Tomato Twister

           Growing vegetables and flowers on the high plains of Western Kansas requires eternal hope that compares to a child’s expectant belief in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Because we believe, we will harvest succulent, homegrown vegetables and fruits. Each spring gardeners across this region sift through garden magazines and seed catalogues and visit local garden shops with a gambler’s hope that this will be the year.

            Eleven years after moving to our limestone hilltop, payday has arrived.  Yes, Virginia, your garden will produce a bonanza harvest. 

Due to a combination of beneficent rains and chicken poop, we have a dream tomato harvest--this despite hail that totaled our roof and left tender tomato plants shattered and broken.  Even with the set back, our vines began producing at the end of July, only a bit later than they would have without Mother Nature’s challenges. Produce is an understatement.  The plants absolutely burgeon with softball-size, juicy fruits that taste like captured sunbeams.

            Here’s the dilemma.  We have a small, raise-bed plot due to our topsoil- challenged circumstances. Based on past plantings, I left plenty of room between seedlings so they could stretch, grow, and still leave room to harvest ripe tomatoes.

           This year’s timely, ample rains and the perfect addition of cured chicken droppings induced unbelievable growth. The intertwining plants are over three and half high by three and a half feet wide.  That is a minimal estimation since it’s hard to tell how tall the plants would be if they weren’t weighed down by large orbs.  I can’t get through my garden without playing the contortionist game of Twister.

            My visiting mother discovered huge numbers of ready- to-pick tomatoes.  Other than the fun of digging hills of potatoes, I don’t think there is much my mom likes better than finding every last ripe tomato on eight very crowded, over-grown plants.  She became a tomato General Patton as she stood outside the fenced  garden and directed the placement of my feet and hands so that I could reach every last one of the ripened fruits. 

            “More to the left, down a few more inches, don’t step too hard with your right foot, stretch, can you see it, oh look, there’s a great big one on  the other side of that plant, watch out, you’re bending that branch, oh can you get all four of those and pass them to me.”

 It was a form of garden “Twister.”  I was so contorted I barely kept my balance.  In the real Twister game, you don’t have to worry about destroying a producing tomato plant.  The worst you can do is bruise a fellow player or black an eye. 

           

            By the time I finished following Mom’s directions, we filled a five gallon bucket two days in a row.  Taking our harvested trophies into the house, we rinsed, blanched, peeled, and quartered them until I had six gallon bags of ready-to-turn-into-salsa frozen tomatoes.

            I must recover from my spine-twisting garden game before I can think about lifting the jar-filled canner from the hot stove. 

           

             

The Smartest Toads Live Here

            While my sixth grade classmates loved listening to our teacher read Wind in the Willows, I found it silly.  Toads talking and acting like people, no way.  This attitude toward anthropomorphic creatures was a childhood peeve.  I wanted critters natural. 

            To this day, I find stories with talking animals silly.  Despite this curmudgeonly attitude toward this genre, I do like toads. Fortunately, this summer has provided daily opportunities to observe a pair of toads residing in our patio planters.

            Looking at a toad, you wouldn’t think it overly bright, but these two must lead their class based on their behaviors.

            Before summer officially arrived, these fellows demonstrated their smarts.  Our little section of parched prairie made growing anything a challenge.  Instead of investing in a big flowerbed, I decided a few well-chosen pots with bright blooms would make it seem like summer even if I couldn’t justify the water needed to grow a lush flower garden. Those green gents determined which pots stayed cool and damp longest and moved in.  Initially, they lived separately, one in my mixed bloom bucket and the other in a geranium pot. 

As May days lengthened and warmed, the geranium toad must have checked out the mixed bloom pot because next thing I knew, I had two toads coming up for air out of the same hole when I watered.  Their toad hole was deep enough that one could rest on the other’s head and still leave the top toad covered in potting soil to his bulging eyeballs.

For a while they seemed content in the mixed bloom pot, but as it grew hotter and drier, both toads abandoned that pot for my herb garden.  I guess it was insulated a little better.  Watering time became an adventure.  I never knew exactly where I would find my garden buddies.

In addition to relishing comfortable living conditions, these guys exhibited the signs of a healthy appetite.  They are wider and longer than my palm--a result of their canny culinary skills. 

While other toads in our yard gather nightly under the yard light, these amphibians discovered the patio light draws insects equally well and  is not nearly so long a journey.  Intelligently, they waited until the cool of evening before emerging over the lip of their home one amphibian limb at a time.  Then they let the porch light work its magic. 

One night, I interrupted their fashionably late supper.  Both toads had rooted themselves directly under bright beams, gobbling beetle after beetle as insects dropped to the patio.

 While I watched, these big boys didn’t move more than a couple of inches as they went through a twelve-course meal’s equivalent.  I wish I had watched long enough to see them lug distended, white bellies back into the flower pot I found them in the next morning.

As much fun as I have had this summer watching my two patio toads, I may need to give Wind in the Willows another try.  Obviously, there is more to that story than I caught back in sixth grade.

The Lost Art of the Sunday Drive

Frequently, people lament the passing of the good ol’ days but when questioned, rarely do any lamenters want to return to days before air conditioning, central heat, automatic transmissions, cell phones, internet, and cable TV.  While it is possible to live life without those items, most of us don’t really want to revert to life without modern technology.

When people talk about the good ol’ days, I think they miss things like the Sunday afternoon drive.  As a kid, I loved to hear my parents jingle the car keys and say, “Load up. Let’s go for a drive.”  

The first order of business for my brother and me was to divide  the back seat with an imaginary line.  Once we established its location, we knew not to cross it unless we intended to fight for territory.  A stern, “Stay on your side of the seat,” from an adult facing forward in the front seat made us wonder if our parents really had eyes in the backs of their heads like they said they did.

Our car had an old-fashioned arm-strong style air conditioner, so Sunday drives meant getting huge doses of fresh air.  Wind blew torrents through rolled down windows, yes, rolled down—that’s what made it arm-strong air-conditioning.  It would riffle our hair until we had a rat’s nest of tangles.  Constant noise from wind blowing through the car made it hard to hear, so we didn’t talk as much as we looked. 

Spotting the first wild animal or game bird earned us imaginary Sunday drive points worth little more than knowing we had sharper vision than our fellow passengers.  Despite the lack of tangible rewards, honor kept our eyes peeled to spot pheasants, coyotes, and jack rabbits before anyone else did.

When I was eight, we lived in Utah, and Sunday drives meant a trip up a winding mountain road where we looked for perfectly camouflaged porcupines in pine trees.  My brother and I both developed eagle eyes trying to be the first to sight one of those bristly creatures hiding among the needle-covered branches.  To this day, that early training helps me spot distant wildlife faster than anyone else in the vehicle can spot it.

Another favorite Sunday drive in Utah was a trip along the Colorado River.  If we looked high up the red rock walls, we’d spot  a Moki Hole, which was an entrance to  an Indian cave dwelling.  Better yet, we’d spy a panel of ancient petroglyphs where Indians used stone tools to peck pictures of animals and weird creatures in stone.

I suspect children today would cringe to hear their folks holler, “Load up.  Let’s go for a drive,” with the expectation they would spend time actually looking out the car window instead of watching a portable DVD player.  However, if folks can afford a Sunday drive at today’s gas prices, time spent learning to look at the landscape might pay off with wonderful memories and silly stories to tell at family reunions.

The Day Our Rabbit Dog Became a Bird Dog

          

         We have a little viszla with an uncanny nose.  She sifts olfactory information and interprets it much the same way criminologists sift crime scene data to determine an answer.  While the criminologist writes up a lengthy report, Reebok freezes on the spot, leaning her taut red body a bit into the whiffs coming her way, and goes on a hard, bird dog point. 

Her traveling companion is a greyhound/golden retriever mix with an insensitive nose.  Tucker depends entirely on eyesight to zero in on his favorite game, rabbits.  Unfortunately, he’s taught that little red viszla a bad trick over the years, and now she points rabbits if we don’t keep her honest.

While I am not a bird hunter, I’ve cussed Tucker when the little red dog goes on point over a silly rabbit. However, Tucker recently redeemed himself in a most unexpected way. 

About a week after pheasant season opened, I drove home to hear hunters working the walk-in hunting area near our house.  I thought I recognized our neighbor’s voice, and I smiled to think of him teaching his young sons the intricacies of pheasant hunting.  I heard several shotgun blasts in a row and hoped they had success enough to make those boys want to hunt again.

After the hunters quieted down, Tucker and I headed on our afternoon ramble.  We didn’t see any evidence of hunting success as we wandered down our familiar path.  Too bad, I thought.  Early success makes a difference to a young hunter just as it does to a youngster in a classroom.

On journey’s homeward leg, my big, yellow dog followed his usual habit of ducking into the cedar shelterbelt.  He likes success too and knows the tree row is always good for scaring up a rabbit.  Instead of dashing out after a cottontail, I saw my big, yellow dog emerge, almost sheepishly, retrieving something big and dark. 

What did he get into?  I wondered.  My first thought was that he found a crow carcass from a flock roosting in the cedars.  I commanded him to drop it, which he promptly did.  He acted uncertain about what to do in his new role.

As I walked right up on the dog and object, I recognized a freshly killed pheasant.  Our neighbor or his son had made a good shot and lost the bird when it flew into our windbreak.  My rabbit dog had turned bird dog and knew exactly what to do when he had a bird to deliver.

We finished the trek home, where I called my neighbor to tell him of Tucker’s find. Seeing my neighbor’s son show the pheasant he shot to his grandpa and listening to them tease about who got the tail feathers reminded me of why it is important for hunters to pass on their love of the outdoors.

 It also reminded me that old dogs do learn new tricks.  Tucker keeps nosing back to where he found that bird, hoping that he’ll discover another treasure.  

The Backyard Through a Granddaughter’s Eyes and Ears

                Our six –month-old granddaughter recently came with her mom as surprise guest to her aunt’s birthday dinner.  This tiny ranch girl is used to looking at cows and has already met her future 4-H pig project up close and personal, as in nose to nose, so she’s used to the out of doors.  However, she hasn’t spent much time with this grandma outdoors so we worked on that.

 We had a good rain recently, so to avoid feeding Miss G to the skeeters,  we spent the morning on the screened in porch.  Our back yard is a symphony of birdsong, so it was fun to watch this little dolly tilting her head, looking for the origin of all those noisy birds.  A cardinal sang his heart out to her with his “pretty bird” call, and some little wrens chittered away on the hill above us. 

 Not far in the distance, we heard a pheasant crow, while our resident red tail hawks flew overhead “screeing” away.  Some noisy sparrows sparred over something in tree not far from us, entrancing the baby with their New York City side walk babble

 If that weren’t enough sensory stimulation for one so young, a good breeze rustled the cottonwood  leaves as a backbeat to the songs all the birds were singing.  To go with the dancing, noisy leaves, butterflies fluttered in close enough so our baby could see them flitting from blossom to blossom on the old-fashioned roses and the Black-eyed Susan.  She liked those too and waved and kicked her appreciation.  We had white ones and yellow ones, but no big orange ones.  Maybe those will come later in the summer.

Since it is difficult to get inside an infant’s mind, I worked on reading body language.  After the initial going someplace different at Grandma’s house so I have to look all over the place, Miss G relaxed in my arms and spent her time either trying to identify where those noisy birds were hiding , or she had her little eyes and hands dancing in time with the butterflies.

 The breeze was just right and worked like a sedative until her lids grew heavy and slowly closed.  By the end of our time outdoors, she was sound asleep in Grandma’s arms.  I like to think she was dreaming about butterfly kisses.

                

Straw Houses Make Happy Homes

Those of us familiar with The Three Little Pigs read this title and shake our heads, saying “What?”  However, we are thinking like pigs or, better yet, humans.   Put yourself in a bird’s mind to see the logic behind this title.

Before area trees and shrubs leaf out, treat yourself to a nature walk.  If you have youngsters or the heart of a youngster, grab some binoculars and find a grove of trees. Spend thirty minutes examining trunks and branches from top to bottom.  Look for grass and stick homes tucked where branches intersect or for grass and sticks poking from holes to reveal hiding places of cavity dwelling families-to-be. Examine plants at tree bases to find hidden, bowl-shaped nests.  Through bare branches, spy nests waiting for new or returning residents.

Once you find last year’s feathered-friend-summer-homes, focus the binoculars to analyze construction and materials. This provides a perfect opportunity to play amateur ornithologist and form hypotheses about previous residents. 

Nest size provides clues to the homebuilder.  Outer materials and nest linings provide more information to help solve your mystery.  If you’re lucky, you’ll find a feather or a bit of broken egg shell to finalize an answer.  Once you’ve examined the physical evidence, continue your investigation on the internet or in a bird book.  Look up species that live in your neighborhood and examine pictures of their nests.

 You will see willy-nilly assemblages where mom and pop hurriedly tossed sticks together so they could lay eggs.  I feel bad for these offspring because crude nests must poke delicate hatchlings.

In another nest, you’ll find finely woven grasses, string, cellophane, ribbon, and hair.  You’ll note soft linings made from thistle down, downy feathers, or discarded pet hair.  

Once you see what neighborhood birds use to create nests, toss handfuls of Easter grass or cat, dog, or human hair retrieved from brushes into the backyard.  You’ll soon see birds scavenging these contributions for their homes.

These nests assume various forms.  My favorite is an oriole nest recognizable as a grass bag attached to a branch. Dare to stick your nose in a hole in a tree where you might find a wren nest or a larger woodpecker or flicker nest.  Messy sparrow nests, large red tail hawk constructions, oriole cradles, and elaborate stick nests of blue herons grace tops of creek-side cottonwoods.  Look in lower branches to find cardinal and dove nests or search the ground for brown thrasher nurseries.

After leaves unfurl, sighting bird nests requires more work.   Take advantage of stark branches to learn where nearby birds brood.  Later, spend time watching adults flit in and out to feed noisy offspring.  Soon after, watch awkward fledgling flight patterns and attempts at food gathering.

Time invested now allows you and your family to discover neighborhood grass, stick, and straw homes neither Big Bad Wolf nor wind can blow down. Identify such locations to observe nesting behaviors over the next months.

Lesson on Storm King Mountain

                             

Funny which body sensations trigger memories we don’t recall storing.  Today’s 55-year-old out-of-shape body climbs a steep hill.  Burning lungs and screaming muscles detour my mind to a summer day six years ago. That day I visited Storm King Mountain outside Glenwood Springs, Colorado, on a pilgrimage to honor 14 firefighters who died in 1994 fighting the South Canyon Fire.  Tortured lungs and hot sun reminded me of the day I trailed a group of 20 and 30-year-old men up the steep trail to overlook the arroyo where 14 Prineville firefighters died. 

On a cool Colorado summer morning, we snugged on sun hats, tightened packs loaded with bottled water, and grabbed walking sticks to make the difficult hike.  For the first hundred steeply-graded yards, I kept up with my fellow pilgrims. However, it didn’t take long to realize my 50-year-old asthmatic lungs could not maintain a pace that made even young men breathe heavily and beaded sweat on all of our brows.

 Realizing I would slow these men to a ridiculous pace, I told the group to move ahead. I’d follow at my slower rate. 

Though I was beginning my trek, I had some sense of what those young fire fighters faced because I was stretching my own physical abilities carrying a water-filled backpack at a high altitude.  I know the firefighters lugged more weight than I and they moved more swiftly, but they had to recognize the same ache deep in their legs and throb in their tortured lungs.

A half mile into the hike, I realized I had another worry.  I was so far behind I could not see nor hear my comrades.  I finally acclimated enough to the altitude and trail that I noticed I was in prime mountain lion country—a steep, piñon punctuated arroyo.

  I scanned to spot sign of these huge mountain cats up close or at a distance. Knowing I was an easy target trailing so far behind the rest of my group increased my speed until I could hear the huffing breaths of climbing hikers. 

At the same time, I imagined the fear the fourteen fire fighters felt as they raced oncoming flames would add vigor to their steps just as my fear of prowling mountain lions increased up my pace and added endurance to agonized breaths. 

Once I caught up to my group at the observation point, I felt relieved I survived the grueling climb up the mountain without facing my worst fear—a mountain lion.  Now I scoped the arroyo dotted with stone cairns marking the sites where many of the 14 fire fighters deployed their fire shelters unsuccessfully.  What a lonely, beautiful place to die. 

My friends and I took turns reading passages from Fire on the Mountain by John Norman Maclean.  The wind carried our words down the mountain the same way it had borne flames six years earlier. 

My decision to climb to this observation point hadn’t been any wiser than the Forest Service’s choice to insert this fire team on the South Canyon Fire. However, I learned much about desperation and tenacity that day.  I am grateful for the pain that triggered this memory.

Preserving A Wild Spirit in Kansas

            After reading last week’s article “Pheasants Forever uneasy about contest,” I am relieved that an organization dedicated to conservation of our resources has stepped forward to share its doubts about retiring House Speaker Jennison’s plans for promoting hunting in our state.

            When the first white men arrived, our plains teemed with varied wildlife.  Through careless hunting and no consideration for future generations, our ancestors hunted game such as the buffalo to the brink of extinction. 

            Since that time, Kansans have concerned themselves with providing quality outdoor resources for the general population.  Through visionary planning and careful management, our wildlife resources have recovered from exhaustive over hunting. 

While some Kansans may not enjoy hunting, fishing, camping or other outdoor activities, it is critical that opportunities for these activities remain available to the general population at a reasonable cost.

            Thoreau best explained why these opportunities are necessary, saying, “In wildness is the salvation of the world.”  At one time Kansas stood at the edge of the wilderness with all the hopes and possibilities a wilderness offers.  Vestiges of that wildness still exist in those places where pheasant, quail, deer, turkey, geese, ducks, and other creatures make their homes.  In habitat that supports these wild beasts, we find the geography of hope Wallace Stegner writes about in his “Wilderness Letter.”

            What is this hope he writes about?  In his collection of essays titled the Sound of Mountain Water, “he argues that an intangible, spiritual ‘resource’ exists in the wilderness, a force that helped form the national character.” 

`           In his “Wilderness Letter,” a part of this essay collection, Stegner quotes Sherwood Anderson, “… Mystery whispered in the grass, played in the branches of trees overhead, was caught up and blown across the American line in clouds of dust at evening on the prairies . . . I am old enough to remember tales that strengthen my belief in a deep semi-religious influence that was formerly at work among our people.  The flavor of it hangs over the best of Mark Twain . . . I can remember old fellows in my home town speaking freely of an evening spent on the big empty plains.  It had taken the shrillness out of them.  They had learned the trick of quiet  . . .”

           In the out of doors I, too, have found this same quiet that took the shrillness out of Anderson’s old men.  I know many outdoors people who share this feeling.  I hate to see our state indulge one more bureaucrat who sees the out-of-doors only as a marketing device to increase state revenues. 

          The real resource is not potential income.  It is not in turning over motel rooms one more time as someone tries to find the specially tagged pheasant that insures one hunter of a grand prize.  Our resource is maintaining and developing this “wildness” that calms our spirit, develops our character, and gives hope to future generations.

           As a way of providing Kansas outdoors people with quality outdoor experiences, our state Wildlife and Parks Department works hard to promote Walk in Hunting Access.  This focus meets multiple needs.  Farmers and ranchers realize income when they sign up with this program.  Hunters, in state and out of state, realize easy access to more land and quality habitat. Businesses sell products and services to the plethora of hunters utilizing these publicly funded wildlife areas.

          If, as Pheasants Forever spokesperson Barth Crouch indicated, the state funneled more money into the Walk in Hunting Access, more landowners and hunters benefit.  If more hunting is available, businesses benefit. 

         It makes me curious when I see a man who represents Kansans working so hard to create sleight of hand tricks that make it look like we are meeting the needs of more hunters. It seems to me that Jennison’s plan puts a giant foot in the door to establish fee hunting in our state.  He may not see it this way, but the possibility strengthens anytime we change the focus from meeting the needs of many to meeting the needs of a few who can afford outfitters and leases. 

        Outdoor activities such as hunting create their own reward.  Simply getting into the field to see creatures and plants in a natural setting is plenty of reinforcement for most of us.  We do not need to be lured with hopes of winning guns and vehicles to convince us that we want to spend one more night in a Kansas motel. 

        Forget promising prizes to hunters.  If we want to meet the needs of hunters, land owners, outdoors people, and business people, let us support organizations that work to create more wildlife habitat.  Let us make certain we leave a piece of wilderness to calm the spirits of our descendants.          Let us guarantee there is a geography of hope in our outdoors where our present and future generations can find that wildness, that place where we learn the trick of quiet that takes the shrillness out of our lives.

        Thank goodness for organizations that advocate equitable land use by many citizens.  If we want to look out for the present and the future, we need to speak up now to say loudly and clearly that we want all outdoors people to have increased, not limited, opportunity to stand at the edge of wildness. 

Magic Overhead

            Whining urgently, my dog awakened me at 4:00 a.m. this morning, something that should have irritated me to no end.  But when I took her and the other little fella outside to relieve themselves, I gazed upward into a movie quality early morning sky.  What should have been a curse was a blessing. 

            Gauzy clouds filtered a waning moon, shedding enough light to put the surrounding trees and bushes into fantastic shadows. My imagination encouraged me to see an elephant or two and maybe a giraffe.  I suspect a few more large creatures lurked in those shadows, but I didn’t have quite enough light or darkness to identify them. 

While the moonlight was limited, a few stars managed to peer downward through periodic breaks in the cloud cover, permitting a bit more illumination on the darkened yard. I felt like I was in a fantasy land or maybe on a ride like Disney’s “Pirates of the Caribbean.” What I didn’t feel was that I stood outside in my own yard.  Abducted by moonlight, I was transported to galaxies far far away.

Actually, I have felt that way several times in recent weeks due to some exceptional skywatching.  Because we live in the country, far from any artificial light source, our yard is ideal for stargazing.  During the August Persiod Meteor Showers, my mom came up from the too bright lights in Oklahoma City to check out the meteor shower on our dark hillside.

That, too, was a blessing.  We got out of bed at 1:00 a.m. to watch the meteors dance across the sky.  I spread out a blanket so we could lie down and look straight up and still be able to tilt our heads backward and sideways to catch a stray meteor shooting off in those directions.  I felt like a kid again, staying up late with mom’s permission, to watch fireflies or fireworks.

As we lay there, waiting to see our first meteor flash by, the Milky Way hovered directly over us as if we could melt right into it.  Artificial satellites cruised heavenly highways, so we waved in case they were taking snapshots.  We had plenty of stars to wish upon and even a descending airplane to confuse us for a moment until we figured out what it was. 

We had to watch carefully to avoid missing the meteor shower.  Most of the flashes of distant light lasted the equivalent of a blink.  A few sported showy long tails that fanned across the sky, so we oohed and aahed appropriately. 

 I can’t think of many adventures my mom and I enjoyed more than that hour or so of relaxing under a August Kansas sky.  My poor husband had to wake up to enjoy the meteor the next night since I’d had to much fun watching them the first time.

Rural Kansans  regularly see night skies that city folks will never enjoy.  It’s good to be reminded periodically by a dog or a camping trip or a visiting mother what a treasure hovers over us each and every night.

Spun Gold

              

One of the most interesting parts of life is making discoveries. Some folks think you have to travel far from home, get advanced degrees, or look at worlds beneath a microscope to do what Columbus, Pasteur, Archimedes, or Einstein did.  However, I’ve learned that if you pay close attention to each moment in your day, you can go to bed most nights and give thanks for another amazing insight.

                Most of my aha moments are special only to me, a loved one, or friend who enjoys nature as much as I, but yesterday morning was wake up in Brigadoon special.  It took an alignment of humidity, temperature, sunlight at just the right angle, and me being in the right place at the right time to create this magic moment. 

                I would have to say most magic moments require at least being in the right place at the right time to qualify as magical, but Sunday morning’s fog and resulting dew were necessary parts of this particular memory making moment.

  I walk the pastures around our property often, and I’ve seen a spider web or two on those rambles, but with the dew and the light at the right angle, I realized we have multitudes of very busy spiders living in the fields from here to Ellis. There were enough spider webs stitching those fields together to drive an arachnophobe crazy. I suspect that is true of about any field, anywhere, but until yesterday I didn’t realize how many spiders call earth home.

What made it possible to spot these webs that normally blend into the environment was an early morning fog that beaded filaments of hundreds of thousands of spider webs in the blue stem, brome, switch and other prairie grasses growing in the neighborhood fields. 

When the rising sun hit these moisture-laden webs, they become spectacular works of art.  Seeing just one of these glittering diamonds would have been blessing enough, but thousands dotted each acre.

 Like jewels found in nature, these treasures came in a trove of shapes and sizes.  Some spiders outdid themselves with platter-sized webs while others spun efficient, golf ball-size tapestries.  Because each highlighted web glistened in golden light, I could see each artist’s individual style.  Each spider had his or her own trademark technique for assembling a bug trap. 

Had we not had that heavy fog, had my husband and I not left the house as the sun peaked high enough to backlight the grassy pastures, had I not been intent on seeing the grass in the morning light as we traveled that road, I’d have missed seeing spun gold. 

I’ve lived a long time, wandered many country miles, and never seen such a sight.  Perhaps this will be my one and only time to see acre after acre of glistening spider creations.  If that is the case, this was blessing enough to last.

Spring Concert

For some, spring heralds the arrival of green leaves and flowers.  For others, it is a time to plant the garden in anticipation of summer’s bounty.  For me, spring signals the opportunity to fall asleep each night to nature’s orchestra and to awaken to her symphony in the morning. 

After a long winter, I eagerly look forward to the first warm days when I can throw open the windows and actually feel and smell the renewal spring promises.  The fresh breezes clear away the long harbored scents of winter.  

No aerosol purchased from a store can match the sweetness of a breeze floating across miles of open prairie.  (That is if the breeze doesn’t blow through a feedlot first.)  Lilacs and blooming fruit trees add ambience as their scent wafts into the house on an invisible airstream.

But scent doesn’t have anything to do with the music of spring.  It simply sets the stage for the concerts to come.  As soon as it is warm enough, I crank open the windows, hoping to capture the sounds of the season.  Since I live near water, I hope to catch the peepers celebrating their nightly courtship rituals. 

  A myriad of owls and night hawks swoop through the nearby trees searching for a late supper, announcing their success with a series of screeches and squawks--like a string section warming up.  When things settle down a bit, I listen carefully for the crickets to begin their recital. 

  It is amazing to think the simple rubbing of two bristly legs together can make music and clue the listener in to the temperature at the same time.  As the nights warm, I wait to hear the deep bass of the bull frogs calling from the creek below and the rising hum of cicadas building to a rousing crescendo.  After an evening of original music, the temperature drops, bringing the lullaby to a close.

The best of part of sleeping with an open window in the spring is the knowledge that another concert begins at dawn with entirely new orchestration.  Before I detect the first rays of sun, the birds outside my room begin their warm up exercises with isolated notes.  

It is impossible to ignore the good cheer enlivening the day, so I crawl out of bed to stand at the window where I watch my private symphony of robins, finches, jays, and larks perform.  Unaware as they seem of their audience, I think they sense my presence and sing more loudly.  This beats using an alarm clock to awaken me any day.

Life is full of simple pleasures if we know where to search.  Discovering nature’s music is as simple as opening the bedroom window on the first warm evening.  So pop the latch, pull up the shade, and settle back for some of the easiest listening around.

Spring Showers Mean Get the Mower Ready

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long-legged Impalers Return

When I think of Great Plains birds I usually think of meadowlarks, hawks, and crows.  In this dry country, I don’t think of water birds with their long legs and necks as typical.  Yet these herons have made the plains home longer than European immigrants have.  Their legs have adapted for wading our shallow creeks and rivers, and their bills make perfect spears to impale unwary fish and frogs.

As soon as I heard the first cranes calling as they flew over in late February, I began looking for the lanky herons to return.  One day in mid-March, I saw one of the long legged birds circling the heronry the birds have used the last few years.  Soon after I saw the forward scout, a cold front swept through, and I saw no more of these exotic looking creatures. 

That worried me.  Last year a small tornado blew through their nesting area, destroying a couple of nests.  I don’t know how birds pick their neighborhood, but when I did not see the herons when I expected to, I thought perhaps they had selected a new area to raise their young.

 I need not have worried.  These birds, designed to live along marshes and rivers, returned to nest again in huge cottonwoods bordering Big Creek.  They haven’t always lived here.  According to a friend who knows these things, a colony near Munjor grew too large several years back and split, sending a number of nesting birds into eastern Trego County.

The birds have spent the last four years building nests in treetops and raising their young on fish and frogs found in Big Creek and nearby ponds.  Once the trees leaf out, the birds’ nests become invisible.  In fact, the first year they nested in eastern Trego County, I saw the large grey-blue birds wading Big Creek or standing patiently in a nearby pond, waiting to spear an unsuspecting meal.   I did not realize they had moved into the neighborhood to stay.  I considered them visitors until I spotted the huge nests built high in the cottonwoods following the fall leaf drop. 

Gaining a new bird population signals a vital creek that can support heron pairs raising their young.  They nest high enough to avoid local bobcats and coyotes, though I suppose a hungry owl or hawk makes a pass through the heronry looking for stragglers or weak birds.

Though these birds select western Kansas to raise their young, once the summer turns to fall, these beautiful creatures pack up and head south.  They winter somewhere in South America before returning to Kansas each spring.  I would love to hear the tales of their travels.

In this country, we value our neighbors even when we do not often see them.  These large grey-blue birds have become valued neighbors, and we look forward to their annual return.  When I hear the song of the crane, I know it will not be long until I see the herons taking turns nesting or finding food for the hatchlings in their nests.  

Snow Is Only Fun for People Who Do Not Have to Work in It

        Like my students, I appreciate an occasional snow day.  Waking up to hear the DJ listing my school on the snow day list reminds me of finding an unexpected twenty dollar bill in an old pair of jeans.  It makes my heart smile.

            Immediately I do a mental inventory of the baking supplies.  Good news! Cupboards and canisters contain flour, sugar, shortening, and other goodies for cinnamon rolls, cookies, and bierocks.

 

            On past snow days, we have worked out the division of labor so I baked and made cocoa while my husband did chores and shoveled.  A good deal for me, especially after my experience this last snow.

         Just before this snow began, my husband came down with a virus.  I usually do not know when he feels ill, but this virus had more punch and left him aching and sniffling miserably in his chair. 

         Because the superintendent canceled school the previous night, we slept in Friday morning.  Once up, I realized we had more snow and wind than anticipated.  Since the chore master was side-lined, I bundled up to feed the livestock. I had to shove the door open against a three-foot drift. Outside the door, the real work began. 

            Our thermometer read somewhere between zero and ten degrees, and the weather channel said we had a windchill of –15 to –25 degrees.   Walking to the corral through more knee high drifts woke me up ten times better than the coffee I had gulped earlier. 

A north wind snatched half the hay from the pitchfork before I could get it in the feed bunk.  What normally takes a few minutes took four times more because I had to plow through another drift to move from bale to feed bunk. 

            After hauling buckets of fresh water through the drifts, I had an inkling of what my pioneer ancestors thought about winter storms.  I suspect they did not look forward to them nearly as much as I have in the past.

            All these years my husband has done the outdoor work while I enjoyed the cooking and baking indoors.  By the time I went outside, it was easy to get to the pens to water and feed.

            This snow day opened my eyes.  Snow quadruples work for ranchers, farmers, road crews,  and oil field workers.   Snow is only fun for people who do not have to work in it.

           Kansas pioneers were tough.  They did not have modern conveniences to welcome them when they returned to the house.  If they had water, it was because they hauled it.  If they were warm, it was because they brought in wood, coal, or buffalo chips to burn.  I suspect those who lived above ground had drafty houses, and those who lived below ground knew their next problem had to do with the melt.

          In my case, the electricity stayed on, the walls sheltered us from  chilling winds, and water ran every time I turned on the faucet.  Settlers must have hated snow days. 

Stars of Yard, Pasture, and Grocery Store

A grass seed with sharp, hair-like projection recently noodled its way into my sock and then into tender ankle flesh.  It reminded me that by the end of July seeds make themselves particularly evident in our lives.

 A quick look at trees around town reveals creamy yellow ash seeds contrasting themselves against emerald leaves.  Catalpa pods dangle like  funky ornaments amid big, heart shaped leaves.  Locust pods also hang among their leaves like chandelier earrings.  Hackberry trees sport berries that will sustain birds this fall and winter.

Our gardens are also full of seeds: some  edible--like green beans and okra. Others are designed for spitting contests—like watermelon seeds.  Some go to the chickens--like cantaloupe and bell pepper seeds.

Trees and gardens aren’t the only places to see seeds. Walking through a dry pasture reveals dastardly devil’s claw pods still forming.  Any mammal ankle or lower leg is fair game once these ripen and fall from the plant. Nearer the dry creek, plants incubate dangerous versions of Velcro-like monsters that my daughters call porcupine eggs.  I hate removing them from longhaired dogs’ coats and tails.

Somehow in this dry weather, nature sustains goat head stickers and sandburs, which rank with devil’s claws and porcupine eggs as particularly vile seeds.  It’s easy to see why they transport so well and why it’s so hard to destroy them.

The kinds of seeds I’ve been talking about are easy to consider as seeds.  Less evident are seeds we find in grocery store aisles.

Remember your last trip to the market and the narrow lanes you cruised with your slowly filling cart.  How many products that you passed by or put in your cart directly represent seeds?

The condiment shelves are full of seedy items: mustard and poppy seed dressing come immediately to mind.  In the vegetable section, you’ll find canned seeds: various kinds of beans, corn, and hominy find their way into most of our carts.

The baked good segment of the store is full of seeds ground to flour.  In addition, poppy, dill, sesame, pepper, caraway, and other seeds fill the spice shelves.  In that same area, bottles of vanilla and almond flavoring contain distilled seed products. 

A turn down the cereal aisle takes you into another seedy section of the grocery store.  Oatmeal  and barley provide examples of less refined seeds.  Boxes of Cheerios, Chex, and Fruit Loops hide disguised seeds.

Not far from the cereal, jars of peanut butter and Nutella remind us that some of our food favorites were once nutty seeds.  Not far away we find jars and bags of roasted and raw nuts that provide tasty and healthy munchies.

While I curse those grass seeds that lodge in my socks or the porcupine eggs in my dog’s tail, a trip to the grocery store reminds me that life cannot exist without seeds.  Meals and snacks wouldn’t be nearly as delicious without a dash of pepper, a sprinkle of sunflower seeds, or a splash of vanilla.

Sky Paths

        

More than one traveler crossing the prairie commented on a sky that comforts some and unnerves others.  Personally, I cannot imagine life without that endless horizon or blue hues.

 At the same time, I wonder what it must have looked like before jet vapor trails crisscrossed it like game trails to a water hole.  Driving west in the late afternoon, I sometimes stop at the peak of a hill near our house to gaze at those sky paths and wonder what lies at their end.  Denver for some.  Salt Lake City or Los Angeles for others.  Maybe exotic overseas locales for others. 

While these herring-bone tracks tell of a jetliner’s trespass, vapor trails do not provide hints of anything except that a jet disturbed the atmosphere.  After a short time, determining where the cottony wisps begin and end is impossible.

 Moving from thoughts of destinations, I wonder about points of origin.  Where did those folks begin their journey and why?  What sorts of changes will occur because of their journeys?  What hopes ride in that jet plane?

Until the afternoon of September 11 and all day September 12, I cannot remember a clear sky without vapor trails slicing through it.  After school that golden autumn day, I drove home wondering how different our world would be, how families’ lives had changed. 

As I reached that familiar hilltop, I gazed into a sky as familiar as my own hand.  That day I saw a scene as unfamiliar to me as two jets plowing into the World Trade Center.  This time man-made horror did not rattle my being.  It was emptiness--absence of vapor trails across a sky road for global travelers making my neck hairs prickle.

After a moment, I realized I was seeing the sky the way my ancestor must have seen it as he urged his horse and wagon carrying wife, children, and household goods onto the Kansas prairie in 1873. 

Since that September day, I think about changes in our lives and paths we choose.  Though trails today often involve speeding cars or jets, it has not always been so.  Travelers did not always race from place to place, interested only in the destination and missing the journey. 

One can still find remnants of the Smoky Hill Trail, a route gold-seekers followed to the Colorado mines, that passes not so far from Hays and Ellis.  Other trails led from Fort Hays to Fort Larned, Fort Dodge, Fort Kearney, and Fort Supply.  An observant traveler driving near Cedar Bluff Lake can still find markers that identify the Butterfield Overland Despatch Trail.  

When I think about these trails, I think of travelers’ accounts of their journeys over these dusty passageways.  Because they moved so slowly, writers recorded precise observations concerning plants, animals, and landmarks—observations modern day travelers miss.  What have we sacrificed to gain speed?

 Human lives and paths change over time. For centuries, gravity limited those paths to waterways and earthen trails.  With flight, man escaped those boundaries, leaving more tenuous, less lasting paths written across the sky.  Until September 11, few Americans knew or remembered a sky untouched by man.

             

Assistant Pollinator

Watching bees and butterflies with their hairy legs clothed in gold pollen pantaloons as they buzz my garden fascinates me. While I do not want to let my leg hairs grow until they can collect yellow nodules of plant magic, I have joined the effort to pollinate my tomato blooms.

Last year, I optimistically planted 15 tomato and 12 pepper plants in our raised-bed garden. In the early, hopeful part of summer, I anticipated making quarts and quarts of salsa to fill empty pantry shelves to bulging. Sadly, I harvested 15 tomatoes the whole summer. The heat decimated my garden, leaving my jars and pantry empty.

This year, I risked early frost to plant six  carefully selected tomato plants as well as two pepper plants in early April  To further guarantee more than a 15 tomato harvest, I planted three rows of flowers—one each of zinnias, cosmos, and bachelor buttons—to encourage more bees and butterflies to visit my prairie oasis.

So far, my efforts have been fruitful. We have harvested dozens of tomatoes with more on the vine. The dilemma is the heat. It tends to prevent pollination and thus, a ongoing crop.

I have read about heat’s effect on tomato development. However, I have not determined whether it is a result of heat affecting developing tomatoes or the temperature’s effect on insects that fertilize blossoms.

To determine the solution, I decided to play pollinator. No, I didn’t let my leg hairs grow to collect pollen to transfer from one blossom to another. I robbed my watercolor box of its paintbrush. 

With watercolor brush in hand, I visit my garden in dawn’s cool temperatures. Moving from bloom to bloom, I tickle stamens and pistils of tomato blossoms to assist resident pollinators. I also give the blossoms a little vibrating shake to trick them into thinking I am a great big bee or butterfly doing its job.

My big dilemma is that I cannot tell if the reason I have more tomatoes is that I planted rows of flowers to attract more insects to my garden or if it is because I use a paintbrush to transfer pollen from one plant to another. 

I do know that it is as hot day and night this summer as last, so something I am doing has made a difference in tomato production. We have harvested enough ripe fruit to make fresh salsa, tomato soup, BLT’s, along with a dessert of salted and peppered sliced tomatoes.

My hope is that six tomato plants will produce enough fruit to can a dozen jars of salsa. More than that is an overflow of blessings.

Regardless of whether an insect or paintbrush filament is pollinating my six plants this, tomatoes dangle from vines like green Christmas balls. That beats the heck out of 15 lovely plants producing nothing but green leaves and tomato worms.

Season of the Skunk

 In China this is the year of the horse or sheep or some such beast.  Around my country home, it is the fall of the skunk. 

Driving up our 1/8 mile long drive the other night, I counted four black and white creatures in my headlights. Since those were visible, who knows how many stinky little pests ran around outside my vision.

By four a.m. the next morning, I knew one was even closer to the house.  All four of us woke up gagging and choking from acrid fumes released within feet or maybe inches of  our bedrooms.  I thought for sure one of the dogs had received a direct hit, a too frequent occurrence.

After discovering our eldest daughter choking her way upstairs, hoping to find fresher air in her sister’s bedroom, I braved opening the door to see which dog had been assaulted.  Imagine my surprise when both pooches registered a clean air report.

 Who knows what triggered that attack.  As smelly as it was, maybe two skunks ran into each other and decided to let loose.  Unfortunately,  we didn’t get any more sleep that morning. 

Afterwards, I smelled skunk everywhere I went.  At first I thought it was in my head.  Then I got to the school parking lot only to realize I was, indeed, smelling skunk.

 One had apparently fired near my car, and now I was bringing that scent into town. The bad news was I had parked my car in the garage.

That night, my husband had his own skunk incident.  The garage skunk.  We decided to keep the dogs in and away from skunks that night.  Sometime during the early morning hours, the dogs barked and growled threateningly at the living room wall shared by the garage.  My husband investigated and discovered something rattling around the garage. 

After flipping on the garage light, he was face to face with our prowler--yes, a skunk.  Choosing the wise path, he backed out of the garage and raced outside to open the door so the inquisitive beast could depart scentlessly. That night ended without crisis.  Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the next.

Our new pup has had several run-ins with skunks while running around the property.  With so many  skunks around, it was inevitable she would get sprayed again.  Yes, the very next night found us making up a concoction of hydrogen peroxide, 1/4 cup of baking soda, and a teaspoon of dish detergent to de-scent our pet.

Our big yellow dog had his own run-in with Pepe Le Pew-- only he didn’t want to have anything to do with our skunk removal solution. Left to his own devices, he rolled in creek mud until he looked like a swamp creature.  While he smelled better because of his odor reduction treatment, no one, to his surprise, wanted him in the house. 

Right now, I am waiting eagerly for cold weather.  I know when it comes, those skunks will go into their winter sleep.  I know they don’t really hibernate, but a long dormancy period will certainly clear the air around this house.

Signs of Spring

            Our last few winters were so mild, I had considered setting out an orange orchard on a nearby hill.  After all, we moved into this house wearing t-shirts and shorts in December.  Since we have lived here, the weather has acted up once or twice, but never enough to justify the SUV I knew I would need when I moved to the country.  Last year, the snapdragons stayed green throughout the entire winter.  Mother Nature lulled me into complacency, and I forgot some of the nastier facts about Kansas winters.

            For instance, I forgot the January and February of 1978 when we had a blizzard while my husband was gone, and buried the car in the drive until the snow melted thirty days later.  For thirty days, the mercury in the thermometer lingered below freezing.  As a newcomer to this grand state, I did not know it could be cold for so long.

            One cannot forget the winter of 1986 when people had to sleep in the grade school gym because there were not enough rooms for stranded travelers.  Good Ellis folk gathered eggs, bacon, and bread to feed the crowd.  Not only did people suffer that winter, livestock also perished.

            Only a few years later, winter began after a warm October day.  Within a few hours, little Ellis children found themselves trick or treating in the snow.  That snow melted, but another one arrived in November, and we had snow on the ground through March.  Bare ground never looked so good.  I know a Canadian, North Dakotan, or Minnesotan would laugh at my comments, but for Kansans, that was a snowy winter.

            Put in perspective, the one we just experienced was not all that bad, but in comparison to the balmy winters we have had the last few years, this one lasted forever.  Every one I knew looked eagerly for signs of spring.  No one smiled upon hearing the ground hog saw his shadow, thus predicting six more weeks of winter.  

            Some years, spring does just that.  It springs upon us with little heralding: given a warm day or two and it seems the trees go from bare to fully dressed.  In no time, grass needs mowing and bushes need trimming.  Maybe because I looked so anxiously for some hint of spring, it took longer to arrive.  The hints came few and far between and seemed more subtle than some years.

            Our first hint, over which I did not rejoice, came in the person of my least favorite country beast, the skunk.  Once the days and nights warmed a bit, the little rascals came out in full force to search for leftover grubs and other goodies.  In no time, the ones not paying attention ended up dead in the middle of the road.  That stench perfumed the air for miles.

            Soon after the first little notification from the skunk populations, I went to town to wash the mud off my car.  Imagine my joy as I found fresh bug guts on the grill and on the bug screen.  My husband had been wiping them off his window for a couple of days he said.  Though I had yet to see flowers or leaves, I knew spring had to be around the corner.

            On the way home each day, I kept examining leaf buds.  Predictably they were swelling and preparing to burst forth, but they were certainly taking their time.  Finally, I noticed that hazy, green aura about the trees that appears just before the leaves unfurl.  I hope that little aura does not cause trees the same grief a migraine aura causes a headache sufferer.  Any way, I knew then it would be any day.

            Actually, I like the leaves to hold off just a bit.  Once they open up, it is difficult to see birds on their nests.  We have a blue heron rookery in the vicinity and watching those elegant birds fly to and from their nests is a favorite spring pastime.  I do not know much about these birds, but it appears that one stays on the nest and the other stands nearby.  Maybe encouraging the nester? 

            All of these are visual harbingers of spring.  The auditory notices that spring has arrived are just as interesting.  One day a few weeks ago, a thick fog settled in the area.  Apparently, overhead a huge flock of sandhill cranes migrated northward.  Several people mentioned they heard their strange cry coming out of the fog even though they did not see them.

 Shortly, afterward, two friends and I traveled to the Platte River to watch the cranes come in.  After I returned from my bird watching jaunt, my husband informed me that about 300 hundred cranes stopped over in the wheat field north of the house.  I couldn’t believe I drove to Nebraska to see something that had stopped in the neighborhood.

Cranes and geese are not the only noisy heralds of spring.  The local amphibian populations generate quite a bit of noise in their neighborhoods.  After a long, lonely winter, it is like a raucous single’s bar opens up.  A fellow teacher invites me to join her on her monthly amphibian surveys that takes place from March through July. 

Though it will be a while before all the area amphibian species are out in full force, the little chorus frogs sing with all their might. It sounds like a band of combs being played.  Imagine a distant room full of people racing their thumbnails down the spikes on a comb.  I am not sure how the female frogs know which fellow they want to hook up with, but I guess it works since we have plenty of new frogs year after year.

The other night, we were driving the back roads of Rooks County where we periodically stopped to listen for noisy amphibians.   On that particular night, not only did we hear the western chorus frogs singing lustily, we also heard another flock of migrating cranes singing their way north.  We looked skyward, but with the cloud cover, we could only hear the music.  We could not spy a single musician.

Looking for the signs of spring is like going on a crazy grandma’s Easter egg hunt.  You have to look everywhere if you do not want to miss a single treasure.  Like some of those egg hunts, you find those signs of spring in the strangest places—and sometimes like the cranes I drove to Nebraska to see, the treasure rests in my own neighborhood. 

Sharks Swimming in Kansas Seas

Sharks swimming in Kansas waters? Looking for dorsal fins cutting through waters where I fish, wade, and swim gives me goose bumps. I spent too much time focusing on such worries as a teenage body surfer in Huntington Beach, California.

Once I moved to Kansas, I expected snakes, spiders, scorpions, and skunks, but shark alerts sank to the bottom of my concerns. When I saw a funny internet comment asking what kind of sharks live in Kansas accompanied by a picture of a dorsal fin cruising up a creek, I had to laugh.

Then I thought about a favorite Kansas pastime that could lead someone unfamiliar with our state to think we have sharks as well as pheasants and meadowlarks. That pastime is shark tooth hunting, a hobby many people in this area enjoy as hunters and as museum-attendees.

Those with access to hills along the Smoky or land in Ellis, Trego, and Gove Counties know walking with eyes to the ground means they might come home with at least one new tooth to add to their collections. Lucky hunters will celebrate with pockets full of fossil teeth stabbing their thighs to remind them this land wasn’t always dry.

Limestone posts quarried from local stone showcase shell fossils and confirm an inland sea once covered what is now Kansas. For those who love to spend outdoor time looking at the ground, this promises hope of finding that little grey triangle resting so the sun reflects just enough to make it visible.

When I moved to Kansas, I was a confirmed arrowhead hunter. As a result, I scan surrounding ground for triangular shaped objects. However, most arrowheads are bigger than most shark teeth, so it took some adjusting to sweep my eyes back and forth, looking for that tiny triangle standing out from the dirt around it.

I also learned recently surfaced shark teeth sport a shiny gloss that contrasts with dull root material at a tooth’s base. Weathered teeth tend to match the root material, making them harder to spot.

Whenever I find a shark tooth, I wonder what Indians who camped in this area thought when they found these reminders of long ago.  Did they turn them into tools or use them as decorative items the same way elk teeth and porcupine quills decorated their clothing and baskets?  Did they weave elaborate stories to explain these mystery teeth?

It’s not only fun to hunt for sharks teeth, visiting local museums displaying world-class shark tooth collections is an adventure. This gives me a chance to learn about my own box of teeth and inspires me to keep looking for that monster tooth.

Knowing every time I go outside I might find one of these reminders that sharks swam where I walk brightens my day. I love that I don’t have to drive far to see professional fossil collections. I love living on an ancient seabed. Every time the wind blows, I think of the sound of the sea and wonder what treasure awaits discovery.