Fawn Nursery

Years ago our family tent-camped at Slough Creek Camp Ground in Yellowstone.  It is a primitive camp ground in north end of the park, where wildlife is abundant, up close, and personal.  That particular summer in the Slough Creek area, it was a regular fawn nursery.  Does brought their fawns right up to the bank across from our tent, and while my husband fished,  the little girls and I spent hours watching the babies play and nurse while their moms browsed and occasionally cleaned a baby.  This is one of my fondest memories of camping when our kids were small.

Our daughters are grown now and living their own lives, but sometimes moments bring back those old memories, and it seems like only yesterday we were squealing stifled glee at seeing all those fawns with the moms within yards of us.  The trigger for this memory is an abundance of fawns in our backyard this summer. 

I mentioned in another blog entry that we lost our long time pet that guarded the yard and apparently scared deer away.  As a result of losing Tucker, we see so many more bucks, does, and fawns within yards of the house as they browse and drink out of the creek at the base of the yard.  When I wake up each morning, I look forward to what kinds of Wild America adventures I will find in my own backyard that day.

Keep in mind, these are wild animals with delicate noses, as well as sharp ears and eyes.  Because these deer must stay on alert to survive, they don’t hang out in the back yard when I am out gardening or sitting on the back porch.  That is too much human contact for their comfort—as it should be. 

My contact with them requires some pretty still watching from the dining room window that overlooks the back of the house down to Big Creek.  These creatures are so on guard that too much movement or noise even inside the house, believe it or not, will spur a dash up the bank to hidden safety. So, even in the house, I have to move slowly and make sure my camera is not making beeping sounds to put the deer on watch.

This morning, I began the day watching a fawn nurse as his mom browsed the banks of the creek.  She was eating while her baby fed, and then she gave him a thorough cleaning before they dashed up the hill.  Later, I walked by the window while I was dusting, and young buck stood half hidden in tall grass.  I got a good look at him, but he was wary of the beep of the on button of the camera so I missed my shot.

Later, another young mom brought her singleton fawn to the creek to scamper about and get a drink.  She had another fawnless doe with her, and I got a few shots of them as they stayed right below the house for twenty minutes or so.

I thought I’d been as lucky as I was going to get regarding fawn watching when I looked out the bathroom window to see another doe with twins wading the creek and nibbling greens.  These babies seem a bit older than the others I watched this morning, and they were very playful as they leapt and splashed in the slow moving summer stream.  They were so brave that they got too far toward the house, and mom came after them to shoo them back into the water.

While my own girls may be grown and our memory of that day at Slough Creek Campground is distant, these moments watching fawns out my own window compress time and make it seem like it is not so long ago in the past.  I have learned to keep the camera on the table to capture these memories to share when my own girls and grandbaby come to visit.

My Neighbors

                        After six years on our little place, I have begun to note familiar creatures of the feathery kind that feed or nest around here and raise their young the same place I like to raise mine.  Each year I get to know them a bit better and look forward to their seasonal returns.

I have mentioned the great blue herons that reside down the creek.  Right next to the house, a great horned owl perches night and morning, comforting us with his or her gentle hooting.  However, one night these comforting hoots changed to terrified screams when a resident cottontail braved the night only to find itself owl fast food. 

I heard the terrible squealing outside the bedroom window but explained it, thinking the wind had blown from that direction and made the kill seem closer than it was.  The next morning, I put the dog out and noticed the remnant of our hoot owl’s midnight feast lying on the ground under my window.  I definitely prefer a soft hooting coming from the tree outside my bedroom.

Last summer we had a new neighbor in the form of a mocking bird pair.  They returned to set up housekeeping and a nursery again this year.  Just as I did last summer, I find him sitting in the tallest tree he can find and singing his heart out or mimicking other birds around the yard.  Our oldest daughter wishes the tallest tree were not right next to her bedroom because this fellow believes in starting his day early. 

Not only did the mockingbird pair return, but we also have a pair of mourning doves who returned the same tree they nested in last year.  For some reason we have had a number of dove nesting around our pasture, but this pair like to get up close and comfortable by nesting right next to where we park one of our vehicles.  Last year it was an accident to raise young there because we didn’t need that parking place until nesting was well underway, but this year they returned, despite the fact that little gray pickup pulls in and out of that parking place several times a day.

In addition, we have a cocky rooster pheasant that lives in the draw behind the house.  If we get up early enough, we catch him strutting around the backyard before the dogs get out to run him off.  The way he stretches and struts, you would think he owned the place. If I didn’t think it would make him less cautious, I would put a feed block out. 

For weeks we fed a flock of migrating gold finches along with the regular chickadees, nuthatches, house finches, sparrows, and cardinals that come to our outdoor birdfeeders. 

Eventually the gold finches moved on only to be replaced magically one morning by that raunchy horde of blue jays I wrote about last spring.  If they didn’t entertain us so much with their feisty squabbles and sassy attitudes, I would ceased feeding for a while.  One morning I went to the window to find thirteen of the noisy scolds fighting to get onto the feeder all at one time. 

As I stood drinking my tea and watching, I noticed one of our little squirrels who  frequents the seed-filled diner several times a day.  He could not decide what to do with that ruckus going on.  He would edge down the tree a little further until they started another uproar over who got which seed.  Then he would dash back to a higher branch, adding his own chirring scolds to their raspy voices.  Finally, greed overcame caution, and he rushed the feeder.  Surprisingly, the jays flew off and let him have it. 

Several thrashers returned, and our ever-present cardinal pair drop in now and then to serenade us.  I heard a little wren singing the other day.  I hope she will nest in the same spot she did last year.  A pair of towhees returned again to the yard to gobble goodies they find under the cedar trees.  I don’t know that they stick around to nest.  I will pay closer attention this year.  I know they visited last year, but I don’t recall seeing them through the summer.

At the moment, we have an invasion of white crowned sparrows jointly vacuuming the yard, picking and pecking at something they find tasty until a bird of prey flies overhead.  Then the whole flock rises in one sweeping motion to take cover in the surrounding cedars. 

Plenty of hawks and owls live nearby, giving the smaller birds something to think about.  This year a big red tail has taken up roosting in an easy-to-see towering, dead cottonwood not far from the house.  As I relax on the back porch, I spy it perched where it can see everything going on for miles around.  I guess we have lived here long enough we don’t worry him.

Some afternoons as I cruise up the drive after coming home from school, I spot a little sharp-shinned hawk.  I haven’t seen it very close, so it was a mystery until a week or so ago.  The regulars had gathered at the bird feeder to fill up when this little sharp shin dashed in from the west where it usually roosts, attempted to grab a feeding finch or chickadee, and then dashed off.  I guess the other birds must have heard it coming because it left empty handed.

Some folks seek the country for peace and quiet.  However, I find joy watching and listening to the boisterous group of birds that also consider this little acreage home. 

Outdoors Renews the Spirit

            Sometimes I think hunters use hunting as an excuse to get into the fields and woods.  If they said, “I think I will spend day after day out-of-doors,” many of their less outdoorsy friends and family members would wonder exactly what goes on in the woods or fields.  They might jump to incorrect conclusions just because they do not understand how time outside renews a person.

            The day after opening day of pheasant season reminded me of this.  At our house that weekend promises grueling workdays for my husband.  He leaves early in the morning and does not show up again until after dark.   While the girls and I do enjoy a pheasant hunt, as rank amateurs, we need an experienced hunter along. As a result, we entertain ourselves that weekend every year.

 

            This year’s opening weekend harbored beautiful skies, wonderful temperatures, and just enough breeze to dry sweat, but not enough to create problems.  Now, a die-hard pheasant hunter would have prayed for a light skiff of snow and chilly temperatures to cause the birds to bunch.  But, since I was not a die-hard pheasant hunter, I considered the day perfect.  My daughter and I joined all those folks marching through field after field in search of game.

            Not wanting to intrude on someone’s serious hunt, we followed the banks of Big Creek as it meandered away from the house.  Though it reached flood stage in August, it now flows gently toward the Smoky Hill.  However, signs of high water clung to trees and shrubs on either side of the bank.  I had seen it raging and foaming after that August week of heavy rain, and it was interesting to see what the waters had left behind as they receded.

            Denuded limbs and branches, the bark stripped away by the torrents, rested high in the forks of larger trees.  Their paleness stood out on such a bright day.  It looked like the first warm day of spring when folks shuck their winter duds for shorts and bathing suits at the lake. Tendrils of grass and other plant matter twined in and out of the marooned limbs and logjams, looking like an insane tailor had made a bad attempt at mending.

            Since it has not rained for a while, the creek waters sparkled clearly, revealing an underwater world I do not often see.  The moving waters have shifted the light colored sands at the creek’s bottom until they look like dunes in the Mojave or in Oklahoma or Eastern Colorado.  Or maybe upon more reflection, they look much like the layered hills bordering both the Smoky Hill and the Saline Rivers.  The erosive forces of water and wind offer amazingly similar results.  I imagine deep-sea divers find the same thing when they examine the bottom of the ocean. 

            Moving slowly in the current, tree roots assume a life of their own.  These thick and thin, short and long tendrils thread their way along the sandy bottom, sucking nutrients from the water and anchoring the tree to the earth as surely as any darning job holds a patch to an old pair of britches. 

            On the opposite creek bank where it had washed away in the last high water, I saw the lattice-work of tree root stitchery holding those trees and bushes on that side in place.  In a few locations, the cottonwoods and hackberries held on by only a root or two. The interlacing root system that I could not see added an amazing strength to the few I could see.  I felt like I had peeled back a layer of membrane to see the inner workings of the underground world.

            A few white sand beaches line the creek bank, making it look a little like a tropical island might in my imagination.  I like to pause and rest in these spots and listen to the slow moving water, the birds, the rustling of fallen leaves and dried grasses.  A few hardy crickets played a tune or two to add to the mood.  With the sun warming my skin, the hypnotic movement of the water and the roots swaying in it and the relaxing natural sounds, I could have melted into the sand and stayed in that spot forever.  All my concerns eased.  Surely my pulse slowed and my blood pressure dropped.  

I know why those hunters head for the fields every chance they get.  They enjoy the hunt, but I suspect they enjoy even more those moments when everything comes together in one place, where for just a minute or two nothing else exists in the world.  Humans and nature merge, and in that instant, unexplainable peace occurs.  I realize once again, sanctuary is not always found in a building. The outdoors person returns renewed, physically and spiritually.

Hunter or hiker, head for the fields.  You will not be sorry.

Two Sides to Snowy Owl Tale

Snowy owls, birds made familiar by Hedwig in the Harry Potter Series, represent confusion about a rapidly changing world.  This beautiful, mysterious visitor to Kansas from the North Country fascinates and concerns me.

Part of the snowy owl’s intrigue is its appearance.  That ghost-like plumage, size—two feet in height and a wing span of five feet, those piercing eyes and amazing ability to seemingly rotate its head 360 degrees (actually it’s about a 270 degree rotation), combine to make this a movie-star worthy bird.

Normally at home in the arctic and tundra regions of Alaska, Canada, and Northern Eurasia, these birds do occasionally make southern appearances.  These usually occur every three to four years, usually limited to northern border states of the U.S.   What makes their appearance unique this year is their numbers and distances they are traveling. 

Most articles I read attribute this unusual behavior to an arctic lemming die off due to Global Warming, words designed to inspire fear.  Hardly worth the long flight to our region if we can’t supply their only food source, it made me wonder what else these aerodynamic wonders eat since we don’t have lemmings in Kansas.

What I discovered is snowy owls eat not just lemmings, but varied small and large rodents, which Kansas has aplenty.  We have gophers, voles, prairie dogs, packrats, squirrels, and rabbits to name a few.  In addition, those white ghosts snack on foxes and raccoons as well as birds, including other owl species.  We have those as well so snowy owls surviving the journey in hunting condition will find food.

While reading, I found an article in the Montana Missoulian offering another viewpoint regarding this year’s snowy owl invasion.  According to Denver Holt, Director of the Owl Research Institute, “Food figures into it, but if you look at their plumage, you can tell they’re coming off a very good food year somewhere.”  Considering it more likely that good feeding turned into good breeding, he thinks an expanded population might be branching out in search of more to eat.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t concerns.  According to Mike Rader, Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks employee, five dead snowy owls he delivered to KU for further study were underweight and lice infested, neither signs of health.  He mentioned those taken to rehabilitators are in poor condition and doubts they will survive a return to native territory.

Denver Holt’s statement regarding snowies he studies in Montana suggests a good breeding season produced so many young they fanned out to find ample food sources.  It makes sense young birds settling in Montana and North Dakota didn’t have to fly so far and would be less stressed than fellow creatures traveling an extra 800 miles to Kansas.

 

I am not a scientist, and I don’t have answers to questions generated by these birds’ presence. However, I am glad to see a reason for this visitation might be a good feeding and breeding year in the arctic rather than consequences of global warming.  Like most natural mysteries, even more time and more study will not provide every answer to questions humans have about their world.   However, we need to look for more than one possible answer when we have those questions.

Photo courtesy of Mike Rader

The Gold Coronado Missed

The Gold Coronado Missed

The search for gold compelled Spanish conquistador Coronado to venture into what is now Kansas. Ironically, he found gold more valuable than the metal he hoped to find. Unfortunately, he did not recognize the importance of the gold dust he found coating his boots and leggings as he rode and walked through the tall and short grasses of Quivira.

     On a recent walk, I noticed yellow granules dusting the ground beneath waving heads of brome and on my romping terrier’s back.  Upon close inspection, this golden dust was bright yellow pollen, collected solar energy that permits life to flourish.

     While many people think of pollen as a trigger for  sneezing fits or the cause of their itchy eyes, bees know pollen as the essence of life.  They spend their entire lives flying from plant to plant, collecting the typically yellow powder on leg hairs.  They then transport it to hives and turn it into honey, their fuel source and our toast topping.

Unique among pollinators are yucca moths and yucca.  Without one another, these two species would die.  That is undeniable treasure. 

Without bees and other insects moving from plant to plant, transferring grains of pollen to their pistils, creatures of every kind would lack fruits, vegetables, grains, and grasses. This issue of successful pollination concerns scientists in areas where massive bee die-offs occur or where pesticides destroy pollinators.  Fruit trees and farm fields aren’t pollinated and crops fail.  Even if we never thought about pollen being more valuable than gold selling at over $1500.00 an ounce, we don’t eat if pollen isn’t transferred. This puts a new value on golden pollen.

 Even without modern scientific knowledge, native people understood pollen meant life.  To honor the role this plant element played in their lives, Puebloans and Navajos utilized pollen in religious practices. Ethnographer Washington Matthews (1902:42) explained the meaning of pollen: "Pollen is the emblem of peace, of happiness, of prosperity, and it is supposed to bring these blessings. When, in the Origin Legend, one of the war gods bids his enemy to put his feet down in pollen he constrains him to peace.

 The Navajo aren’t the only native people who value pollen as a holy symbol. Writers Leslie Marmon Silko and Frank Waters explain that Puebloan, Hopi, and Zuni people also use pollen in religious ceremonies.  Visiting after a feast day in Zuni Pueblo, I noticed a trail of ground turquoise and yellow pollen winding through the pueblo. I don’t pretend to understand the significance of this practice, but I understand what these people know.  Pollen is life’s true gold.

     As Coronado roamed through waist high grass in Eastern Kansas and shorter grass in Western Kansas, he missed the real gold.  He failed to recognize the treasure that ensures existence, pollen.

Clove of Seasons

            In one of my favorite short stories, "The Scarlet Ibis," author James

Hurst describes this time of year as the "clove of seasons."  For some

reason that image has always appealed to me when I think of the changing

of seasons between summer and fall. 

         By late July or early August there comes a day I wake up, and it seems

the light has a yellow tinge to it. Apparently,this relates to the tilt

of the earth in relation to its rotation.  I know the seasonal split has

begun that day although the calendar says it is more than a month away.

>From that day on, I know that fall is creeping up and, like the

squirrels hoarding nuts, I must hoard and savor the last days of

summer. 

        As a girl, I hated the arrival of autumn.  I suppose this feeling had

something to do with school beginning and the end of the carefree days

of a childhood summer.  Even more, it meant that the days would shorten

and the green leaves of summer would soon fall, leaving stark branches

silhouetted against gray skies. 

        Time has a way of muting our strongest feelings, and mine have

certainly altered over the years.  By the end of July, I now look

forward to that first autumn tinged day that heralds the cusp of the

seasons.   Gardens have begun to look a bit ragged, and the wild flowers

seem to know they have only a short time yet to bloom.  Where they were

pastel and fragile only a few months earlier, now their hues deepen into

the brilliant yellows and oranges of sunflowers and gaillardia and the

deep purples of liatrice.

        Driving or walking in the country in late summer renders endless

surprises.  The plum thickets of early summer now offer a bounty of

brilliant red and magenta plums.  Off the grape vines growing in draws

and along creek banks dangle clusters of tiny, tart grapes that make the

best jellies and jams.  That is if humans can beat the birds to the

harvest. 

        While looking for plum thickets and wild grapes, I spot May's fawns,

now leggy adolescents. Their camouflage spots fade much as the color in

the leaves fades away this time of year.  In the same areas, I find

young pheasant and quail, awkward and gawky, as they race about gobbling

the goodies of summer.  Somehow, even though they haven't yet wintered,

they seem to know they must feed well before snows fly and ice coats

their favorite food plots.

        Even if I didn't see the spiders as they move inside looking to shelter

against the coming harsh weather, I would know they had arrived.  I find

their webs high on my walls where they hope to escape wintry blasts.  It

seems a huge wolf spider migration begins this time of year, and I find

scads of them in the garage and on the back porch where they hope to

gain entry.  They don't understand that I have no intention of providing

a hairy spider wintering ground.

        Though the nights will soon be long and tree branches bare and stark,

 I now relish this busy time.  It realize now the yellow tinged days aren'tan ending. 

  They provide a time of reflection, a time of preparation, atime to enjoy the end of

 one cycle and the beginning of another.

End of Season Sunbathing

End of Season Sunbathing

I remember in college waiting for that first warm day of spring.  My friends and I would cruise to a nearby lake to unveil winter-white bodies under blasting rays of pre-summer sun.  It felt so good to lay our bathing-suit-clad bodies on an old quilt, where vitamin D mixed with UV rays coursed through our sun-starved carcasses.   The rocks beneath our quilt released stored solar energy into our spines at the same time our faces and bellies soaked up sun from above.  As much joy as we got from those first days of sun in the spring, none of us sought the last days of October warmth. 

I wonder why now, after spending the past few days counting snakes by the scads catching the last rays of summer.  These reptiles toast themselves on white caliche roads or on the sun-absorbing asphalt of  Interstate 70.  We  often see snakes crossing our roads, but never in the numbers I see in mid-October when night temps drop into the upper 30s and lower 40s.  These cold-blooded guys use solar collecting roadways to warm themselves before they search for  their daily meal.

Lately, these long, skinny fellows have been very evident. Three nights ago, our terrier and I were walking around the quarter when we accosted a slow-moving racer lying in the evening sun.  He must have felt the  vibrations of our tromping feet as we walked up on his nap.  However, he didn’t get out of the way.  He didn’t lift his head, although he did blink. He apparently needed a few more degrees of heat to build energy to move.

One slow moving bull snake didn’t make it out of the way of a car passing by.  His carcass fed a hungry turkey vulture in the drive way for the next two days.  That’s certainly one way to convert solar energy. Yesterday, a very young bull snake (he wasn’t big enough to eat a mouse) lethargically lay across my path as I walked to our mailbox.  Once again, he didn’t seem alarmed to see me or the dog.  Earlier, on a trip to town, I saw six snakes either sunbathing on the Interstate or squashed  on the shoulder of the road. 

That brings to mind another thought.  We try to live in harmony with reptile neighbors.  That doesn’t mean a rattlesnake in the yard or any snake in the kitchen is safe, but it does mean we know how valuable bull snakes, racers, ringnecks, and other snakes are in terms of rodent and insect control.   We accept reptiles on the front porch as temporary visitors or we move them into the pasture if they are a nuisance.  After all, they just want to catch some rays as I did in my youth.

  

How’d an Egg Get in the Water Pan?

We’ve had chickens for most of our marriage, so I’ve had chickens for over thirty years.  They are messy, noisy, piggish, sometimes mean –think where the term henpecked came from-- so so dense, and they run like gawky, miniature Tyrannosaurus Rexes.  Despite their character flaws, I love my girls, but one of them has me so puzzled right now.

We have a hen house with nesting boxes for the girls.  Most of the time, they prefer to use the boxes when an egg laying urge hits.  When they do this, life is easy for everyone.  The girls have a comfortable and semi-private place to do the work necessary to deliver their eggs.  Based on the size of one of the eggs every day, someone is doing way more work than the rest of the ladies so she really deserves some comfort.  While this system is good for the girls, it also works well for me because I can take a bucket out about noon and toss the ladies and their rooster some feed and gather the accumulated cackle berries in the now empty bucket.

To make life interesting on occasion, one of the cackle crew tries to hide her eggs in the dog house or in a bucket under the cedars so we won’t collect them, but I understand.  After all, she’s done a great deal of work to grow that good sized orb inside her and then eject it after some strenuous effort.  One or two of the girls gets broody and wants to hatch her eggs so these are the usual suspects when we find eggs in odd places. We try to save these ladies a clutch of eggs and let them satisfy their need to hatch a brood of chicks at least once each summer.

Another time we get eggs in odd places is when we break triple digits. It gets a bit warm in the chicken house by mid-day, so often times late layers will take advantage of the shaded chiminea on my patio.  The sand inside is cool and soft.  The chiminea itself provides a perfect cavity to give the hen a little privacy, and she can lay her egg, announce her success, and hop out to sip a drink out of the bowl I keep on the patio for the girls.  This still works for me because I usually see or hear the hen at work, so I check there for eggs as well.

This brings me to my oddest discovery ever.  A friend recently asked me if eggs just fell out of hens where they were standing.  “No,” I answered.  “The girls know an egg is coming, and they have to work at laying it so they get somewhere comfortable for them.”

Imagine my surprise a few days after this conversation when I went out to fill the hens’ water bowls and discovered an egg at the bottom of the water dish.  I know my hens will wade as they get a drink, but I can’t imagine what possessed one to lay her egg in the bowl.  This must be the same girl who occasionally forgets to get in a nesting box and stays too long on the roost.  The result is, of course, a splattered egg on the floor of the chicken house.   

I have found eggs in the chiminea lately and under a cedar tree, but so far I have only found the one egg in the water bowl.  Did that hen overhear my conversation with my friend and feel the need to humble me.  After all, how can a mere human really understand the mind of a chicken?

Early Morning Rambles

After a busy school year and several summers where I scheduled two or three lives into one, I decided to spend some time enjoying my own backyard and the surrounding sections.  One of my summer goals included rising early and taking off for a good hour of walking, observing, and thinking.  

I do not know about anyone else, but the dogs love my plan.  I take the older dog for a “short” hike around the drive—a walk of about a mile for me, two or three for him after he chases up a rabbit or two and busies himself marking an astonishing assortment of weeds and grasses.  Looking at the world through his eyes, I note the abundance of rabbits and small rodents.  His nose is not particularly sharp, and pheasants often surprise him when they erupt skyward.

After he enjoys his spin around the pasture, I return to trade dogs.  The younger female waits patiently at the front window with her nose pressed against the glass until she sees us returning.  Then her hunting dog blood percolates full speed.  She can barely contain herself as I let the older dog in and turn her loose for a longer ramble.

After doing “donuts” in the sandy drive to show me how happy she feels, we venture off on whichever road suits our mood.   A male mockingbird has made a habit of sitting in a roadside cedar and remarking on our journey with an amazing musical repertoire.  Another feathered friend, this one a cardinal, perches in a nearby hackberry tree to join in the chorus.  If the dog were not so intent on following her nose to new adventures, I suspect I would find myself spending good walking time watching those two crazy birds at their choral competition.

Early is the operative word here.  These walks need to begin no later than seven to fully enjoy the morning.  I guess the cool air or maybe the need to find breakfast brings out critters I do not see later in the day. 

My favorite walk involves a short hike south to the next east-west section line and turning west.  From there a person can see Riga and, under perfect conditions, nearly to Ogallah.  To the north, a dark green shadow of trees marks Big Creek’s winding path through the pastures and fields, and beyond that, lines of cars and trucks snake along Interstate as they head east and west. To the south and west, I see Round Mound, a fine marker for any traveler journeying across this part of the plains.  

At the corner where I turn to take this path, I can easily believe I stand at the center of the universe at the point where the great blue bowl of the heavens joins the horizon line in a giant circle.  Every time I stand there, I think of Per Hansa’s wife Beret in Giants in the Earth and wonder why she feared this vast openness so greatly that it eventually made her insane. Certainly she was exposed, but, at the same time, so was everything else as far as she could see.  She could see all the world had to offer from any direction she turned.  Perhaps seeing so much of that world frightened her.  Despite her reservations about open prairie, I never fail to feel a huge sense of delight and reverence when I take in that view.

After the brief stop for me to get my bearings and for the dog to check out any scat left in the middle of the road by a neighboring coyote to mark territory, we head west.   Wheat and big blue stem grass wave to our south and a buffalo grass pasture undulates to the north.  Pump jacks dot the acres before us, dipping their heads like giant, surreal mosquitoes bent on sucking the very marrow from the earth. 

Nearly three quarters of a mile up the road, I see ruins of someone’s dream.   Hand-turned porch posts and neatly spaced trees lining a no longer used drive attest to the care former inhabitants gave the home place.  Now cattle use the corners of the old house as scratching posts and other creatures make homes in the recesses time has worn into the structure.  I know it would not be difficult to find out who lived there, but I prefer the freedom not knowing allows my imagination.

Along the way, the dog detects the scent of quail and pheasant we hear calling in the cool air.  Unlike the older dog, she finds and follows scent trails, pointing several birds during each walk.  She looks back at me as if to say, “What’s up here?  I did my job.  Do yours.”  No matter how good a dog is, it cannot understand the concept of hunting seasons.  It simply follows the dictates of its senses. 

Watching her racing through the tall grasses, I realize we should have named her Tigger the bouncing tiger instead of Reebok.  Filled with joy, she literally bounces, ears flying and legs drawn up like metal coils.  Meadowlarks and grasshopper sparrows scold her for interrupting their morning.  For a moment I long to join her.

Speaking of Tigger, just the other morning a bobcat bounced through the wheat field … in search of breakfast I suppose, or perhaps the joy of the morning filled it like it fills our little red dog.  On an already perfect morning, seeing something so unexpected added a special delight.

Sometimes we find surprises on our walks.  Deer, coyote, pheasant, and skunk tracks are fairly common.  They merit a pause and a look, but not much more than that.  However, every now and then I spy a trail left behind as a snake slithered across the sandy road. On occasion, tiny rodent prints indicate another traveler.  This time of year, I sometimes note a tiny set of hoof prints following larger prints, and I know a fawn rests close by.

Getting to know one’s neighbors-- human, beast, bird, or plant-- merits a few moments of anyone’s time.  These morning journeys provide an opportunity to introduce myself and to discover exactly who and what shares this little space I call home.  Meeting them through the eyes and noses of two very different dogs allows a vantage point I would miss if I walked alone.

Dung Beetles

            Somewhere I read a quote stating, “Life is a journey, not a destination.”  I buy into this philosophy and add you meet some interesting creatures while you’re on the road of life.  Sometimes those creatures look like the characters hanging out in the intergalactic space bar in the original Star Wars movie.

            Recently the big yellow dog and I headed off on our morning walk.  These little journeys not only start our day right, but sometimes we see the strangest sights.  I’ve mentioned a few of those in past columns.  Our recent walk beat the heck out of all the other strange sights I’ve come across in that two-mile jaunt on a sandy Trego County road.

            We’d seen the usual that morning—a killdeer racing ahead of us, a sparrow hawk proclaiming territorial rights, neighboring cows trying to figure out why that big yellow dog kept bouncing straight up and down as a mouse ran under his paws, and a ribbon of robin egg blue horizon line looping above lush green pastures and nearly ripe wheat fields. 

            Then we crossed the section line road into what I consider the “wilderness.” The only reason humans come this way is to go someplace else.  No one lives on this road.

This is the area where last year I spotted a bobcat leaping playfully above big blue stem and brome grasses waving in the walk-in-hunting area.  This is where on damp mornings I often spot prints of a doe and her fawn crossing from the walk-in-hunting to amble to the creek for their morning drink.  This is where I occasionally spy the track of a wriggling snake as it tries to make it from one grassy ditch to the other before one of the big redtails flying overhead eyeballs it and dives for dinner.

Over time I have come to look forward to the surprises I find just often enough in the “wilderness” to keep me walking that direction day after day.  That particular Tuesday morning offered another one of those “stop and put this in your memory bank” moments. 

Tucker ran through the ditches, analyzing the scent of everything that had happened since he last sampled the air.  I trailed after him, admiring the early morning sky, the feel of cool air rippling over my skin, the roll of gravel under my walking shoes, and letting my eyes sweep the road close--then far, close--then far.

Suddenly I thought I had ended up at the intergalactic space bar I mentioned earlier.  Two semi-gloss black bugs were rolling a shooter-sized ball of brown stuff from the north side of the road to the south. 

My first thought was “dung beetle,” but for some reason I recalled watching dung beetles on the Discovery Channel, and these weren’t nearly large enough to compare to what I saw on TV.  Of course, I had watched African dung beetles that had to deal with elephant-sized dung piles, but I hadn’t gotten that far in my analysis yet. 

I looked around for the nearest pile of … dung.  It lay far away in terms of the size and stride of these two beetles.  Could it be?  Could they have been so ambitious as to have marched their short insect legs to that pasture to collect and form a rollable ball of cow dung several hundred feet to the south?

Obviously, I had to stop my walk to observe these diligent creatures.  They had quite a system set up to enable them to simultaneously push and roll that poo ball.  One stood on top of the ball as one envisions those lumbermen who roll logs down a river.  The other one rose up on its hind legs and used its upper legs to lever the ball forward.

When I got home, I hit the Internet.  Sure enough, we do have dung beetles in Kansas.  In fact, I discovered, they live everywhere except the Antarctic. If we didn’t have them, we’d be up to our eyeballs in, well…use your imagination.  Several varieties of these necessary but unappreciated creatures exist, and I happened to spy “rollers.” 

Ancient Egyptians knew the importance of these little guys and deified them.  That may have carried things too far, but consider that one Internet site said they keep “the land livable by reducing flies, foul odors, and the ruination of pastureland.”  Another site claimed more efficient use of these guys “could save farmers $2 billion a year by restoring grazing land.” One farmer stated, “Once the cattle have vacated the paddock, within 48 hours, there is no manure left.”

Maybe the Hays Research Station needs to add a few dung beetles to keep up with the stuff causing the odors wafting through Hays when the south wind blows.  These beetles are good guys with whom to share life’s journey.  I look forward to seeing them again.

Drought, a Tree Root, and No Plumbing

            When I left home to attend a five week National Endowment for the Humanities Summer Teacher Seminar I secured my husband’s devout promise he would water my flowers for me.  By the time I left for Fargo, North Dakota, in mid-July, the rich purple petunias, coral moss rose, and vibrant snapdragons already showed some heat distress.  Frequent watering was their only hope to last through the summer.

            While in Fargo, I kept track of western Kansas weather through phone calls and monitoring the Hays Daily News website.  Though some rain fell, I knew the only way my flowers would survive was through frequently sprinklings from the garden hose.  Imagine my pleasure when I arrived at 1:00 a.m. on a mid-August Friday morning and my flowerbeds still bloomed.  Sure, the drying buffalo grass crunched under foot, but the flowers blossomed vigorously.  What a sight!  My husband knew how I dreaded returning to find dried blooms.

            For the next day or so we caught up on each others’news, and I caught up on some laundry and dishes.  In short time, I realized we had another problem.  The pipes had backed up in the house. We had a blockage.  And the plumber was out of commission. 

            Adaptability became the key word.  I had so looked forward to coming home to all our modern conveniences after weeks of dorm living.  Fortunately, we have a complete stock of Cabela’s camping equipment, including camp shower and facilities.  Even though I had to do dishes outside and take a camp shower, we did not suffer as much as we could have.  Briskly showering under the light of a full prairie moon has its own merits.  I have to say it beats taking an outside shower in mid-January.

            After a few days of roughing it, my husband and a good friend decided to tackle the problem on their own.  I rented a rotor rooter machine, and they went on a mission to solve the problem.  Initially, they decided tree roots could not be the problem because the new pipe was impervious to root attack. 

 

            After several approaches to clearing the blockage, the guys dug out around the exit pipe.  What they found was a prime example of prairie adaptability.  We were not the only ones adjusting to circumstances. 

An old elm tree, which diligently refuses to give up the ghost, grows on the west side of the house, not too far from the plugged sewer line.  It provides hours of entertainment as we watch birds and squirrels scurry up and down its trunk and twisted branches.  In late afternoon, it even offers a little shade.  For these reasons, I have encouraged its fight for survival. 

            This summer’s dry conditions left the tree searching for moisture.  Somehow a slender root finger had found the one spot in the impervious pipe where it could enter and begin siphoning nutrient rich moisture.  Once the root tapped into the pipe joint, it began a reproductive life of its own.  Tiny hairs shot off the original root, and each of those hairs then manufactured even tinier hairs by the thousands.  We had a root wad the size of the exit pipe plugging our sewer. 

            The guys made quick work of putting everything back together while I did a long overdue load of dishes.  As I listened to the water draining easily through the pipes, I also gazed out the window at that determined tree.  Elm trees have a hard life on the prairie, and this one has done better than most.

            Maybe I should not begrudge it a drink in a dry season no matter where it has to go for that drink.  After all, life on the prairie is challenging.  We ought to enjoy what pleasures we can.   Maybe that’s why I enjoy those flowers so, even though they have seen better days and better blooms. 

Balancing Mother Nature

                It is difficult to complain about drought when every news report posts daily accounts of the Mississippi, Missouri, and other rivers at flood stage.  These same reports focus on folks whose lives will never be the same when the river finally subsides.  I imagine them cleaning up the mud, mold, and sodden sand bags from their ruined homes, businesses, and public buildings, and wonder how I can whine about no rain.

                However, after a recent trip across West Texas and Eastern New Mexico, I know why lack of rain concerns me.  Those folks probably don’t remember their last bit of moisture, based on the condition of their pastures.  I saw cattle resting in pastures of pure dirt—no grass.  There wasn’t anything to eat, so they sat themselves down, hoping something to fill their growling stomachs would come their way.   I saw other cows grazing burned cactus.  The rancher had burned the needles off the cholla so his cattle had something to eat.  I know cholla, so despite the torch job, some hungry cow also has stickers irritating her lips and mouth.

                What was scary was the number of acres involved.  This bone- colored land-- there was no new grass--only last year’s sere stems, covered miles and miles-- maybe all the way to that historic forest fire in Arizona.  Off the plains, dry pines in the forest await a lightning strike or a careless camper to start the next uncontrolled blaze.  Everywhere we drove, we saw extreme danger fire alerts.  Running streams were rare sights.  Without deep wells, communities would fail.  Of course, those wells probably need a refill too. 

  While this is always a dry country designed for sturdy inhabitants, the drought escalates concerns. You see it in the eyes of the people who serve you in gas stations, restaurants, and inns.  Is there enough water to share?

                Once back home, my own pasture and yard showed more sign of heat stress. Grass isn’t growing.  What had been green when I drove out the drive is now straw-like.  Trees show signs of drought stress as they drop yellow leaves far too early in the summer, and flower and vegetable gardens wilt by mid-morning.  Upon waking, I begin an all-day prayer for rain and then remember those folks east of me who pray the rain will stop.

                Too bad Mother Nature doesn’t have some method to redistribute her excess moisture to lands of little rain.  If someone could figure out how to redirect those overflowing rivers West, sandbag salesman would go broke, the desert would surely bloom, and cows would contentedly munch grass, not dust and cactus.  

               

                  

                

Finding What I Wasn't Looking For...

Sometimes you don’t know what you’re looking for until you find it.  Those moments of serendipity can occur almost anywhere, and everyone has stories they never forget about the great bargain they found at a sale or the treasure in Grandma’s attic.  I have known folks who found their life partner when they least expected it.  The one place I know a person can expect to find the unexpected is out-of-doors.  Rarely do I go outside that I don’t find a treasure or take home a great memory.

            With the creek dry, I spent several weekends wandering up and down its sandy bed searching for an ancient bison skull. I know one is buried in that bleached sand, waiting for me to find it. After all, bone pickers can’t possibly have found every sun-whitened bone as they picked their way across the prairie. Besides, I have known several people who have found old skulls on river sandbars and in Big Creek. Once, years ago, I did find what I think is an old bison tooth along the edges of the Saline.  My great find will happen one day.  I just have to keep looking.

            The best part about the search is that I always find other wonders to catch my attention and remind me I am only a small part of the local ecology.  I quickly found ample evidence that beaver have made a comeback in our neighborhood.  Gnawed down trees, signaling these aquatic rodents’ presence dotted both sides of the creek east and west.  In one place where water still remained, I spotted an area where the beady-eyed mammals had chewed branches off and then slid them downhill back into the water.  The obvious tracks left by their wide, flat tails caught my eye.  If I hid around the corner, I wondered if I would catch one slapping that tail to warn other beaver of an intruder.

            Beaver aren’t the only rodents with growing populations living near the creek.  Our area of the creek has flooded repeatedly over the years, and as a result, trees and branches piled up like oddly constructed statuary up and down the banks.  Packrats have had a hey day dragging twigs, leaves, and other packrat treasure to stuff in the crevices until regular packrat high-rise apartments regularly occupy the floodway.  No wonder we continually fight the packrat population.  There aren’t enough owls and hawks to eat everything those nests promise to produce.

            While I found plenty of animal sign, some old deer bones, and several empty clam shells left behind by some full-bellied raccoons, I didn’t find a single sign of the hoped for bison skull in my dry creek bed.  Eventually, I decided to see what I could find along the banks of the creek instead of in the creek bed.  This led to one of those moments when you find something you weren’t looking for.

            Even though I had covered this ground several times in the previous weeks, the seasons had changed clearly from summer to autumn.  Every crunchy step reminded me that everything that had been green only a few weeks before had entered that stage of dormancy heralding full-fledged fall.  As I crossed the bridge over Big Creek, I spotted a treasure I hadn’t been looking for, a beautiful four-point white tail drop. 

            Ironically, I had rambled miles, looking for drops in this same area last spring and never spotted a thing.  Then as I wandered the dry creek bed, looking for ancient bison skulls, I found my dropped antler.  That tawny bone color stood out against the other shades of sere grasses and forbs so I couldn’t miss it.

            Life is like that.  You find a treasure when you least expect it.  I have found you do need to be looking for something even if it isn't what you find, which makes me wonder what I’ll be looking for when I finally find that bison skull.

   

Mulberries: Mess or Banquet?

It is that time when Kansas cars, driveways, and tops of heads wear purplish reminders of a passing bird’s mulberry feast.  Everyone saw it coming as pale fruits of this native tree first turned bright red then matured to black-purple.  Not so long ago, Jayhawk-state residents looked forward to this early spring fruit as one of summer’s first harvests.  Now days, most folks consider these berries a mess to clean up.

The red mulberry is native to this region.  Nomadic tribes enjoyed its shade as well as the nutrient-rich berries they harvested and ate immediately or dried to add important vitamins to their winter fare. In addition, this tree was a drugstore for native people. A concoction made of mulberry bark treated both dysentery and worms.  Brew made from roots relieved urinary problems, and sap cured ringworm.  Not only was this plant good for food and medicinal purposes, but also its wood made strong bows.  Some tribes spun young mulberry shoots into fiber they could use to weave clothing.

Pioneers enjoyed the shade of this Great Plains native and looked forward to the vitamin boost they got in late spring from this long-fruiting plant. Old-timers made social occasions of mulberry picking expeditions. They harvested berries by hand, or to be more efficient, they placed a cloth beneath a tree and shook ripened fruit onto it.

 In addition to eating the fresh-picked fruit, early settlers dried this vitamin storehouse for winter use.  Cooks often made jams to last families throughout the year.  Mulberry fruits by themselves made good pies, and they blended well in rhubarb, apple, or pear pastries.  Modern cooks use updated recipes to make mulberry jam, mulberry wine, mulberry pie, and mulberry cobbler.  The internet includes a number of salivary gland triggering recipes.

Humans are not the only creatures to enjoy mulberries.  Over 50 species of birds love them as well, including bright yard visitors such as cardinals and orioles. Over time, it is clear to see where mulberry-eating birds perched upon a fence post or on a cedar branch and deposited fertilized seeds that grow along a fence line or in a cedar row. Insect-loving birds visit the trees to snag mulberry-loving bugs.

Other mulberry fans include coyotes and domestic dogs.  Anyone taking long walks in the country during mulberry season will find coyote scat loaded with its seeds.  These wild canines must eat dark berries until their bellies bulge.  We once had a black lab that would lie under a neighbor’s tree to catch fruits as they dropped.  I swear I saw him smile as he scarfed those berries down.

Anglers know that carp love mulberries.  The silvery giants swarm beneath branches dangling over the creek to gobble mulberries as fast as the wind blows them off the tree.  It is fun to watch Big Creek boil below an overhanging mulberry as huge carp surface to fight for a favorite meal.

No doubt about it, mulberries make a mess.  However, they are an opportunity as well. When those purple fruits first splotch the car and sidewalk, get a landowner’s permission to harvest a bucket of tasty fruit.  Choose a recipe to make some jam or a pie that tastes like spring.  You’ll see why creatures from carp to coyotes love this seasonal delight.

A Country Wave Is Good for the Soul Whether You Give or Receive It

In urban areas, where most folks are strangers and can’t hold one another accountable, some drivers comfortably use sign language to inform fellow travelers of their  pent-up frustrations.  As a result, city drivers often see a middle-finger salute during their drives to and from work.

When I moved to a rural region, I realized one of the bonuses of country life is local drivers don’t do this.  Rural drivers often know one another or they know the other person's friends and family.  It wouldn’t do to flip off the boss or preacher and then have to come up with a lame excuse such as, “But I was only adjusting my garage door opener.”  Instead of insulting one another, country drivers greet everyone, friend or stranger, with the “country wave.”

While urban dwellers easily identify the one-fingered address so often used in their home district, it takes time to realize rural drivers acknowledge everyone they meet on a two-lane road with one of several variations of the friendlier rural salute.   Urban visitors to the country must learn this greeting holds no malice, no frustration, no anger.  It’s a neighborly, “Good to see you.”

While the one-fingered salute’s only variation involves which hand to use to express those negative feelings, the “country wave” has several presentations.    The country driver can issue this with either the right or left hand.  What is necessary is a relaxed palm positioned at the top of the steering wheel.   

When an oncoming vehicle closes in so that each driver makes eye contact, the person waving has to decide, “One finger--or two--or maybe all four”?  The concern with one finger is that the other driver could misinterpret it as one of those city salutes.  It takes a confident driver to use the pointer finger wave.

Another more common variation of this greeting involves keeping the palm on the top of the steering-wheel, but instead raising pointer and middle fingers in a synchronized movement.  It doesn’t require more energy, and it is easier for the oncoming driver and passengers to see.  Pick-up and truck drivers seem to prefer this version of the “country wave.”

Some drivers are so relaxed cruising rural roads they find themselves keeping their palm on the wheel while either four or even eight digits rise in unison to greet the driver coming their way.  This is another acceptable variation of the less obvious one or two fingered greetings.

My cousin who lives near Denver recently visited.  He told us how much he enjoyed driving section-lines where neighbors acknowledge one another with “the wave.”

Those who live in rural areas know they have too many blessings to count.  One of those blessings is the simple “country wave” that says, “Always good to see you.” 

Country Cemeteries

            Traditions tie us to our past and link us to our future.  As part of a long family tradition, I love this time of year when folks gather peonies and irises to decorate loved ones’ graves for Memorial Day.  I can hardly look at the peonies blooming around not think about meeting family and having picnics as part of this legacy of family history.

            The flowers and picnic gathering are only part of my enjoyment.  I also like the contact with the past and the continuity into the present. For whatever reason, my ancestors tended to settle western Kansas towns that tended to place the cemetery at the edge of town on a hill overlooking not only the community, but also the surrounding watershed valley.  Looking at the situation logically, I realize my ancestors were optimists who hoped the towns would do what Hays has done and grow.  However, the little communities my family members settled have seen better days and now the population in the cemetery is greater than that in the town.

            One drives south through Ford to find a sandy country road leading up the hill to the cemetery.  Unlike Jetmore where cedars dominate the hillside, once past the entrance  where there are a few stout trees standing, Ford has only a few struggling elms interspersed throughout the cemetery to provide shade over graves or to family members who like to walk among the headstones, remembering loved ones and their lives. 

            I think this is one of the reasons I like that prairie cemetery.  Once I stand on that hill, I imagine I can see the elevators in Dodge to the north and west. But mostly I see empty prairie and river bottomland. Bucklin’s elevators to the south and east post faint shadows on the plains, but that could be my imagination because I know the elevators are there.

 For miles and miles I see Arkansas River basin land where my grandfather skated, hunted, and fished as boy. He said he could skate from Ford to Dodge and back in a day.  On that hill, I can imagine all the hopes and dreams those ancestors of mine brought to these plains.

When I turn around to look north and west, I can see what remains of Ford, the town my grandmother came to as bride from the mountains of Colorado.  I see the tall roof of the boarding house where my great-greats ran a boarding house and a livery stable.  Now it is some family’s home on the main street of Ford.  The livery barn out back no longer exists.

            Upon visiting the cemetery with our grandparents when we were children, they would walk us up and down the lanes of headstones pointing out this ancestor and then another and tell the stories of these hardy pioneers’ lives on this land.

 I learned in those moments with my grandparents to love this prairie and those people who first came here. I learned to notice the native buffalo grass and prairie wildflowers that changed with the seasons on that hill.  I knew the first time I stood there I would always love that view of prairie where it is bisected by the Arkansas.  Only recently, I learned it was a stopping place along the Santa Fe Trail.

This cemetery is manicured only for Memorial Day.  Any other time of year and  this cemetery is much like the prairie grasses around it with a few domestic blooms interrupting the native scenery.  I like that about this final resting place.  These people came with their hopes to this new land.  I like to think the land changed them more than they changed the land and here in their final resting places, one can stand on a hill looking miles in any direction and get a good idea of what they saw when they first came.

We recently buried the grandmother who introduced me to the stories of the generations buried in this cemetery.  I found a sense of peace knowing future generations would stand on this hill to decorate her grave and tell their children her stories as well as the stories of those who went before her.  Our stories and the land will go on just as the prairie wind will blow waves of native grasses.   

             

             

Country Auctions: Celebration or Farewell

                “Going once, twice, sold!” patters the auctioneers as he transfers ownership of an old wedding ring quilt to a buyer as the crowd moves  from the flatbed display wagon to let the woman who purchased the heirloom retrieve it.  As soon as she moves back into her place, the crowd around the temporary sales booth realigns itself like some giant amoeba shifting and reforming.  Many become one on a sunny morning on the prairie.

                One of the pleasures of living a country life is attending country auctions.  Normally isolated lanes fill with more vehicles than the road has seen in years;  neighbors see neighbors they haven’t seen since church on Sunday or maybe the last auction, and they begin catching one another up on their latest news while they  sort through another neighbor’s lifetime or multiple lifetime collections of “stuff.” 

                In the background, scents of French fries, grilled hamburgers, and hotdogs from a concession stand brought in for the day tease sensitive nostrils that can ignore the pervasive smells of fresh mown grass, bug spray, and sun block. Attentive ears pick up sounds of children’s laughter as they play at the auction’s edge supervised and ignored by everyone attending.  Some folks bring their dogs either in large purses or on heavy chains depending on the beasts’ sizes.  Fashion includes everything from country club golf wear to often-washed overalls with ball caps advertising everything from John Deere to the latest fishing equipment.

                Once at the auction site, it’s like going to a three ring circus.  The auctioneer created a perimeter of farm equipment that could be a museum in terms of showing the evolution of plows, planters, wagons, grinders, and other farm implements.  Inside this show ring, another ring of popular distressed furniture waits for new homes.  Folks stop to examine a lovely ornate iron bed piled with odd pieces of metal sitting atop an old flatbed truck.  Nearby, distressed cupboards, dressers, and tables stand like soldiers at attention awaiting new homes.  Some furniture makers today spend a great deal of energy to create new furniture that looks as worn and well used as these pieces that served multiple generations of this farm family.  Included in this secondary ring of the auction circus is a row of wonderful old cars and parts that reveal the early evolution of the automobile.  An old Model T catches everyone’s eye as they walk past and makes them pause for a moment to either regret how cars have changed or to make them say thank goodness the car changed.

                Inside these rings of larger items, auctioneers  piled four or five large flat beds with dishes, pottery, toys, pictures, tools, and assorted ephemera of decades such as calendars, advertising pens, and other collectibles.  Some items are still in the boxes they came in and others have separated from some of their parts requiring buyers to pay close attention, which is hard to do when so many people crowd into such a small space. 

                On a personal level, these auctions are a chance for neighbors to gather, buyers to stock antique mall or e-bay shelves, collectors to find that perfect piece to add to their collection.  For a sociologist or historian, these country auctions are a textbook study of generations of life of the Plains.  It is easy to see the how farm and household equipment changed and how family members adapted outdated pieces to new roles. 

The discerning can see where the family shopped and how they repurposed flour sacks and other textiles into beautiful quilts, tea towels, and pillows.  Some artful craft man turned old wood and other items into clever doll furniture for a lucky little girl. Pictures and other wall hangings unveil the family interests in Indians and the out of doors.  Collections of calendars, equipment manuals, and grocery store give-aways tell of years past.

What initially seems a festive occasion and still is in terms of friends gathering and reconnecting is actually a farewell to a changed way of life.  Just as funerals offer closure to families and friends of deceased loved ones, these country auctions offer closure to those either clinging to or saying goodbye to a well-loved past.