruins, and it’s clear that is not what happened.

Many of the red brick establishments that remain were the community’s second or third school. Oftentimes, initial coursework took place in either a local home or dugout. As soon as a settlement developed sufficiently to afford new construction, workers erected out of wood or native stone two or three stories that each contained only one or two classrooms. Photos reveal modest playgrounds and necessary houses either to the side or behind these schools. What you see in these black and white photographs is pure function. Ornament is missing.

By the late teens through the thirties, communities along the Union Pacific and Missouri Pacific Railroads optimistic about continued growth and financial success raised new schools. Many featured then-popular Art Deco details. Those characteristics included angular brick walls with inlaid bands of vertical brick and a flat roof. They often display decorative geometric panels, vertical towers, stepped piers, and casement windows. A few regal antiques have beautiful arched, multi-paned windows above hand-carved entrance doors. One regional building still displays distinctive scroll-shaped lights on either side of its double doors. Just walking through such an entryway to reach class would add intent to a youngster’s studies.

Over decades, trucks and highways replaced railroads, resulting in a declining rural population. Decades later in the 60s, school consolidation forced closure of too many architectural masterpieces. In a few locations, individuals bought old buildings and turned them into homes or businesses. Unfortunately, too often, time and lack of maintenance resulted in unsalvageable eyesores. As bricks crumble , I hope families and museums publish their old school’s stories.

Country Kid Fun

Unseasonably warm weather recently reminded me that country kids know how to have fun. I’d begun thinking about this topic after a visiting eight-year old from the Denver area entertained me with   adventures he enjoyed at a trampoline and arcade business near his home. After he detailed hours of good times performing tricks and challenging friends, I wondered what my grandkids would remember about their country childhoods. Thank goodness, I spied two teens playing a crazy game of either hide-n- seek or paint ball war in between long rows of snow-frosted hay bales along Highway 24. That nudge reminded me boredom wouldn’t affect anyone growing up in our family.

When those first seeds of concern sprouted, I should’ve thought about the farm kid essays I read during decades as a rural English teacher. On many occasions, I burst out laughing either in the middle of class while students read independently and I graded, or I interrupted quiet family evenings with guffaws that made my husband question my sanity. How could wielding a red pen be that much fun?

Nothing beats hay bales for fort building, assault advantages or hiding places in hedge apple wars, or simple jumping exercises. Who needs trampolines when you can leap from one round bale to the next to strengthen your legs and your balance? Add someone chasing you, and the thrill increases. For the less physically inclined youngsters, these objects offer quiet hiding places and comfy posts for cloud watching.

Not only do humans enjoy fragrant bundles of straw, hay, or alfalfa, critters like them too. Rural youngsters often spot red tails or northern harriers perched atop the straw while gnawing at a fresh meal. A favorite story detailed a kid plowing a field and seeing a bobcat snoozing lazily atop giant shredded wheat shapes bordering his work zone. Talk to most folks who grow up on farms or ranches, and even their eyes smile when they tell about about finding a farm cat with a litter of kitten tucked snugly into the hay.

Bales aren’t the only kind of fun country kids enjoy. Hot days lend themselves to unplanned dips in a farm pond or stock tank. Unlike the municipal pool, swimsuits aren’t required and kids can leap in fully clothed if they want. Swimmers might splash and giggle with the family dog or maybe feel stocked fish nibbling at their toes. Mossy bottoms make this a true adventure when soaked humans attempt to exit upright from the water.

Rural escapades don’t end when the sun goes down. Evenings offer opportunities to star gaze or count satellites arcing overhead in dark night skies unlittered by bright fluorescent and neon signs. On warm summer nights, entertainment includes counting and maybe catching flitting fireflies. Who doesn’t love watching a beetle with a blinking tail crawl up an arm or leg? That tickle added to the on/off glow is pure magic.

Hang around country kids for a while, and you realize a word is missing from their vocabulary. It’s the overused modern term—I’m bored. When you live in a landscape that constantly challenges you and allows your imagination to run wild, adventures await 24/7.

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.

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?

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.

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.

George Washington and the Mumps

After receiving scores of Presidents Day sale flyers in my mailbox, I’m flashing back to childhood celebrations of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington’s birthdays. Keep in mind we didn’t combine birthdays fifty years ago. We turned February into one long party. We feted Lincoln on February 12 and then Washington on the 22^nd. When you added in a Valentine party, February was a festive month for elementary students during Eisenhower and Kennedy’s terms.

Due, I’m sure, to Lincoln’s distinctive features, my classmates and I cut our 16^th president’s side view out of black construction paper every year. I recall the rhythmic sound of the teacher stapling these on a white bulletin board. Along with creating our annual artwork, we heard the story about Abe’s difficulties attending school. That tale made me grateful my classroom was a short walk from home.

February 14 distracted us momentarily from our patriotic lessons. Twenty or more of Abe’s silhouettes served to backdrop an equal number of red wrapped shoeboxes, decorated with crudely cut out hearts and lacy doilies. Candy and cookie-fueled primary students stuffed cutesy Valentines into those narrowly slit containers. Those who could wait hauled their loot home and spent the evening tearing open teeny-tiny envelopes to sound out sentimental sayings.

Recovered from our sugar high, we spent the next eight days practicing for the Father of our Nation, George Washington’s birthday blowout. This extravaganza involved  cutting out construction paper hatchets and cherries and young children waving American flags of varying sizes in a pageant directed by the most commanding teacher in the school.

I loved the hours of preparation that led up to these events. After pinning our hatchets and red fruits to stage curtains, dozens of scrappy grade-schoolers practiced marching in wide circles either to a John Philip Sousa selection or to “Yankee Doodle.” After we perfected parading until we could do it without a teacher’s intervention, we’d learn flag care rules. 

Our teachers drilled into our flighty brains that Old Glory must never touch the ground. They emphasized treating the red, white, and blue with respect. Once our rarely focused gazes acknowledged this solemn responsibility, an adult would hand each of us a handkerchief -sized American flag attached to a wooden dowel. I don’t recall classmates poking or stabbing anyone with these handy weapons. During those post WW II and Korean Conflict years, even little kids knew the American flag was more than a piece of fabric.

My greatest sorrow in grade school occurred during second grade. Mrs. Hill picked me to lead the flag procession that began the celebration, something I liked even more than receiving Valentines stuffed with extra lollipops. Unfortunately, two days before my starring role took place, I awoke with a temperature and swollen jowls. Those were the days before vaccinations, and I had the mumps.

While I sat at home examining a paper bag filled with red candy cherries my parents bought me to celebrate George Washington’s birthday, one of my classmates led the procession onto the stage. To this day, when I see red jelly balls in the candy bin at Orscheln’s, I remember the buckets of tears I cried at missing my moment in the spotlight.

Passing the Candy Bag to the Next Generation

Our daughter sent us a picture of our granddaughter dressed up as a pretty princess for her first trick or treat outing. Our kids waited until their daughter was almost four to let her join the ranks of smiling goblins knocking on doors in search of goodies on Halloween night, and it’s clear this cutie pie enjoyed her adventure. Her smile radiating above her flowing white dress switched on a deluge of happy memories from my brother’s and my years as beggars who also loved this holiday.

As a fan of “The Rifleman,” “Gun Smoke,” and “Combat,” my brother often costumed himself as either a cowboy or a soldier. He had the necessary plastic rifles and pistols along with hats, vests, and bandanas in his toy box. If he was tired of the old West, he had an equally fine collection of imitation WW II armament that he and dad used to aid actors on the TV show “Combat” during their firefights. At every commercial break, father and son chased Nazis down our hallway and out of closets. For Halloween, Kent could smudge his face with black and be ready to defend the neighborhood outside our front door as well.

During regular playtime in our yard, the tomboy side of me joined the boys in their shoot ‘em up western and army games. However, for Halloween, I didn’t want to be Festus to my little brother’s Matt Dillon. Some years I wanted to be a pretty spook so mom would let me sort through her flowing skirts, rope necklaces, bangle bracelets, and glittery earrings until I’d assembled a costume that would make a Roma princess green with envy. This was one of the few times she’d let me wear her eye shadow, lipstick, and rouge, which might explain why I often chose this costume.

As much as I loved to glide down a dark sidewalk in full gypsy array with my mother’s necklaces and bracelets clinking rhythmically against one another at each step, some years I dressed up as a sad- faced hobo. In the early 60s, folks still talked about men who’d ridden the rails during The Great Depression. Apparently, I found this notion romantic. I’d slide into mom’s too big britches, tie a piece of rope around my waist to hold her pants up, and wear one of dad’s huge shirts with tails that nearly reached the sidewalk. Some years, mom would draw a dark beard on my face with her eyebrow brush and once, she applied coffee grounds to my cheeks so it looked like I had scruffy whiskers. Top that with one of dad’s old felt hats, and a pig-tailed blonde became Freddie the Freeloader.

Halloween was a heady day for two youngsters who rarely roamed the neighborhood freely. We’d lug our brown paper sacks from one lighted doorway to another, knocking and chanting the requisite Trick or Treat. If we were lucky, a local mom handed out homemade popcorn balls. If we were unlucky, the grocery store had a sale on saltwater taffy just before the big night and the neighbors stocked up on my least favorite candy.

Times have changed considerably since my brother and I were trick or treaters. Despite the passage of time, the look on our granddaughter’s face in her first Halloween photo tells me that she has discovered how much fun it is to be a goblin one night a year.

Fourth of July Fun

“Gramma, wuuuhms (worms), pops!” giggled my three-year-old granddaughter, calling from western Kansas. It’s July 3, so I realize her parents have taken her to buy childhood firecrackers such as black snakes and those little poppers that I, our daughters, and now our grand love to throw on hard ground. Sure enough, my little caller’s mother confirms that’s what happened. This is G’s first year to enjoy these holiday favorites, and she wanted to share her excitement.

This sweet, unexpected phone call sent me down memory lane to my own first visits to firecracker dealers. It’s been long enough since those shopping trips that the recollections count as antiques. I still remember the feel of silver coins, probably dimes and a nickel, in my hand and the sense of importance as my parents took my brother and me to select patriotic noisemakers.

Back then, folks didn’t have air conditioning the way they do now, so we were hot before we started shopping. It seems the stands were always under some kind of awning, perhaps old military tarps left over either from Korea or WW II. I recall stepping into the shade and appreciating cooler temperatures in the dim, gunpowder scented interior. The bad part was it made it harder to see kid- friendly fireworks displayed on homemade plywood and saw horse tables.

While I was older than our granddaughter when I picked out my first 4^th stash, I still needed to stand on my tippy toes to peer at the dazzling merchandise with pictures of black cats and Chinese letters and wrapped in crinkly cellophane. Our parents guided us to sparklers, snakes, poppers, and a string of tiny ladyfingers they would help us light. Miracle of miracles, when we handed the clerk our sweaty change, she gave us each a free punk.

Once we bought our treasures, our father selected some surprises of his own. He was partial to Roman candles and cherry bombs, which were legal then. As we climbed into the furnace-like car to go home, he made it clear that we were not to touch his fireworks. After I met a boy who’d had a Roman candle burn and scar his chest, I understood why Dad was so emphatic about this.

Back home, the oven-hot sidewalk became our launch pad. Our parents sat on the porch step, watching us arrange little black kernels that would become long, spiraling, snakes. We oohed and aahed watching them writhe and stain the cement black and grey. After those were ash, it was time for a popsicle and pockets full of poppers that we threw from distances and close up. We even stepped on them to make them explode. 

After our stash was shredded tissue, our dad helped us use our spicy smelling punks to light one ladyfinger at a time and throw it safely away from our bodies. He had us save one string so we could hear a bunch pop at one time. When we’d had our fun, he would light a cherry bomb or two far enough away from us that we were safe, but close enough the explosion vibrated our eardrums for a spell.

After dark, we slurped bowls of mom’s homemade ice cream and watched dad launch his Roman candle display. While these don’t compare to modern pyrotechnic displays, they were magical to late 50s and early 60s youngsters. To end the evening, my brother and I waved lit sparklers and danced wildly about the yard. 

We must have fallen asleep before our parents carried us inside. I’d be so surprised to wake up on July 5^th to a yard full up burned up snakes, exploded popper tissue, shredded firecracker paper, and torched sparkler skeletons. Cleaning up wasn’t nearly as much fun as lighting them.

I’m so glad Little Miss G called Gramma about her wuuuuhms and poppers. I enjoyed her excitement and my memory.

Slidin’ Through Time--Playground Memories

Recently, I recollected playing on playground swing sets during my early school days. Sometimes other kids beat me to the swings, and the line for a turn was greater than my patience could bear. I’d scamper over to the slide that towered over our asphalt empire and join the folks waiting there. It required more time to climb the ladder than it took to shoot to the scooped out dirt belong the bottom of that old metal treasure, so I knew I’d get a few thrills in before the bell called us back to our seats.

Height and speed loving youngsters dutifully waited their turn to climb that towering slide. If they were lucky, the well-worn metal undulated in the middle, which added a little lift to those jetting down on cotton clad fannies. Other slides were straight shots to the ground and anyone zipping down with legs pressed together to increase speed had to be ready for the sudden landing at the bottom that often propelled them to a gravelly face plant.

Under teacher supervision, we followed the one at a time rule.  After school, on weekends, and during the summer, we learned physics by risking our lives. Someone would walk up the incline while another daredevil whizzed down the slide through legs or had a head on collision. 

That adventurous equipment offered other challenges. How many youngsters could form a train to race down its slick metal? The person serving as the engine had to press both legs hard against the narrow sides to stay in place until everyone was in line. At the bottom, participants landed in a giggling dog pile or sometimes a crying mess if someone landed on someone else’s hand or finger.

One time, only my brother was available to play. I had the brilliant idea to put him in front on the slide and tell him to hang his cowboy booted legs over each side. Before we started down, I put my arms around him and pushed off, anticipating the crash landing at the bottom. Imagine my surprise when he swooped out of my arms and over the side while we were still near the top.

Once at the bottom, I expected to see him Humpty Dumpty-like on the pavement. Instead, I found him hanging upside down with one booted foot caught in the side-stabilizing bar. I tried to reach him to tug him out of his shoe, but this was a tall slide, and I was a little girl. I tried pulling him up from the top but that hurt his ankle too much. Finally, I left him dangling while I dashed to get our parents. Thank goodness, we lived within a block and my dad was able to lift him out of that trap into my mother’s arms. 

To this day, I can’t look at one of those old slides without feeling hot or freezing metal against my back side or seeing  a vision of a little boy in cowboy boots dangling upside down, hollering for help. It’s a wonder my brother ever let me talk him into climbing trees or diving into swimming pools after that adventure.

Valentine Memories

It’s hard to ignore Valentine promotions. Big box stores dedicate aisles to red and pink candies, stuffed animals, balloons, tableware, and other items most of us don’t need. Flower shops depend on profits generated by lovers sending bouquets to their sweethearts. Card stores tempt us to send our partners expensive cards declaring true love. It’s the February assault on our winter-dulled senses, and we’re all gullible—me included. I love getting posies from my husband.

Despite my adult vulnerability to this over-promoted holiday, kids really know how to celebrate it best. They spend considerable time using construction paper, crayons, and glue to craft personal mailboxes for their friends to fill with corny cards signed in childish scrawl, which are then folded, and tucked into thin envelopes that would never make it through the U.S. mail.

As much as I loved room-mother hosted Halloween and Christmas parties in primary school, the Valentine bash is the one I most anticipated. In the weeks before the event, I hoarded scraps of colored paper, bits of lace or rick-rack, and dug about in drawers hoping I might find some hidden glitter.

The weekend before the big day, I spent in my room, constructing my treasure box. First, I sorted through old shoe-boxes to find one that wasn’t too bashed in from being Barbie or Ken’s race car. It also needed a lid so I could use my tiny scissors to open a Valentine Card size slit.

Once I had the mail opening in a suitable carton, the wrapping challenge began. My mom would help if needed, but she believed children design their own projects, which sometimes led to some interesting corners and edges in the finished product. Until I was a teacher, I couldn’t understand why some of my friend’s containers had such sharp and perfect lines. They’d had a great deal of adult assistance.

Covering the rectangle in red or pink paper was only the beginning. Once I accomplished that, the real fun began. I got to snip around dozens of little embellishments: hearts, lips, dorky cupids, and fluffy clouds. My imagination was the only limit to the possibilities. At that point, I’d never heard of white space in a design, so I went whole-hog in applying my little cutouts everywhere I could dab a glob of glue.

After ornamenting my once plain shoe box, I set it up to dry. I then tackled picking out the prettiest cards for my best friends from the little box of Valentines mom and I selected at the dime store. I had to be sure I didn’t give any too friendly ones to boys with cooties.

 In those days, kids didn’t learn to write their names until kindergarten, so my handwriting still looked an awful lot like chicken scratches in first and second grade. It took a while to sign off on those annual missives to my classmates.

The best part of Valentines was coming home with the now scraggly container filled with little white envelopes. Some of the kids had added a sucker or a candy heart to their notes. I loved sitting on my bed and opening each one. I savored admiring the clever drawings, figuring out the funny sayings printed on each card, and deciphering my class-mates crooked lettering. I’m sure more than once, I fell asleep surrounded by this sweet dream-generating loot. 

My husband might want to save himself some money and send me a dorky little handmade Valentine this year. It would bring back memories of some very good old days.

To Grandmother's House We Go

Over the river and through the woods,
To grandmother's house we go;
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh,
Through (the) white and drifted snow!

Over the river and through the woods,
Now Grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

I remember singing this song in fourth grade and thinking how it reminded me of visiting my grandma. We didn’t often make it to Kansas for Thanksgiving, but if we did, Grandma made sure the trip was worth it. When we couldn’t travel, my mother served feasts that had everyone in the house wandering through the kitchen to savor the scents emerging from the oven and simmering pots on the stovetop. Watching my mom cook her mom’s recipes made me want to be part of this cycle of kitchen magic.

Once I returned to Kansas, Grandma’s house became Thanksgiving Central. Mom, my family, and anyone else in the vicinity met in Meade for this annual feast. A few years after Grandma gave up her role as main chef, I designated our house as the place to be on Turkey Day. However, last year, we were moving so my mom invited us to her house for Thanksgiving. It was nice once again to eat mom’s roast turkey, candied sweet potatoes, and pie. While I loved that dinner, I missed preparing favorite recipes that connect me to loved ones.

This year, I get to host dinner for our gang, and I had so much fun shopping. I picked out a big turkey so there will be plenty of leftovers. I love to send platters of goodies home with my children and mom so the feast continues for several days. I loaded up on potatoes and stuffing supplies as well. We have a longstanding family tradition of overloading on carbohydrates, so we’ll continue that with bowls of buttery mashed potatoes, fried noodles, candied yams, savory stuffing, and homemade oatmeal rolls.

Mom brings fresh veggies along with her famous sweet potatoes. I’ve tried to make them the way she does, but without success. I’m not sure what I leave out, but Mom’s candied yams topped with golden marshmallows are my Thanksgiving favorite.

Her relish tray is amazing: bite-size carrots, celery, broccoli, cauliflower, black olives, and jicama. When they were little, our girls put olives on their fingers like black fingernails and flitted around the kitchen pretending they had witch fingers. Maybe our granddaughter will be big enough this year to carry on this tradition.

The turkey is a Cinderella wannabe. It existed only for this day. Like the real Cinderella, the dressing makes the bird. Foods both pale and wan when placed in the pan emerge from the roaster glowing golden brown and perfuming the house with herbed aromas that pull everyone into the dining room like a magnet draws iron filings.

Following dinner, fresh pumpkin mixed with cream, sugar, eggs, spices, and molasses and poured into a butter and flour crust turns into a grand finale that pushes our carb load over the top. How can something that emerged from an orange gourd in strings turn into such a succulent dessert? 

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, not only because I love to prepare a meal that makes my family’s taste buds tap dance, but also because it’s the time of year that we focus on blessings that enrich our lives. It’s also a time to remember other Grandma’s houses at Thanksgiving.

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County Fair Time

Sometimes Western Kansans get so caught up in getting through a day or the week, they forget something special occurs toward the end of summer. Those unique events are area fairs, which began a few weeks ago and wrap up over the next few weeks. They provide opportunities to socialize, eat good food while supporting local organizations, and explore 4-H and open class entries in categories from fashion review to animal showmanship. It’s a time for kids and adults to showcase favorite projects.

Growing up in a city, I didn’t participate in 4-H adventures.  However, during visits to my grandparents in SW Kansas, I’d see friends racing to complete sewing, cooking, and animal projects to submit before the entry deadline. This wannabe country girl loved watching farm buddies give calves, pigs, and sheep spa treatments as they trimmed, sheared, shampooed, blow dried, and combed out hair before polishing newly trimmed hooves. 

I loved when my summer visit overlapped the start of the Meade County Fair so I could wander up and down the exhibit aisles.  I longed to be a rural kid so I too could enter a freshly scrubbed critter or a platter of exactly- the-same-size-cookies made from a favorite family recipe.  Jealousy nearly ate my heart when friends would authoritatively state they had to clean a stall or groom their show animal. Though I laugh at my response now, those chores seemed exotic and grown-up to this gal.

Years later, after I became a Kansas country mother, my husband and I encouraged our daughters to raise 4-H sheep. The girls worked with a  handicap since neither parent had been childhood club members, but we muddled through building pens, buying feed, perfecting morning and evening walks down section roads to make well-muscled lambs.

We learned sheep don’t like to be alone, so we convinced our more reluctant daughter to join the fun with a lamb of her own.  I loved seeing my young Bo-Peeps in their nighties and wild bed hair as they paraded their flock of two up and down the long drive in the early morning coolness.

Fellow club members and their parents walked us through the list of preparations to get our daughters’ lambs to the fair. First we had to shampoo the critters. It’s only logical that you’d wash fleece with Woolite for the best effect, right? One young man brought his sheers to the house and showed us how to trim wiry wool into a lovely do.  Then he explained how to polish sharp little hooves to a dark shine.

The cleanliness ritual became fair fun as youngsters from various clubs took turns spritzing hot creatures on scorching August days and then drying and brushing their coats til they gleamed.  Not only were animals soaked, giggling big and little kids wandered about sporting drenched hair and t-shirts. 

While the rearing and preparation of the animal for judging was mostly fun, show time is all seriousness.  Club mentors coached our girls’ clothing selection as well as their interactions with judges, including possible questions they might ask.  On top of these stresses, most of these events occurred when the thermometer was well-over 100. These kids and their animals had to maintain composure in a furnace.

For our family, fair time was mostly about finishing projects and enjoying the experience.  The girls never won coveted ribbons. However, each has a slew of stories about this summer  ritual to tell their children.

“School’s Out, School’s Out! Teacher Let the Mules Out!”

The words “Tag, you’re it,” or “You push first,” carry on breezes floating to my patio from a nearby playground. Laughter and repetitive sounds of metal chains swaying back and forth accompany high-pitched voices enjoying sunshine and freedom from desks and fluorescent lighting. It’s like hearing echoes of me in those first heady days after a school term ended fifty some years ago. Vacation meant exploring or testing our wheels. The essence of simpler times hasn’t changed in little towns dotting Kansas maps.

In those intoxicating weeks after class ended, my friends and I re-explored our neighborhood. Another year older, we tested how much higher we could climb a nearby tree. Once we reached our limits, we’d either play Tarzan and swing down the branches or investigate bird nests to see whether they held any eggs.

After challenging our fear of heights, we’d tromp to the nearest creek. This required rationalizing because our moms told us not to go near water. If we stopped at the mud on the creek bank that couldn’t be considered near water, right? I suspect our parents would’ve interpreted that rule differently than we did. Anyway, we’d try to guess what tracks belonged to what animal or gross one another out by picking up and extending stinky fish or crawdad carcasses toward our squalling buddies. 

A good stick made any creek side exploration better. We tested mud’s depth by shoving our stick in until it hit solid ground. Sometimes we already knew how deep it was because we’d sunk up to our knees into it. We’d see who could throw the farthest or have imaginary sword fights. Once our gooey adventure ended, we used our handy tools to scrape off evidence of trespassing in forbidden territory.

As the sun rose higher throughout the day, we needed a change. Out came adjustable silver skates or bicycles. Toys were simpler then, so putting on skates meant latching four wheels to a shoe with a key worn on a shoestring around the neck. Once we got our sea legs on those primitive transportation devices, it was bumpity bump bump bump down a cracked and uneven sidewalk. We quickly learned to fall without hurting ourselves because we had plenty of tumbles. If I remember right, I think I even tied a pillow on my fanny to soften my landings.

Bicycles weren’t any higher tech than skates except we could push backward on the pedals to brake. It seemed as if every bike I ever saw was big. At six or seven, I had to put all my energy into controlling the handlebars or pushing the pedals. It was one lesson after another about levers and torque. Now days, youngsters go through a series of size-appropriate bicycles so managing them is easier. 

Bikes led to races, daredevil tricks, and parades. It didn’t take long to discover who had the fastest bike or the strongest legs, so contests didn’t occupy much time. However, I loved putting my younger brother either in my bike’s basket or on the bumper over the back wheel and taking off down the highest hill we could find. We’d build up so much speed I had to hold my legs stretched away from the spinning pedals to prevent an injury. Neither of us realized that if we’d crashed, we could’ve killed ourselves.

Bikes weren’t only about adrenalin rushes. Nothing was more fun than planning a parade. We’d weave colorful crepe paper remnants between wheel spokes and tie them in streamers to our handlebars. No one worried about color schemes, so our parades were eye catching for sure. Looking back, I don’t know who watched because we all rode. Apparently, we didn’t care.

Listening to neighborhood kids enjoying their first weeks of summer, I hope they find the joy my friends and I did in those distant, carefree days. May they discover a good tree to climb, some skates to test their balance, and at least one parade to show off a vividly decorated bicycle.