What’s the Real Tumbleweed Capital?

Several years ago, mom gave me a sweatshirt advertising Hooker, Oklahoma, as the Tumbleweed Capital of the world. After a recent drive across the Oklahoma and Texas Panhandle, I’m certain Hooker is not the only center point of Russian thistle abundance. Winds that day blew an average of 40 mph so we saw droves of prickly Russian immigrants racing pell-mell across three states. Fence lines trapped enough to fuel miles of potential prairie fire. Clearly, this transplant’s adjusted well to arid western soils.

These herbaceous invaders adapted to the Great Plains environment better than many homo sapien immigrants who hit American shores during the same era. The tumbleweed’s human counterparts often left for easier pickings that included more moisture and less wind. This forb, however, took root and multiplied like creatures mentioned in biblical plagues. It prefers disturbed soil—so farmers breaking virgin grassland and then abandoning their efforts unintentionally supported the hardy newcomer. Aridity doesn’t hurt them, and winds strong enough to deform trees and make flags fly at 90 degree angles guarantees each plant sows its 250,000 seeds.

Think of that--one plant produces several hundred thousand potential offspring. Scientists have documented how many actually take root, mature, and reproduce. By the 1890s, researchers reported the first of these Ukrainian hitchhikers arrived in Scotland, South Dakota, in the 1870s. Before 1900, the government assigned U.S. botanist Lyster Hoxey Dewey to investigate this curse to western agriculturists. Dewey, wrote, “The rapidity with which the Russian thistle has spread, both in infesting new territory and in thoroughly covering that already infested, far exceeds that of any weed known in America.” According to writer Doug Main, the only two states that don’t have tumbleweeds are Alaska and Florida. That’s a record-breaking invasion!

The day I drove across the Panhandle, herds of rolling thistles bounded over barbwire fences, surging across roads. This dark force made me think of millions of roaming bison 150 years ago. Due to sheer size, these mammals halted train travel. The tumbling seed-sowers I encountered didn’t halt traffic, but they slowed it.

Due to wind speeds, thorny orbs, small and large, rocketed across flat grasslands. I was glad to travel protected in a vehicle and not afoot like pastured cattle or wild critters. A thistle scouring of this magnitude would leave a being picking stickers for weeks. Unfortunately, these dried plants came in numbers so enormous I couldn’t avoid whacking one after another and dragged several beneath my vehicle until friction shattered and scattered them.

While I smacked some, others slammed into the sides of my Toyota hard enough I felt vibrations through the steering wheel. I’d like to think these collisions halted their seed dispersion, but that’s a vain wish. In fact, I’ve probably introduced Oklahoma thistle DNA to Kansas varieties.

Hookerites may disagree, but that sweatshirt’s claim to fame limits the scope of this invasive plant. The entire Great Plains is the Tumbleweed Capital of America.

Control: An Illusion

Control: An Illusion

Humans are funny creatures. Some imagine we control much that happens in our world. Because technological advances during the last two centuries eradicated small pox and put men on the moon, it’s easy to buy this idea. Believing we direct our lives makes us feel safer. However, anyone who lives in Kansas understands our species doesn’t control of much of anything but putting satellites in orbit and operating a remote that allows us to picture what weather might do. With that little button and functioning electricity, we can react to nature but we can’t regulate it. Recent weather has made that abundantly clear.

Though memory tends to be short, few of us have forgotten the multi-year dry spell that parched ponds, streams, and rivers into dried mud, shriveled prairie grasses to sere curls, and decimated trees. Watching evening news programs offered no comfort. Grim-faced forecasters highlighted maps of nearly every Kansas county in bright colors that confirmed what we saw daily—we suffered extreme drought.

In reaction, town councils voted to restrict watering while individuals opted to place rain barrels and other systems in yards and fields to capture every bit of moisture available. Gardeners promoted drought resistant plants and xeriscaping to manage a non-existent resource. Appliance and hardware stores marketed low-flow washers, toilets, faucets, and showerheads to conserve water.

Amazingly, in only a few months, the scenario has changed. Instead of facing a water shortage, businesses advertise sump pumps and dehumidifiers to waiting customers. Home improvement departments that promoted fixing foundations weakened due to dry conditions now publicize efforts to prevent leaky basements. Ironically, area residents must figure out how to channel water away from properties rather than to them.

Our ancestors faced similar issues. Where do you build a town? Those who build along a creek, river, or stream in dry years, have easy access to drinking and household water. Heck, enterprising sorts might build a mill to grind grain or produce electricity to light homes.

One wet season changes everything. Overnight, residents who prided themselves on wise planning and convenient services find raging torrents sweeping houses from foundations or eroding roadways. Such experiences have occurred far too often in the last month. More than one first responder team has recently rescued folks from cars or houses. 

Not only do storms that tint the radar in shades of red, pink, and purple dump deluges on saturated soil, plunging temperatures alter those molecules into baseball-size ice chunks. Heavy winds turn such projectiles into artillery that shatters glass, pulverizes siding, shreds crops, and convinces anyone living through the assault that Mother Nature knows how to wage war. Goodland residents will stay busy repairing and rebuilding property for months after this latest weather event.

Over a single summer, Mother Nature has reminded us life can change overnight. Ponds overflow, rivers surge over banks to wipe out roads or flood communities, and wind-driven hail shreds siding and splinters glass. Pressing a remote’s on button provides a preview of the show to come and sometimes offers time to prepare ourselves for the result. However, it doesn’t control what’s about to happen. Neither do we.

In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb

Due to medical appointments and grandkid visits, I’ve spent several days driving across central and western Kansas over the last few weeks. During that travel time, gusting north winds have shaken and tossed my silver Toyota like a terrier shaking a rat, leaving me to hope that spring weather lore is more than a wishful thought. Now that the end of the month is in view and I have a few more journeys to make, that old saying about March, “In like a lion, out like a lamb,” appeals to me.

Unfortunately, after this persistent ditty popped into my brain, it stalked through grey matter like the king of the jungle mentioned in the verse. Since I couldn’t shut down the repeats ringing through my head, I decided to banish it by finding its adage’s origin. After cruising from one site to another to discover it source, I’m more confused than when I began.  

One author explained that the phrase’s birthplace might have begun with the Biblical reference to Jesus coming as a sacrificial lamb and returning as the Lion of Judah. To clarify himself, the writer shared that this comparison meant that March is a false spring. I’m still scratching my head at this metaphor. Hmmm. That one seems backward to me, so I might need instruction to see this relationship.

Another writer explored several 16^th through 18^th century references that revealed possible first uses of the adage. These include a line in little known playwright John Fletcher’s work A Wife for a month, early naturalist John Ray’s insertion of the phrase in his Catalogue of English Proverbs, and its appearance in the British American colonial text Ames Almanack in 1740. It’s clear this axiom’s been around a while.

Despite that researcher’s examples of when the term first came into use and another writer’s obscure metaphor to explain its meaning, I hoped to find a better answer for the origin of this saying about unpredictable March weather conditions. Since the references began centuries ago, it’s clear that I’m not the only person who finds this month filled with extreme weather noteworthy.

Eventually, I investigated long enough to find a couple of sites that explained the term has astronomical connections. From early times, stargazers observed that at the beginning of this particular calendar cycle, the lionly constellation Leo is rising. By April, Leo has descended and Aries the ram has taken over this heavenly role. While I don’t think of male sheep as gentle creatures, their lambs are certainly cuddly and sweet. This explanation satisfied the logical part of me until another old saying trips me up and sends me searching for more answers.

That said, I’m back to dealing with schizophrenic weather that is balmy and peaceful for a day or two. Then it roars enough to blow loose objects and tumbleweeds all the way to Oklahoma. Within a few days, it changes direction so that Kansans get to see the same items returning and heading for Nebraska.

I’m ready for that lion to exit and the lamb to rise.