Gardens Then and Now

By St. Patrick’s Day, my fingers itch to sift soil and plant seeds or potato eyes. Some March 17ths permit starting new growth while others force me to wait. Recently, I read a garden-themed post from old Fort Hays dated March 26, 1871.  it stated, “Ten men have been directed to report for work in the post garden and all the prisoners will report each afternoon until further orders.” Clearly, military leadership was eager to turn over that loam and insert seeds saved from previous harvests.

I thought back to old photos I’ve seen of early settlement days where barren prairie dominates the view. It’s easy to imagine how hungry residents and travelers would’ve been after a winter without fresh greens. Just thinking of eating straight-from-the-plant corn, tomatoes, or melons must’ve wreaked havoc on salivary glands. I know how I long for tender spinach or lettuce freshly plucked. In my imaginings, I taste sunbeams before they reach the roots.

Unlike us, those hardy souls couldn’t grocery shop to buy vegetables recently shipped from California or Mexico. Even canned goods offered less selection than consumers have today. You know soldiers and settlers anticipated fresh produce for long months.

Thinking about this historical document raised numerous questions. How big was this garden to require so much labor? What did they plant? How did they water it? Did prisoners see this as punishment or were they, like me, glad to get dirty hands? Once plants began production, did the commander post guards to prevent unauthorized reaping? What procedures did they use to store harvests and seeds for future use?

During past summers, I’ve seen reproduction kitchen gardens behind officers’ quarters, but with ten assigned men and additional prisoners to help, this endeavor required substantially more acreage than those small plots. After all, mess halls feed hundreds. If I planned this, I think I’d place it between the stables and creek so it would be easy to gather fertilizer and to create an irrigation system.

This thought reminded me of decades ago when an older gentleman in south Hays nurtured a phenomenal truck garden on the site of an old dairy. Every year, his abundant crops dazzled family and friends. Every one with a defective green thumb or too little time looked forward to buying his tomatoes, cucumbers, and other lush produce. When I recall his undertaking, I imagine the fort garden must’ve been similar. Every row would have been just as orderly and precise.

To this day, January and February’s first hints of warmth excite me into planning the moment when I tuck that season’s hopes into recently tilled soil. That said, my anticipation can’t match that of soldiers who hadn’t eaten fresh vegetables for at least six months. This reminds me how spoiled I am to have a vegetable drawer full of carrots, celery, radishes, peppers, and lettuce no matter the season. However, my taste buds remind me there’s nothing better than salad made minutes after picking and washing the ingredients.

Spring Inspires Crazy Imaginations

Decades ago, a student growing up in a clever family used his weekly spelling words to write a story that I still chuckle over. Each spring, I recollect his tale about the Easter Cow who unless offered tasty grasses would scare off the more traditional, egg-delivering rabbit. To prevent empty baskets at their house, this lad and his siblings would share tasty greens with their unique but never seen bovine. Over the years, my mind altered this ingenious family’s holiday rendition until I have my own version that includes greening pastures and newborn calves.

All it takes to trigger flowing creative juices is to drive slowly down a country road on a sunny day with windows rolled down. The sound of tires rotating over gravel soothes the spirit and fires up the right half of the brain, which according to some researchers is the random, intuitive, spontaneous side. Some might call it downright goofy. A few miles into wide open spaces occupied primarily by cows and my brain alters the end result of this former student’s assignment to create entirely new possibilities when it comes to Easter eggs.

Over time, his story evolved so that newly greened pastures dotted with tiny, newborn cows tucked into ovals turned into Easter eggs in my imagination. Despite the fact that most giant rabbit deliveries come in bright colors, gentle pastels, or wrapped foil, my story involves rust, brown, black, sometimes cream, and occasionally speckled orbs soaking up spring sunrays while their moms nibble tender, green shoots. Chocolate eggs are little brown bovines basking in golden heat. The only bunnies are neighboring cottontails and jackrabbits—no anthropomorphic rodents carrying straw baskets in my version.

Even though I know kids prefer Cadbury and speckled malted eggs combined with sugar-crusted marshmallow Peeps to celebrate the season, I love to cruise dirt roads and view gangly calves with unblemished noses and shiny eyes, bodies either rolled up in tight little balls or wobbling on spindly legs. My mom seconds my thought that this is the one time in the life of pasture-raised beef that they’re ever so clean.

If I’m lucky, I’ll see little burgers-to-be frolicking across fields with equally cute calves or impatiently butting mommas’ bags to bring down belly-filling milk. Equally enjoyable is watching huge mothers who aren’t nearly so clean and adorable as their babes caring so tenderly for their spring deliveries.

What I learned from my clever student was that I need not tie myself to traditional holiday stories. If it pleases me to drive across Kansas prairies under cotton ball filled blue skies imagining pastures polka-dotted with newborns posing as shiny ebony and russet Easter eggs then I should savor such moments.

This youngster’s story evolved once he shared it with me, so who knows how this wisp of fancy will inspire new traditions in someone else’s imagination. After all, the Easter Rabbit started somewhere. Maybe someday an egg delivering armadillo or noisy magpie will help kids celebrate spring.

Dot Connecting Possibilities

Those who play connect the dots find the experience relaxing or agitating, depending on the outcome. Some see relationships between one idea and another despite having too little information to clearly link them. To complicate matters, lack of resources can limit time or money investments even though strong interest in a subject exists. I know this sense of tension well, especially after reading recent articles about Clovis Caches found in America.

I suspect few care much about Clovis culture let alone have a burning interest in stashes of stone tools ancient inhabitants concealed and didn’t retrieve. While made of common, not precious, materials, these relics equal buried treasure for those who love archeology and connecting to ancient humans.

The term Clovis Culture came into existence when a sharp-eyed New Mexican noted artifacts formed using a particular bi-faced fluting between Clovis and Portales. Since that discovery, scientists identifying stonework designed with this pattern characterize them as Clovis points. Scholars attribute the style to bison antiquus and mammoth hunters who lived at the end of the Pleistocene era about 13,000 years ago.

The article that started my exploration mentioned the Busse Cache that contained Clovis bifaces made of Niobrara or Smoky Hill Jasper. Anyone who’s walked country roads or plowed fields in Northwest and North Central Kansas has seen this frequently ochre-hued, silicified stone even if they didn’t know what to call it. Researchers have identified prehistoric quarries containing outcroppings of this desirable knapping material in Trego, Gove, and Graham Counties in Kansas and Fremont County Nebraska. That tidbit has me trying to connect points in history based on limited knowledge.

Interestingly, these western Kansas excavations produced desirable knapping material early hunters used for thousands of years. Oklahoma archeologists have found it in sites from east to west. To entice further, prehistoric mammoth and bison bones found during work on roads, bridges, dams, or other such dirt shifting activities occupy shelves and dark corners in regional museums and personal collections.

This combination makes me wonder how many Pleistocene hunters wandered this way in search of game and resources to make dinner-capturing tools. After all, the Great Plains supported modern bison and native cultures who depended on them for survival. This information increases my curiosity about how often their ancestors roasted a mammoth haunch under prairie skies.

Keep in mind state borders are fairly modern concepts so migratory people would’ve wandered from one watershed to another without worrying about taxes, land ownership, or other recent complications.  Nearly a decade ago, Dan Busse in Northeastern Colorado worked a field and noted a fingernail-size bit of Smoky Hill jasper that wasn’t native to his area. Upon further investigation, he dug up a hunter’s pack of fluted Clovis-style stones. Among them are several manufactured from Niobrara or Smoky Hill jasper, commonly found in western Kansas and Nebraska.

Add to this data information about KU professor Rolfe Mandel’s 2014 dig near Tuttle Creek. His team specifically searched for evidence of Clovis and pre-Clovis inhabitants in what is now Kansas. Their efforts are in the hands of lab analysts who work to verify their findings.

Though few Clovis Cache finds are documented in the U.S., such articles offer hope that any day now a Kansan could be turning over soil and make a discovery like a landscaper in Boulder, CO.  He recently found a stash of 80 artifacts used to butcher prehistoric camels and horses in his yard.

Though I doubt I’ll find such treasure, the combination of connecting dots leads me to expect I’ll soon read about the person who does.

Sturdy Stock

When news stories are filled with the evil that people do, it’s easy to get depressed. Add normal life struggles, and a person can get so downhearted to never want to crawl out of bed in the morning. When bad weighs heavy, I recollect family stories that remind me I come from sturdy stock, where wimping out wasn’t an ancestral option.

This particular line started as religious dissenters in England who survived rolling Atlantic waves in the hull of a dark ship that landed them near Plymouth, Massachusetts. After several generations as Americans, this group left New England to start a brick factory in Ontario, Canada. Along with changing nationalities, they switched religious preferences to Methodism.

As followers of Wesley, they migrated to Northwest Kansas in 1873. My 3x great grandfather finally answered the call to preach and found himself riding or walking waterways that drain this region. He knew the Sappa, Prairie Dog, Bow Creek, North and South Solomon, Republican and others like the back of his hand.

After his retirement, the Methodist Conference asked him to record the story he titled Forty Years on the Firing Line. The original copy was handwritten on Big Chief tablets. About 60 years after he recorded it, my mom transcribed and typed it into a legible document. Between his handwriting as well as inconsistent spelling and punctuation, she labored for months. Fortunately, she recalled she too descended from sturdy stock and persisted until she had a document that gave family members and historians a sense of early Kansas settlers’ lives.

When I read this, I wish he’d included more details. However, a much longer document might’ve deterred the editing and typing required to make it readable. He opens with, “So I have hurriedly written largely from memory, making many mistakes, leaving out much that might have proved interesting.  . . . I plead for pardon for all that I have failed in. I pray that our young men in the ministry of Jesus Christ—will not—complain nor murmur, but go where they are sent in Jesus name.”

That statement reminds me that around 150 years ago, Grandpa came to preach on the American frontier. Yes, the place I call home and consider modern and comfortable was a mysterious, unsettled land. Ill health had driven him from frigid Canada to Kansas. His father and 13 other family members joined this trek to homestead in Norton Co. He mentions they arrived on November 3, 1873 and were 128 miles from Lowell, Nebraska, their nearest trading center.

Thinking about Kansas Novembers I’ve weathered, his comment that “We were delighted with the country and especially with the climate,” surprised me. He continued with, “I believe it added years to the life of my parents and my wife who the doctor said would not live to get to Kansas and our boy 2 years and 3 months old, that weighed only 17 pounds whom the doctor said could not live is still alive and the largest man of the family.”

Over the next few months, I’ll share more of his experiences. His stories remind us western Kansans come from determined, capable gene pools. As descendants, we continue to make our communities fine places to live and raise families.

Staying Sturdy through Hard Times

Last week, I explained our family’s arrival in Kansas. In short time, those hardy ancestors faced more than isolation in Northwest Kansas. After surviving that first winter in their new country, they learned firsthand about plagues of Biblical proportion.

Grandpa didn’t spend much time whining in his memoir, but he explains how grasshoppers in numbers large enough to qualify as an Old Testament pestilence arrived. He says they devoured “everything that was green.” He’d traveled to what he termed Saline County, Nebraska where he saw insects “come down like snow until they were 2 inches thick on the ground.” According to him, “70 acres of fine corn just in the blister disappeared in 3 hours.” All that remained was stalks.  In addition to devouring corn, grasshoppers wiped out wheat and oat crops as well. I recall articles in old Ellis Headlights that verified this invasion. As a result, settlers depended on charity from churches and families still living in the East to help them survive those first years.  You know stomachs grumbled with hunger and growing kids wore hand-me-down clothing during such hard times.

Unfortunately, life didn’t improve the following year. According to Grandpa, grasshoppers came again in 1875 but “took the crops only in spots.” He explains that he and 3 neighbors lost their fields, but the hoppers left corn standing nearby. Despite, dire circumstances, he had a sense of humor, saying, “We had the sympathy of our neighbors which they lavished upon us. When I told them we were better off than we were the year before, they asked how that could be.” Tongue in cheek, I’m sure, this farmer/circuit rider explained, “We had a chance to steal. The year before there was no corn west of the Missouri River.”

Bad events come in threes, which held true for the insect invasions our ancestors experienced. A third year in a row, ravenous jaws zeroed in on Northwest Kansas. Grandpa Reuben says, “There were grasshoppers by the billions.” He tells a story about his brother-in-law accompanying him on church business. The two rode near Spring City, which is now called Lenora. They stayed at a church member’s home on Saturday night and awoke to “hoppers hung on the willow trees until they looked like weeping willows.” After the sermon and dinner, the two set out for grandpa’s evening appointment in a distant community.

Heading northeast, one thought he saw fire while the other claimed it was a dust storm. In short time, grandpa reports, “A hail storm struck us from the southwest and grasshoppers came down by the bucket full.” After battling their runaway team, they made it to church in time for Grandfather to preach. Shivering, he delivered his message in dripping clothes. The storm hadn’t hit this area, so the congregation found their preacher more than a tad curious.

Before evening ended, a passing traveler confirmed Grandpa’s experience, stating, “There were 2 feet of ice and hoppers in places and dead antelope on the prairie.” These difficulties didn’t dim Grandpa’s determination to preach and farm in Northwest Kansas. He did, however, say he never left home afterwards without his overcoat.

Again, vintage journalism verifies my relatives’ experiences. Such tales remind those whose families settled Kansas that we’ve particularly determined DNA pulsing through our bodies.

Minor Holidays that Connect Us to Our Past

History lovers like to connect dots between present and past. I fit in this unique group because nothing thrills me more than discovering unexpected links between Now and Then. Recently, I got more than I bargained for when I explored the backstory to Punxsutawney Phil and America’s Groundhog Day. By the time I finished researching, I found answers to questions I didn’t know I had.

First, I always wondered what Candlemas Day was when I saw it on calendars at the same time I noted GH day. Why I never stopped to look it up befuddles me. Otherwise, I’d have known much sooner why local churches host pancake feeds on February 2 or thereabouts and how that event relates to weather predicting groundhogs. The obvious commonality is that Candlemas and GH day share the same date. Once I knew that, I wanted to know more.

Easy, peasy. Groundhog Day first began when ancient peoples celebrated the halfway mark between winter solstice and spring equinox. Think about that one. Approximately three months separates two major solar events our ancestors used to mark time and indicate seasons. Halfway between gets you to early February. In some climates that’s the time hibernating or estivating critters crawl out to check the weather. Depending on the culture, those could be bears or hedgehogs, close enough to woodchucks if you stretch your imagination to end up as Groundhog Day in our culture.

For people whose lives were heavily influenced by sunny and dark cycles, longer periods of light and upcoming planting traditions would provide reasons to celebrate. Pesky rodents and other hairy creatures emerging from under and above ground dens at the midpoint between two major solar events encouraged foretelling impending weather using clever rhymes. Thanks Farmers’ Almanac for sharing:

                If Candlemas be mild and gay/Go saddle your horses and buy them hay

But if Candlemas by stormy and black/It carries the winter away on its back

Long ago, Romans honored Lupercalia and held purification and light festivities to mark increasing sunlight each day. Tribes living in Germany and Ireland held ceremonies for similar purposes. The Irish called their revels Imbolc (“lamb’s milk”) in honor of lambing season. Once Christianity came to the island, this holiday evolved to honor St. Brigid, saint of candles and light.

We’re back to Candlemas--a feast day that celebrates introducing Jesus in the temple and blessing candles. Not only did participants deliver those valuable light sources for consecration, they also feasted on crepes or pancakes. Now we see the initiating event for why so many congregations host pancake feeds on February 2^nd.

Unless you happen to be an Ancestry.com junky or a fan of TV series that reveal celebrity genealogies, it’s easy to forget how generations before ours influence us. Heavens, many don’t realize winter solstice signifies the darkest day of the year and summer the longest. It’s even easier to forget spring and fall equinoxes mark halfway points between those landmarks.

After years of not paying attention, I now know that February 2, aka Groundhog Day or Candlemas, signifies another midpoint—this one between winter solstice and spring equinox. Our ancestors understood that life is short so we should celebrate often. From now on, I’ll rejoice with pancakes poured in the shape of groundhogs, soaked with the previous spring’s maple sap turned to syrup, and served by candlelight.

Winter Morning Shadow Plays

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

           

End the Drama with an Exchange Program

Recently, Ag Daily posted an article by Missouri farmer Blake Hurst that explores why the media doesn’t understand “flyover country.” It takes a while to read his essay, but the points he makes are worth weighing and deciding whether the mainstream news over-dramatizes lives of those from small towns in middle America.  Reading his article made me thankful that I’ve spent my life living in villages with less than 2,000 population, even if it that means a long drive to Walmart. It also makes me want to correct some misconceptions.

Even for those without children to raise, small communities in the middle of America offer plentiful reasons to call them home. You’ll know your neighbors. That doesn’t mean you’ll never have conflicts, but odds increase that you won’t worry about them belonging to terrorist organizations or holding 13 children hostage in filthy conditions. Rural living means you have an idea regarding who lives on your street and know their family history as well. So much awareness typically helps folks get along. Ever noticed how lawn mowing, flower planting, and putting up Christmas decorations appears infectious? When everyone on the street tidies yards or hangs festive lights, it’s like a germ—in no time, everyone’s got it.

On that note, if there’s a resident who can’t manage yardwork or maintenance, small town neighbors help. Now days, school kids join in the volunteering. On an established date, you’ll find entire classes alongside teachers and principals raking, painting, washing windows, or whatever needs done. Many youngsters continue helping older or disabled neighbors long after the assigned event. It’s part of their culture.

At workshops I’ve attended, urban teachers are curious about rural schools’ technology. They have the misconception that our facilities don’t compare to theirs. Imagine the surprise when they learn our students often have one on one access to computers or I-Pads. They’re more intrigued by rural youngsters’ savvy at designing web pages and computer programs, mastering CAD skills, or printing 3-D designs.

Because of technology, those who live in the hinterlands can access the world. We may have to drive an hour to shop at a big box store, but nothing stops us from placing a cyber order that’s delivered to our doorstep or from making reservations to travel wherever necessary to achieve our goals.  Due to such access, rural regions house an increasing number of ex-urbanites who’ve given up gridlock to work online.

Recent arrivals mention missing familiar restaurants, entertainment venues, and shopping. However, I’ve heard these same newcomers share how nice it is to visit with neighbors at the market or on the front porch. Almost all appreciate drivers who wave at everyone they meet. No one misses the honking and rude gestures they left behind.

Granted, folks in little towns give up some privacy, but the trade-off is genuine concern from people where you live and do business. I’d like to think Mr. Hurst’s article encourages rural dweller to share the truth about their communities—that these are places where residents want what humans everywhere want—love, community, safety, job satisfaction, and accomplishment. Maybe it’s time to start an exchange program to encourage Americans to see the reality of one another’s lives, rather than manufactured drama.

Getting Used to Country Noises

Those who’ve grown up in urban areas get used to round the clock mechanized sounds. Hearing lawn mowers, leaf blowers, drivers gunning engines, or jets roaring overhead causes no panic. In fact, car alarms, sirens, and even crashes at nearby intersections generate only short-term interest. Move that same population to the country and note how their eyes widen at every noise.

No matter a sound’s origin, imagination multiplies it.  A squeak or scritch in the wall is a rodent infestation. Coyotes howling alarms pets and humans alike. You’d think werewolves had invaded. A rabbit shrieking its death cry is enough to send former city dwellers into a catatonic state. Knowing this about my former big city neighbors, I wondered how I’d handle living a mile from our nearest neighbor when we moved from the edge of Ellis to an isolated hilltop in Trego County.

It didn’t take long to find out. We moved in December, and resident wild canines serenaded us to sleep on wintry nights. In short time, I looked forward to these rural lullabies. We also had nesting owls in a tree outside our bedroom. Again, once I recognized the source of those sleep inducing hoots and murmurs, I nodded off quickly. The occasional death cries of expiring cottontails raised my heart rate, but once I identified the source, I knew another hilltop inhabitant had dined well.

What I wasn’t prepared for were unexpected and repetitive tap, tap, tappings of woodpeckers. All those trees lining nearby Big Creek and the cedar siding on our house turned the area into a battle of feathered percussionists. Because we fed black oil sunflower seeds and suet to resident birds, we regularly enjoyed watching the unique flight pattern of sapsuckers, flickers, redheaded, hairy, and downy woodpeckers. They joined a myriad of other species at our feeders. All our guests were delightful, but the hard-headed, sharp-beaked creatures especially charmed us.

That is until they decided to drill for insects in our cedar siding. The first time this happened, it was early morning and our resident game warden was on duty checking hunters. A sharp and continual rapping on the north side of the house awakened me and our young daughters from deep sleep.

After peering out windows, expecting to see someone parked in the drive and pounding unceasingly on the outside wall, I was surprised to find no vehicle in sight. When we couldn’t identify the source of the intense and unending tapping, the girls’ and my imaginations went into over drive. We’d watched one too many scary movies.

For just a while, had someone been recording, the three of us would have qualified for America’s Funniest Home Videos. Pajama clad, we crept about looking for our tormentor and trying to decide whether this situation required a 911 call. Thank God, we identified our intruder before we punched that button.

Upon further inspection, I found a pair of flickers wildly attacking our siding. Intent on a tasty meal, they hammered til my presence drove them from their perch.

Recalling that incident and my response still makes me blush. After years of hearing only nature’s noises, I’m a country convert. A few hours in a metropolis and my brain reels from so much man-made sound.

Old Stories About New Beginnings

Fresh beginnings make people reflect as well as anticipate. I’m no different as I behold the clean canvas of a brand-new year. Like many of you, genealogy and ancestry sites have captured my interest, and I’m intrigued by ancestors who migrated to begin fresh lives and kept on traveling.  I’m curious about why so many kin made it to Kansas and stayed. As I explore their stories over the next few months, I hope your families examine your sunflower roots as well.

Our first Kansas ancestors arrived by train from Devizes, Ontario, Canada, in 1872. Although former brickmakers, they homesteaded along the Kansas/Nebraska border in Norton County, KS. While they exchanged longitudes, latitudes, and occupations, they maintained familiarity with their previous home by naming their new home Devizes, Kansas. According to family records, they donated land for a school, post office, and cemetery. Only the cemetery remains. Like so many start ups at the end of the 1800s, this little community withered til little except headstones remain to remind us of hopes that once existed in this isolated place.

This particular group of immigrants came not only to claim land, but also souls. Though Grandpa Reuben missed the Second Great Awakening of the earlier 1800s, he discovered a deep faith and committed himself and his family to the demands of a prairie Methodist Circuit rider. This meant he frequently left wife, children, and parents to develop the homestead while he and his pony traveled drainages with names of Beaver, Sappa, Prairie Dog, Solomon, Deer, and more. No matter the weather, he crisscrossed mostly empty miles, holding services for those settled far from town.

His tiny wife Hannah grew up as a daughter of ship captain who navigated Lake Michigan. Marrying Grandpa meant exchanging her predictable life for the exact opposite. I’m certain she surprised to herself by starting a family in a sod house far from any large body of water.

She made do in those first homes, offered bread and coffee to roaming Cheyenne, hid children in native grass to protect them from hostile natives, lived off missionary barrel goods sent by established eastern congregations, buried children, and in-laws, and lived to ripe old age before dying in Ford, Kansas.

Grandpa writes about arriving soon after the Rebellion when Kansans still reeled from the border wars. He detailed insect and weather-related devastation and expressed his satisfaction that many settlers hungered to hear the Lord’s message.

As I read his memoirs, I note town names have changed. Lenora was once Spring City while Glade was Marvin. He shared his frustrations with getting actual church buildings constructed. In Kensington, he and the Baptist preacher held services in the local saloon Sundays when it closed for regular business. He and the Methodists of Agra raised funds to build a sanctuary that was soon destroyed by a tornado. They didn’t give up. The community rallied and rebuilt their church.

With a love of history and so many roots in Kansas, I’ve stories to share. Perhaps our tales intersect with yours. I’m eager to hear from those with details to fill empty blanks in our saga.

The Gift That Keeps on Giving

It’s the season to count blessings and assess the past year. Once I finish listing family and friends, another favorite is the local library and its wonderful librarians. No matter where I’ve lived or worked, these book lenders are critical to a town’s success. If you don’t possess one already, head to the front desk, meet that guardian of knowledge, and arrange the power to check out books and movies throughout the year. Heck, get a Kansas Library card while you’re at it and add research services.

During early statehood, these institutions focused primarily on loaning books.  Over time, these magical passes permitted access to newspapers and periodicals affordable to few families. As one might expect, services have changed over the 150 years since community libraries first improved rural lives. Today, most patrons possess technology that lets them read on line so they don’t need to check out books.  If they don’t own one, they can borrow a library device. So what’s a good librarian do to make certain patrons keep coming through their doors?

Over the last few years, even dinosaurs like me who enjoy the weight of a book in hand and the sensory thrill of flipping pages have observed that library services evolve constantly. Because more folks read digital texts, librarians don’t need to buy as many hard copies. As a result, more of us now depend on interlibrary loan to get our sniff of lignin from the printed page.  Instead, limited budgets purchase videos, electronic games, audio books for travelers, and technology. In addition, small-town librarians design intriguing one-time as well as ongoing opportunities to explore the world. One friend serving a small library says it best--programming is everything.

Investigate your local library as well as those nearby. Enjoy tea parties and movie or game nights, receive homework help, listen to various speakers, learn genealogy, explore 3-D printing or robotics, and more. Every director works overtime to encourage residents of all ages to enter their doors several times a week.

Most facilities sponsor story time, which introduces toddlers to books and fun. Little ones might mime stories and march through colorful obstacle courses that begins a lifetime habit of recognizing characters and authors. One innovator creates a Lego based activity every week to keep little ones looking forward to their next visit.

Another friend in charge of a very small facility designed a teen corner where junior high and high school kids meet to play games, compare favorite books, and join a scavenger hunt. This creative lady took pictures of her town’s unique but rarely noticed architecture, trees, and other highlights. She ran off multiple prints of each photo and directed teams to find odd shaped windows, funky tree trunks, and other oddities. Combining laughter and learning built great memories. 

If you aren’t a regular at your library, stop and visit. The librarian has a book, movie, app, or program you’ll enjoy. If nothing else, suggest something to add to the schedule. Odds are at least one other person in town would appreciate your idea. Sure, it’s Christmas time when we’re supposed to give gifts to others, but using your local library is a present you’ll savor all year long.

Share What You Know and Learn Something New

If you ask, I’d bet every American believes they’re the real deal--100% red, white, and blue. Yet, media talking-heads highlight divisions, making us wonder what’s true or fake. The greatest cure for confusion is visiting other parts of the country and welcoming tourists to our state.   Regional and cultural differences exist and offer educational opportunities for visitors and locals. I’ve learned it’s best to keep a straight face when strangers ask about something I consider obvious. Their mistake may be sincere, so don’t blow an opening to correct confused folks without embarrassing them.

A friend who owns a western store has occasion to enlighten urban travelers who stop to shop. Many vacationing city dwellers end up in her rural community which is populated by boot and cowboy hat wearing citizenry. Outside city limits, deer and antelope defy fences to join domestic cows and horses in the satisfactory munching and digestion of local grasses. Both western fashion and  intermixing of wild and domestic herds seem perfectly normal to this shop owner and fellow residents. Chatting with out-of-state customers let this businesswoman know some see her world as unusual or exotic.

Several times during tourist season, folks stopping through inquire, “What’s going on in town today?”  Typically she hands them the weekly visitor guide and encourages them to tour area museums and nature sites. Eventually, someone was more direct and added, “No, why are so many people dressed up like cowboys?”

She peered out the door to notice locals dining at the hometown restaurant? “Like those guys?” she asked.

“Yea. Are they dressed up for a special event?”

Always striving to promote her town and encourage tourism, she considered her response. “No, that’s how many business people who live here dress. It’s lunch hour.”

Clearly, this confused someone used to urban professional attire. In their experience, places don’t exist where business people wear western shirts, jeans, and cowboy boots to the office. As a counter point, those accustomed to rural dress codes might stare if someone showed up on the job in an Armani suit or Manolo heels. It’s not what we’re used to.

Later that summer, out-of-staters paused to shop and learn about the area. This friend is very approachable so her customers started chatting about farms and ranches they’d passed on their way through the middle of the country. They were curious about how farmers and ranchers managed to raise cattle or horses and the deer and antelope browsing alongside their livestock.

A quick glance told my friend the curiosity was genuine. This wasn’t a joke, so keeping a straight face, she explained only the cows and horses were domestic. The deer and antelope were wild and could leap over fences or crawl under them anytime they wanted. Kudos for her ability to maintain her composure.

Our conversation began as we analyzed differences between Americans and what people know based on where they come from. That triggered her to tell these stories. Though we share a common government, it’s clear Americans don’t always understand one another’s regional and cultural differences. Anyone can take a lesson from this shop owner and make time to clarify misunderstandings. We’d all get along better.

So How Lucky Is a Wishbone?

It’s amazing what you can learn watching Jeopardy or reading their website. Who knew that one of my favorite Thanksgiving customs ties back to the ancient Etruscans who considered chickens and this oddly shaped bone to possess good fortune. These are folks that settled in much of what is now Italy and possibly contributed to the founding of Rome. Yes, the custom of snapping the wishbone is an old one, imported from a distant culture and continent. Guess it resembles many American traditions.

Despite learning about Etruscans in world history and reading about their art in archeological journals, I had to look up this culture’s homeland. They occupied what is now Tuscany in Italy. According to one source, their civilization contributed to the founding of Rome. Apparently, they appreciated chickens, considering them and the distinctly horseshoe shaped furcula or two fused clavicles of this creature to bring good luck to the individual who won the longer side of the snap.  

Anything that brings good fortune is worth sharing. According to Alex Trebek, this ancient custom made its way to jolly old England and from there to the American colonies. Clearly, sharing chicken husbandry was important as well. In addition, the tradition translated over to even larger fowl, the turkey--a new world bird.

Early in my childhood, my mom whose heritage is predominantly from the British Isles taught my brother and I it was lucky to possess the longer piece of the wishbone after a contentious battle. Somehow my sibling, younger no less, examined that interesting looking bit of bone and cartilage and pre-determined the winning side long before the two of us began tugging with all our might to break it. After losing too many times, I, too, learned the secret and then the real war began to see who controlled which side of this odd lucky charm.

If we happened to be at a family meal with cousins involved, the competition stiffened. Ironically, where I fought obnoxiously to gain the upper hand at home, I was my brother’s biggest supporter if an older cousin challenged him. As it is in the political world, alliances shift in a flash depending on the opposition.

Just as mom shared this tradition with her kids, I carried it on with mine. I discovered, after baking and boning the turkey a day ahead of our feast, extra hours drying on the window sill sped up the time necessary to snap the wishbone. No longer did the taller, usually stronger sibling have the advantage of exerting extra torque on soft cartilage and bendable bone. The sad news is sometimes we forgot the bone where it lay drying, delaying our fun until after the holiday.

Upon viewing Jeopardy’s presentation just before Thanksgiving, I was struck by its irony.  Etruscans considered this bird and bone to be lucky. So did the English and later Americans. Looking at it logically, I’m not sure chickens would agree. After all, they must die to provide the bone. Like a rabbit whose foot is carried for good luck, the contributor isn’t all that fortunate.

Band of Brothers: Beloved and Celebrated

This year’s Veterans’ Day--a reflective time since so many family members have served our country—has passed. This one was more poignant than usual after I listened to a former student and current soldier speaking in honor of the occasion. He reminded me I’m blessed to know him and other young people who answered our nation’s duty call.

In his opening, he shared what he most values and loves, which is family--including fellow warriors. His respect and fondness for those he trained and served with in the 388^th rang clear and true, making me think of Shakespeare’s lines in King Henry V, “From now until the end of the world, we and it shall be remembered. We few, we Band of Brothers. For he who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.”

At the time he enlisted, so did many other western Kansans. A number of Ellis students in that four-year period joined the military, uniting to protect country and loved ones.  Many trained together and later deployed to the Middle East. Almost all still serve America in some fashion. When I see their FB posts, I think about their shared childhoods and history in the military. These new pictures of mature men and women make it difficult to recall them as youngsters who procrastinated endlessly over giving speeches or writing papers.

Several years ago, one former Ellis grad spoke at a political function in Phillips County. Like many students in public school, English and speech weren’t his favorite subjects. Imagine my pleasure while observing him present an enthusiastic, poised, well-organized presentation. I talked to him afterward and asked what he’d been doing post high school and active duty. At the time, he worked as a political advisor where public writing and speaking were keys to success. He shared a story about a classmate and fellow soldier who majored in English. That individual ended up ranking above him in their unit and insisted this former classmate rework reports until they met specifications, skills contributing to the speaker’s current employment. I chuckled to myself that some of the blood this band of brothers shed might resemble blue or black ink.

Many members of the 388^th Medical Battalion Reserve Unit have earned advanced degrees or certifications. Several are authors and professors. Not only did they back each other in combat zones, they encourage one another’s home front success. I have no stats, but I’d guess this group has earned more than the average number of degrees or advanced accreditations. This explains how the gentleman giving the FHSU Veteran’s Day speech crossed my radar. He’s in school accomplishing a goal.

These soldiers have done more than serve their country. They’ve brought out the best in one another and modeled the meaning of strength.  While bravery during battle is part of the that definition, sometimes it means standing before an audience, telling them how much you love your wife and how her commitment has allowed you to perform your duties well. I’m proud to know many of the brothers and sisters in this particular band. Western Kansans have much to celebrate.

Masters of Everything and Nothing

Dramatic stories of natural catastrophes fill newsfeeds almost daily. Earthquakes, floods, fires, hail storms, tornados, and hurricanes dominate headlines, reminding us that humans hold little power over weather and geological activities.  Discussion of recent events led to an emotional discussion during art class the other day. Eventually our group wondered how people who lived here before us handled such phenomena when they occurred during their lives?

Depending on how far back we’re talking, we agreed that many of those individuals lived migratory lifestyles. It made me think about what I know about native people of the Great Plains.  Using human, horse, and dog power, they transported tanned hides and wooden supports used to construct temporary homes with them as they followed wildlife herds. These creatures provided not only food, but also materials used to construct homes, tools, bedding, and clothing. Their Walmart had hooves.

The nature of these transient beasts meant they constantly moved, seeking grasses that thrived across this region from Texas to Canada. Herds large enough to darken the plains for miles quickly devoured this solar generated calorie resource. When the grass was gnawed to the ground, they moved shifted locale, leaving it to regrow before their next pass through the area. As a result, humans whose lives depended on the great, shaggy beasts packed up and trekked after them.

While some imagine the hardships of such a life, researchers tell us it was beneficial. Food was fresh, and tribes usually abandoned camp long before human wastes fouled water and soil that sustained them. As part of nature’s cycles, they understood the waxing and waning of the moon as well as the always changing seasons. They knew where their food and resources came from and how to preserve them for later use. They were more in touch with the realities of existence than modern urban dwellers.

Like us, they were susceptible to natural disasters. Oral histories and records kept on animal skins reveal accounts of apocalyptic events. The difference is that their mobility encouraged a high degree of adaptability. Reconstructing a hide tipi required resources and labor, but it didn’t require a lifelong mortgage to replace it. Because they moved where game moved, fire meant a lost season of grass in one locale, not a lost herd that had to be rebuilt--if finances permitted.

When such events occurred, whole tribes moved on, lending support to the weakest in the group. They maintained their cyclical behaviors until cultural conflict made that impossible. Equivalent catastrophes today often isolate individuals or families who then depend on strangers or impersonal government entities to help them rebuild lives. Not only do people lose homes and possessions, businesses, farms, vineyards, and ranches succumb to raging floods and flames. Lifetime dreams vanish overnight.

While technology and civilization provide temperature controlled climates inside four walls, it’s worth considering what modern humans give up to enjoy such comfort. Unless we consciously contemplate our relationship with nature and its pros and cons, it’s easy to think we’re the masters of the universe. That is until a natural disaster reminds us we aren’t in control of anything but how we respond to what happens to us.