Ellis, Kansas—Nicodemus Settlers' Introduction to The Promised Land

                                             Re-enactment of 1st migration to Nicodemus
                                              performed in front of Ellis Depot 10/6/2012

In September of 1877, a group of former slaves, many from Vice-President Richard M. Johnson’s Kentucky plantation, traveled by train to Ellis, Kansas. Land speculator W.R. Hill, Hill City’s namesake, along with five black men, including Reverend Morris Bell, created the Nicodemus Township Company to attract these brave souls to western Kansas.

After paying $5.00 to join the town company and buying train tickets, this first group of Kentuckians and their luggage pulled away from the Sadieville, Kentucky Depot.  Each of these resilient pioneers left behind family, memories, and a familiar landscape to come to the prairies of Kansas, their promised land.

Following their journey, the immigrants arrived in Ellis, where W.R. Hill met them.  They exited the train at the small, wooden depot and viewed a dusty main street and the not so distant train yard.  Probably they heard cattle that had traveled the Western Trail lowing in the stockyards west of the depot. What they didn’t see were the trees and dense greenery of their recent home.

Hill provided wagons to carry their belongings across the undeveloped grasslands to Nicodemus. Each family loaded their goods and followed horse-drawn drays out of town to their first resting place at Happy Hollow, just north of what locals call the Irion Hills. This was their introduction to two days of walking across the plains to their new place of residence.

This step-by-step familiarization with their new existence must have stunned folks who had grown up among forests and verdant fields of tobacco.  Even the dry air inhaled differently than the humid air of their Southern origin. The birds were different, the flowers were different, and the buffalo grass was different.  This was a brave new world to these hardy people.

Unfamiliar to these newcomers, the route they traveled north to their homes began what locals eventually titled the Ellis-Nicodemus Trail.  For the next few years, this critical trade route between the two communities enabled Nicodemus to grow and thrive.

Farmers in Nicodemus would bring broomcorn, produce, and grain to trade for necessities at businesses such as Tom Daly’s store in Ellis’s well-developed business district.  Nicodemus did not have a blacksmith until 1879 so those needing such services traveled the 35 miles to Ellis to utilize the local smithy. Ellis had some of the nearest medical services for those in need. Finally, Ellis’s railroad was essential connection for delivery of necessary supplies and mail to Nicodemus consumers.

Today, Nicodemus, “the oldest and only remaining Black Town west of the Mississippi River” is a designated National Historic Site with the U.S. Park Service.  Each year Nicodemus descendants gather to celebrate Homecoming at the end of July and Pioneer Days in early October. 

Moms Are Moms No Matter the Species

            Each spring’s cycle of birth and renewal reminds me that all mothers are essentially alike.  One look at a momma cow with her calf lets you know you don’t want to mess with her baby. 

Over decades, my students have written many essays detailing results of interfering with young animals.  Mothers aren’t only tender.  They are tough when necessary.  Just a few days ago, a family of fledgling wrens reminded of how much my family is like theirs.

            After recent rains, I was checking my greenery to see how plants were growing under the unusual wet conditions.  Our portion of the creek had gone dry, and our buffalo grass couldn’t have been more dormant.  I didn’t know if it was too late to save the foliage or not.  An old grape vine down by the creek particularly interested me.

            While I counted clusters and imagined jars of wild grape jelly, a rising crescendo disturbed my reverie.   Since we have a wren family living off the back porch, I recognized the “shirring” and scolding. However, I had never heard so many wrens in an uproar at one time.

            Evidently, I interrupted a mother and her fledglings as she taught them to find their own insect dinners.  Not six feet behind me was a rotten log just loaded with tasty morsels for her and her babies.  I interfered not only with her lesson, but also with some high quality dining.

            Not meaning to threaten them, I quietly turned to watch this mom and her young. Apparently, even my statue-like presence created too much of a threat because she “shirred” and scolded more intensely.  Like many a child I have seen in the grocery store’s candy counter turning its back and ignoring its scolding mother, these juvenile wrens did exactly that.  They looked at mom and then at me.  Then they returned to finding crunchy bugs.

            This drove the mother nuts.  She flitted away and back and away again.  With each flit, her tone intensified at least an octave.  I am not a wren, but I understood what she meant.  Finally, all but one of the little birds reluctantly left the dinner table to fly to shelter.  I couldn’t see them, but I could hear mom and fledglings’ raucous comments.  Nobody in that tree was happy.

            That left one little wren at the log.  Most families have one child that doesn’t learn from others’ experiences.  This little fellow wasn’t concerned that mom and now siblings were fussing because it hadn’t fled the threat with them.  Its mother intensified her vocalizations and still didn’t receive a second look.

            I know how Momma Wren felt since we recently fledged a youngster.  As our daughters moved into adulthood, I find myself apologizing to my mother or thanking her for being so patient with me.  It is no easy task letting children go, especially those who must learn through experience.

            Finally, my mother’s heart couldn’t take Momma Wren’s frantic cries any longer. Since her baby wouldn’t respond, I left, removing the threat that alarmed her.  As I walked away, I recalled my own mother’s wish for me: I hope that baby wren has a young one just like it.  

            

The Women's Grinding Rock

Weekend trips were my father’s way to unwind from stressful work.  One of his favorite getaways was a  ranch east of San Diego along the Mexican border.  Semi-arid and hilly, it’s mystique appealed to me as well.  It was a relief to escape the crowded Los Angeles basin to this uncomplicated ranch nestled amidst sage-dotted hills.  The land’s sparse vegetation and up-thrust boulders made it difficult for man or beast to inhabit. 

We would hike, hunt, four-wheel, fish, and get grubby among granite formations, sage, sand, and scrub oak stands.  On the lookout for artifacts and fossils, I walked nose to the ground, hoping to spot a flint chip or arrowhead.  Despite my dedication, all I got was a crick in my neck.

One day my family decided we wanted to explore an adjacent arroyo.  A nearby granite outcrop provided the best vantage point, so the four of us clambered onto an house-sized boulder.  This huge, gray and white striated chunk of granite had punched itself out of the soil.  Much surrounding earth had eroded, providing a clear view over the wash below.

Atop the rock, we noticed pockmarks the size of cereal bowls gouging its face. Curious, I crawled from indention to indention like a blind person reading braille.  What was their purpose? 

Because an ancient Indian cemetery existed nearby, I realized natives had called this land home.  From my overlook, I could see plenty of oak stands nearby. I also knew from fourth grade California history that ground acorns provided a primary food source for early inhabitants.   Aha! I stood upon a grinding rock.

From the number  and depths of depressions, this slab had served generations of women as the local grindstone.  My imagination flew as I fancied friends gathering blanched acorns, babies, and toddlers to work and gab at “the rock.”

As I leaned against the stone and closed my eyes, time peeled away.  Morning sun would have warmed those women’s backs as they leaned into their pounding and grinding.  A sea breeze blowing inland would have rattled oak leaves just as it made leaves whisper to me.  Those long dead mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends undoubtedly talked about the same things women talk about today: family, work, joy, and sorrow.

After examining the grinding rock and sandy earth surrounding it, my family hiked down the gulch, hoping to find more treasure.  That day was  lucky indeed, for we found a vanished woman’s simple rolling pin, the stone she carried to the grinding rock.  Size-wise, it compares to any standard rolling pin.  The ends reveal wear from years of mashing acorns. 

That generated more questions.  How did she lose this stone?  Who lost it? How long ago? Was she running in fear unable to lug that heavy, awkward tool with her?  We don’t know the answers, but that artifact became family treasure that we carried from state to state during repeated moves. 

Eventually, it ended up in my home. A few years ago at an auction, I lucked upon a metaté.  Though from distinctly different regions and tribes, uniting the two seemed right. 

Each time I move them to vacuum, they remind me of the grinding rock, bridging across time to those who came before me.  Women still gather to work and talk about important issues: family, work, joy, and sorrow.     

How Many Critters Are Under That Tree?

All eyes in the stands focused on a bright yellow Volkswagen parked in the center of the Big top.  Both doors opened simultaneously, allowing two clowns wearing towering top hats and oversized, floppy shoes  to step into the spotlight.  Then two more clowns in bright, outsized  attire squeezed out, and then two more and two more and two more  like an out of control tube of toothpaste until there were 12 clowns crowding around that little  VW.  If those weren’t enough to dazzle the crowd, two more popped out. 

According to the internet, the actual record for clowns packed in an original Volkswagen is 17.  The circus I attended only had 14.  That feat generated a five minute round of applause and loud whistles that sent one little girl home wondering how 14 clowns packed themselves into that itty-bitty car.

I haven’t been so amazed by such an accomplishment until this summer.  Because of scorching heat, cattle and wildlife were desperate  for shade.  I marveled at how many large cows and little calves could pack themselves under a tiny cedar tree in the east pasture.  Several good sized cedars punctuate that plot, driving the herd  to divide into smaller groups to ooze into every inch of cool shadow thrown by those young trees.  The only things missing from the clown show I loved were floppy shoes and stove pipe hats.

It wasn’t only cattle seeking a cool place under a tree or next to a shed.  When we drove through Wyoming in late June, it was very warm.  We saw antelope lining up  single -file to rest in the lone shadow cast by a power pole.  Other practical pronghorns gathered near snow fences, maximizing those slender strips of shade.

We passed by one sun-drenched homestead where a  wobbly, old barn cast a dark silhouette.  A mule deer sporting a trophy rack crowded its massive body into anorexic dimness.  He had to turn his head sideways and rest his antlers against the rickety building to cool himself.  He probably would have gladly traded that magnificent crown for something much smaller to achieve a more comfortable position.

Back home, my chickens scratched out holes under the skinniest of branches.  Because these birds needed to let a breeze pass, they struggled to stay in these dim hideouts.  I watched them tuck themselves into the tiniest form possible while still extending their wings to capture passing drafts.

A juvenile squirrel braved proximity  to the house  and dogs so he could flatten his body into mud beneath the bird bath.  I’d watch the little guy panting in that tiny ribbon of relief and want to invite him into the air-conditioned house. 

The dilemma was that if I invited him in, I’d have to invite those panting cows and miserable deer.  Then the question would become, “How many critters would fit into my house?”  I didn’t want to find out.

Drunk Dogs and Wasps

When I first met my husband, a field-trained black lab owned him.  Rebel was one an intelligent beast with a once in a lifetime personality. The retriever and  man enjoyed a rustic bachelorhood  at Meade  State Fish Hatchery.  Dog and owner led an idyllic life hunting, fishing, and working fishponds set far from town and people.

Once Rebel decided I was an asset to his meal schedule and ability to lounge on the couch, this big, black dog made room in his Labrador heart for another human.  When our jobs changed and we transferred from the lake to Ellis, Rebel accepted another difficult adjustment to a previously perfect life.   He traded working  fishponds for retrieving evening papers and supervising a garden.

While he missed the freedom of roaming fish hatchery grounds  where he could roust game birds and help my husband feed and move fish, Rebel discovered  new delights.  We had a mulberry tree, a pear tree, and two apple trees.   You  ask, “Why would fruit trees be a bonus in a retriever’s life?”

This particular lab loved mulberries, pears, and apples—especially if they had dropped to the ground and fermented for a few days.  Yes, our lab was a lush during a fruit drop.

I’d  find him sleeping soundly amidst mounds of fallen mulberries.  His distended belly rising and falling  rhythmically as he breathed.  I laughed to see dark purple mulberry stains  circling his muzzle after one of his binges.  When he awoke from his snooze, he looked at me with unfocused eyes and wobbled as he rose to greet me.  A perpetually happy dog, these fruit indulgences didn't alter his loving personality.   

In early fall, if I called and Rebel didn’t come running, I knew I’d find him,  head on paws,  sleeping off a toot under our pear and apple trees.  Fermented fruit scent permeated the air surrounding this tiny orchard.  Low flying, inebriated wasps  fed on yeasty pulp or circled  above  over-ripe yellow and red orbs and Rebel.  To my surprise, these relaxed insects never stung me as I collected fruit they crawled upon. Their tranquility explained my dog's relaxed state. 

Certain  I didn’t want to encourage dipsomania in  our beloved pet, I found myself racing him to fallen fruit when I got home from school.  He’d give me  a hang-dog look that nearly broke my heart as I tossed his beloved apples and pears in a bucket.  We’d taken him from the freedom of the fish hatchery and moved him to town, and now I was depriving him of the one pleasure he’d found that made city life worthwhile.

Rebel has been gone for decades, and we moved long ago from that house surrounded by the pear and apple trees.  Despite passing time, the dog days of August and slow moving wasps remind me of that black dog that made room in his heart for a new member of the family and relocation to a neighborhood with paved streets.

Ellis Rivaled Dodge City as a Cow Town

After this year’s drought, it’s hard to imagine pastures around Ellis supporting  tens of thousands of Texas longhorns.  However, for a span of time in the 1870s, Ellis and her Kansas Pacific stockyards rivaled Dodge City as the destination for Texas drovers.  Grasslands between the Smoky Hill and Saline Rivers fattened herds while cowboys plumped local merchants’ accounts.

Before the establishment of the Western Cattle Trail in 1874, the L.B. Harris New Trail to Ellis, a subsidiary trail from Texas to Kansas, was identified on A.W. Ziegalasch’s Chisolm Trail map.  According to Margaret and Gary Kraisinger’s The Western/The Greatest Texas Cattle Trail 1874 -1886, Harris’s new trail had three spurs: Hays City, Ellis, and Trego Tank.  Captain Lytle soon founded The Western Trail, which followed a similar route to Ellis prior to railheads at Buffalo Park and other western towns.

 Ellis was desirable due to the Kansas Pacific’s excellent stock pens located north of the railroad in the vicinity of the current ball diamonds and fair grounds on the west side of Big Creek.  According to Ellis County Star articles, the Kansas Pacific offered competitive shipping rates.  Old photos confirm trails leading into and out of this area, possibly from traveling herds.

According to the May 29, 1876 Ellis County Star article, thousands of Texas cattle began arriving in the Ellis vicinity.  The Hickey herd numbered 1,500, joined by the 1,000 strong Taylor herd. These longhorns pastured south of town for several weeks before shipping out.  Halstein and Murry delivered over 4,000 head to summer on the Saline a few days after the first throngs arrived.

Livestock business boomed that May as another 20,000 longhorns in 10 different herds arrived within a few weeks.  In June, Captain King’s South Texas drovers delivered two herds totaling over 4,000 head to Ellis. The Hays paper reported over 100,000 head of Texas cattle delivered  to the Ellis railhead that summer and suggested Ellis stockyards and transport fees were better than Dodge City’s.

By July, The Star described a thriving cattle business in Ellis.  New businesses had opened and existing ones were doing well.  An August 3 article states, “Our cow-boys are still with us, and a better or more civil set of men, we have never met.” In September, the boom continued with additional cattle shipments.

All good things end, which was true of Ellis’s days as a business rival to Dodge City.  The legislature moved the deadline—a designated quarantine line for Texas herds—west of Ellis, making 1877 Ellis’s last year as a shipping point for Texas cattle. 

Local articles from those years are missing.  To find historical accounts requires visiting Hays Public Library or Kansas Historical Society Archives to read old newspapers. Few photographs of this time exist, and they reveal little of Ellis’s role in the cattle business.  Perhaps an undiscovered photo trove exists that will expand information about this part of Ellis’s history.

Those of us with active imaginations walk down 9^th Street, once Edwards Street and the main business district, to listen for ghostly boot steps and clinking spurs.

Witness Tree

        

           This summer we traveled to Montana where I met a remarkable man who introduced me to the concept of the “Witness” tree.  In that particular case, the storyteller was talking about 1000 or 2000 year old pine trees marking passing pack trains led first by Indians and later by miners and then hunters heading into the Bob Marshall Wilderness.

            On his property, he had several old witness trees, one that towered seemingly to the heavens where its branches danced to breezes I could not feel at ground level.  He was right.  If I looked carefully, I could see the marks and scrapes of passing panniers.  Indians had used the trail passing through his property for centuries, and then he himself had led hunters on their quests for big game in the mountains that rose behind his cabin.

         Those witness trees told a story if anyone cared to read the inscriptions in the ancient bark. As soon as I learned about “Witness Trees,” I began to think of a tree I discovered in western Kansas, a towering, old cottonwood with a trunk over 21 feet around. Though that cottonwood cannot be anywhere nearly as old as Ed’s “Witness” trees, it has stories to tell if I listen.

            A jagged lightning strike scar runs down the tree from the top to bottom, a result of mighty thunder boomers that occur occasionally on open prairie.  I have stood at the window watching flashes of lightning followed instantaneously by thunder. 

            A number of scars indicate other injuries to this old tree.  Critters took advantage and made homes in crevices and cracks, adding their stories to the tree’s.  Years ago, I took my mom to see this tree.  Somehow she didn’t duck when she should have or ducked when she shouldn’t have, and she left behind enough scalp to warrant six stitches.  On later visits to the tree, I find her salt and pepper hair snagged in the branch that wounded her.

            I have wondered what other stories this tree could tell.  It must have shaded Indian women and children from the sun.  An old friend used to find their stone tools in a nearby field.  Buffalo wandering about the prairie, looking to wear away their winter coats, must have rubbed against the corky, fire resistant bark. I suspect soldiers guarding the railroad found time for a nap under its branches.  How it survived the years of drought during the 30’s, 50’s and now, I don’t know. 

            Not too far away, a whole grove of trees, once a favored picnic spot of the old timers, stands.  None of them comes close to the size of this western Kansas “Witness” tree, so I know it is old. 

            Recently, because this tree triggered my curiosity, I wanted to find out more about cottonwoods. What I learned surprised me.

            Early travelers were glad to spot either a lone tree or a stand of trees, which provided shade from the harsh prairie sun.  In addition, they found firewood to burn instead of buffalo chips they typically used for prairie cooking.  Most importantly, cottonwood trees can’t grow without a steady source of water.  Spotting a cottonwood tree meant finding water. 

            Before white travelers crossed what was then known as “The Great American Desert,” traveling Indians found shelter under these trees along Kansas streams and seeps.  In dire circumstances such as deep snow or extended drought, the bark and leaves served as livestock forage.  According to Elliot West in The Way West, increased human traffic along the Platte and the Arkansas spelled disaster for most of the early groves

            After my research, I find cottonwoods more remarkable than I first thought.  Simply becoming a tree should qualify them as a “Witness” tree.  The most obvious fact that I should have pieced together is the way they propagate.  Every spring, the male trees unleash a barrage of nearly invisible pollen carried by the wind to the flowers of the female tree.  Once pollinated, the flowers mature into necklaces of dangling fruits that we see each spring hanging from the female trees. 

After a period of incubation or some such thing (more like a kernel of popcorn resting on a hot skillet), the fruits explode, unleashing a barrage of feathery white seeds that clog filters, coat cars and houses, and hopefully send at least one seed into ideal sprouting conditions. Each female tree has hundreds of fruits filled with thousands of seeds, which explains why one Montana Forest Service employee called this the “shotgun approach” to reproduction.

            These seeds have no food reserves, so they must immediately find a sunny spot in moist, loose soil if there is any hope for them to become trees.  Once it manages to find a site along a stream or seep, the root takes hold and a tree begins to grow. 

            Hard times aren’t over yet for these guys.  Cottonwood trees have a high sugar content, which makes them desirable as critter candy to munchers, grazers, and browsers.  If the seedling somehow avoids a snacking deer, elk, cow, or rodent, it faces the dangers of winter ice and periodic drought.

            The fact that the huge tree we discovered still lives amazes me.  Learning about these trees helps me understand why native people such as the Lakota, Hopi, and Navajo consider the cottonwood sacred.  The Lakota use a cottonwood as the center pole in their Sundance Ceremony.  Hopis make their Kachinas from cottonwood roots that have washed loose. 

No wonder I feel a sense of the sacred when I rest under these Kansas “Witness” trees.  

             

Winter Solstice--A Reminder

          

I can’t imagine living in early times without scientific knowledge regarding the year’s shortest day and longest night, the winter solstice.  Before easy access to candles, kerosene, and electricity, this was a worrisome season. Little besides faith the sun would return comforted the ancients through increasingly long nights.

            The word solstice itself comes from the Latin solstitium. Sol meant sun and stitium, stoppage.  According to the Family Education Network on the Internet, the winter solstice occurs either December 21 or 22.  For several days before the solstices and for several days after, it appears that time stands still.  In a world bombarded with more information than it can process, it comforts me to imagine, that for a moment, the sun momentarily stands in place each June and December.

 It must have comforted our ancestors also. Anthropologists have found evidence that many early societies developed means to mark equinoxes and solstices.  Stonehenge is one well-known example.  In North America, some experts theorize Native American medicine wheels peppering our landscape may have served a similar purpose. Though I don’t recommend building a Stonehenge or a medicine wheel in the backyard, much can be said for beginning one’s day before the sun rises and making time to watch its first rays break the horizon. 

Kansans have experienced some spectacular sunrises since Thanksgiving.  One morning it appeared that fingers of crimson fire tore away the darkness.  Other mornings reveal themselves in pastel hues gently probing their way into the eastern sky.  Making a point of spending time watching the sun come up and taking note of when it happens puts life in perspective.  I find myself hating to sleep in. I don’t want to miss sunrise or the day’s continually shifting shadows. 

In the same vein, I’ve found it soothing to note when the sun sets on our western hill. Painters and photographers recognize and celebrate the power a fiery sunset or a rosy orb gradually fading into violet darkness holds over a viewer. Marking evolving shadows dropping into the West connects us to forgotten rhythms.

For those who don’t want to or can’t watch the sun rise and set, computers make it easy to track the earth’s rhythms. Anyone can see sunrise and sunset times on the weather page or by installing the Weather Bug on a computer.

Solstices are a reminding, a remembering of rhythms our hearts know but our minds forgot.  They are about belief in rebirth.  They are about faith.  They are about knowing darkness will descend and lengthen but, given time, light will return.

It is not a coincidence that we choose to celebrate our religious and secular holidays with displays of light during this dark time of year.  The beckoning warmth of Christmas lights and electric candles on windowsills reminds humanity that light will overcome dark and days will grow longer.  Stop a moment and be still, especially at sunrise and sunset, to mark this year’s winter solstice December 21.

             

Winter Morning Shadow Plays

            One of my favorite childhood memories or maybe even adult memories involves casting finger shadows of rabbits, birds, and other creatures onto a blank wall.  Recently, I discovered Mother Nature playing her own shadow games on Big Creek below my kitchen window. On weekend mornings, I look forward to seeing what sorts of fun the “old girl” can concoct using barren branches, agile squirrels, and flitting birds.

            A number of factors come into play for this shadow extravaganza to take place.  First of all, we have water in the creek this winter so there is something to provide a reflection.  Also, the creek has not frozen for long periods due to the unseasonably warm temperatures, which helps provide a reflective surface for Mother N.  Secondly, the temps are chilly enough to invigorate the squirrels and birds, but not so cold as to force them into still, huddled efforts to preserve energy.

The air also seems to be unnaturally clear—no fog, no mist, no moisture of any kind to obscure the reflected images. Finally, weekends provide me the opportunity to be home around 8:30 a.m. when the sun arrives in just the right spot to sharply silhouette a myriad of cottonwood, ash, and locust shadows onto the creek.

            What I see when I look out the window onto Big Creek is a most unusual circus.  Shadows of furry, acrobatic figures chase one another from one high branch to another up and down the bank, seeming to fly as they make big leaps across open space.  I suspect last May’s tornado may have opened a bit more space than the squirrels were used to based on some of the stretches they make as they jump. 

However, that doesn’t seem to faze them as they launch themselves from tree to tree across a space that spans a distance of about 300 feet.  They blast off across open territory with the fearlessness of the Flying Wallenzas. 

            Every now an then I spot one of the reflected creatures performing a flip or winding itself artfully around a branch to enhance the morning show.  Working in tandem, several of them get a choreographed chase scene going that rivals the breathtaking chase in The Thomas Crown Affair.  In addition to the reflections of diving, leaping, twirling squirrels, the shadows of big and little birds hover and dart in and out of the shadow scenes.  Where to look first becomes the morning challenge.  Who cares about coffee?

            I don’t know how I have missed this show before unless this year’s presentation has way more to do with the combination of factors mentioned above—the unnaturally warm temperatures and the lack of moisture in the air that provide clarity we wouldn’t normally have on a winter morning.  Whatever the reasons, I plan to enjoy this shadow play at every available opportunity.

            

Prairie Tree Cycles

First photographs  of Ellis reveal a railroad track accompanied by  hastily assembled buildings set in the middle of dusty prairie.  Even though the picture is black and white, it is clear sunshine and open space are plentiful.  What is missing is a tree.  Any shade to be found had to be man-made.

A decade later, photographic records reveal cottages with newly planted trees struggling to take root in an inhospitable environment.  The local newspaper editor petitioned residents to plant more trees throughout town and on farmsteads.

Look at a picture taken in the 1880s in the locale of the current stone house by Big Creek on West 11^th Street to see a thriving orchard.  Shade trees tower in the background, indicating how Ellis had changed from desolate prairie to an oasis in fewer than thirty years.

In another photographic series, rows of  trees grow near what is now Playworld Park.  In surrounding neighborhoods, healthy shade trees shelter houses and yards, providing respite from the sun and homes for birds and squirrels.

By the 1920s, Ellis looked like an Eastern community with its tree-lined  brick streets.  It is easy to imagine an autumn stroll through town and seeing hordes of neighborhood children breaking the prairie plane as they raked fallen leaves into golden mountains.

After the Dust Bowl’s dry years,  snapshots of Ellis reveal fewer shade trees and none of the optimistic orchards that grew at the end of the 19^th century.  Aerial pictures tell the tale of waterless months and the toll those took on lovely greenery that once adorned yards, parks, and streets. The oasis had diminished.

Since that dry decade, residents have replanted and nurtured  trees and bushes in Ellis and the surrounding countryside.  Mother Nature has done her own seeding along waterways, creating a ribbon of green as far as the eye can see.  Once again, families can hang a tire swing on a big old branch or set their lawn chairs under an accommodating cottonwood.  All that is changing with this current dry spell.

Watching this drought take its toll on western Kansas prairie plantings reminds us to value surviving flora.  Without significant moisture soon, many locals will lose plantings that have taken generations to grow.

Perhaps we ought to perform memorial services for the dead  since these plantings have been around longer than many of our family members have.  A thirty-year-old lilac in my backyard succumbed a month ago. Two more-brown than green yews outside our bedroom inhale last bits of carbon dioxide and expel final gasps of restorative oxygen.

Along Big Creek, decades old cottonwoods and ash trees suffer  heat stress.  Heart-shaped cottonwood leaves yellow long before Mother Nature signals the fall leaf drop. Some leaves just fall, skipping the colorful part of their existence.

What will future generations see when they look at pictures of our yards, parks, and streets?   Will they see this as another cycle that came and went, or will it be a permanent part of their  prairie existence. 

Whisky Friskey

“Whisky, frisky, hippity-hop, up he scampers to the tree top.”  When I taught pre-school years ago, my pint-sized pupils loved this finger play about a scampering squirrel.  Of course, they had to substitute their fingers for the squirrel and their other arm for the tree.  Watching them, I could see Whisky Frisky.

  Even before teaching pre-school, I was fond of squirrels.  My husband and I never begrudged squirrels the black-hulled sunflower seeds they artfully steal from the bird feeder.  In fact, we buy seed mixed with corn to keep squirrels coming.  We entertain ourselves watching these critters’ antics as they tease our dogs and antagonize birds while grabbing an easy meal.

Lately, we have had an exceptionally acrobatic squirrel visiting the feeders. We love watching him sneak down the old elm tree and dash the few feet necessary to climb to the platform feeder.  Taking possession, he shares with smaller squirrels or birds only when it suits this furry potentate.

 He eats until he has a sizable mound of empty shells beneath him. Then he checks to see that he can make a safe escape, zipping down the pole and up another elm with access to several tall cedar trees.  Once there, he retires to nap or scold, depending on his mood.

This Christmas we received a new feeder made of collapsible mesh with a metal top and bottom designed to hang from a branch in such a way to deter squirrels. Should is the operative word here.  At first, our fat, furry friend would sneak out to the edge of the branch where the feeder dangled.  He scoped out the possibilities and weighed the risks. Eventually, he decided to chance the tumble.

Carefully wrapping his hind feet around a slender branch, he maneuvered himself upside down over the feeder, easily by-passing the squirrel guard.  Once in position, he dug seeds from the mesh and gorged.  At first, he ate cautiously, but as his comfort increased, he was removing 20 -30 seeds per minute.   Some he ate.  Some he stored in ever-widening cheek pouches. He never noticed me timing him; he was so busy gobbling.

At first, he did slip off his branch a time or two, causing his human audience to gasp.  We made a point to keep the dog inside during our squirrel’s initial explorations into eating while dangling upside down.  Now he is so accomplished at dangling at a 90-degree angle to feast that neither he nor we worry about an accidental slip.  In fact, as I watched him recently, this squirrel tossed the sunflower seeds unopened to the ground and dug for tastier corn kernels, all while hanging upside down ten feet above the ground.  

At twice the size of other squirrels coming to our feeder, this one definitely dominates both feeders and nearby branches.  In any other circumstance, I’d think him a bully, but instead he’s our personal “Whiskey, Frisky with tail broad as a feather and tall as sail” and well worth the admission price of an extra bag of seed and corn. 

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What I Took for Granted

            For twelve years, I have enjoyed another person’s dream and labor, taking it for granted day after day and year after year.  In 1961, this man and his wife built a house, no—a home, overlooking Big Creek in far eastern Trego County.  Landscape influenced every decision that young family made as they positioned their home to welcome sunrise and enjoy sunset as well as view Big Creek and its abundant wildlife and trees. 

            From the first time I saw this then vacant house, I knew I wanted to call it home and savor its landscape.  I loved the well-planned southern shelter belt, the privacy surrounding cedars provided, as well as cottonwoods, locust, and ash trees winding along the nearby creek east and west of the house.

            Over the years, I learned where hawks, herons, mockingbirds, cardinals, wrens, and dove nested and looked forward each year to watching new families hatch and fledge.  I knew the pine where owls sometimes whispered love songs to one another.  I knew the cedar where squirrels ran to hide after they had ambushed our dogs. 

Each exit from and return to the drive at the top of the hill meant a three mile view of the creek west and east.  That winding belt of trees changed predictably with the seasons so we had pale then dark green belts that altered to yellow then orange and finally stark branches in winter. 

Like many folks, I take what I have for granted, and I assumed this beloved landscape would welcome me all the years I live here.  All that changed May 23 when a series of tornadoes not only destroyed many farmsteads in our neighborhood, but also the landscape that residents expected to see each morning. 

            So far, we have counted thirty-four uprooted trees the family who dreamed and built our farmstead planted by hand and cared for so they grew to protect this place.  The protection worked because the trees took the brunt of the storm and left our home dented but standing solidly in place.

            Mature trees along the creek a mile to the west and a mile to the east also fared poorly.  They now look like a snaggle-toothed hockey player smiling broadly.  Huge cottonwoods standing sentinel along the creek for decades snapped and shattered, leaving splintered arms and roots in grotesque supplication to the sky that first nurtured them, then splintered them.

            Sounds of humans cleaning up farmyards and fields pulse through the air as tractors, trucks, and saws clean up damage to buildings and shelter belts.  Soon the reverberation of building and repairing houses, barns, and outbuildings will replace the noise of tearing down and hauling away ripped and torn metal and wood.  

            The hawk nest and heron nests are gone as is the cedar that sheltered warring squirrels.  A new landscape formed not by a nurturing creek and warm sun, but by Mother Nature at her worst wends its way along the creek.  This landscape will not recover quickly with the artificial sounds of human tools.   Its silent replacement will come over decades, perhaps centuries. 

           

           

Early Morning Rambles revised

Early Morning Rambles

After a school year where I scheduled three lives into one, I decided to spend time enjoying my backyard and the surrounding sections.  One of my summer goals included rising early for an hour of walking, observing, and thinking.  

I don’t know about anyone else in the house, but my dogs loved this plan.  The  older dog joined me for a “short” hike around the drive—a mile for me and three for him after he chases rabbits and marks an astonishing assortment of weeds and grasses.  Looking at the world through his eyes, I see an abundance of cottontails and small rodents.  While his eyesight is excellent, his nose is not particularly sharp, so pheasants often surprise him when they erupt skyward.

After he enjoys his turn around the pasture, I exchange walking buddies.  The little female waits patiently at with her nose pressed against the front window until she sees us returning.  Then her hunting dog blood percolates.  She barely contains herself as I let the older dog in and turn her loose for a longer ramble.

After spinning “donuts” in the sandy drive to show me she’s happy about this sunrise adventure, we amble onto whichever road suits our mood.   Nearby, a male mockingbird sitting in a roadside cedar comments musically on our journey.  A bright red cardinal perching in a nearby hackberry joins his chorus.  If I weren’t trailing a dog with her nose practically glued to invisible scents covering the road and ditches, watching those two birds competing in song would derail my journey.

Early is the operative word here.  These walks must begin no later than seven to relish the morning.  The cool air or maybe the need to find breakfast brings out critters I don’t see later in the day. 

My favorite walk involves a hike south to the section line, where we turn west.  From there, I can see Riga and, under perfect conditions, Ogallah.  To the north, a dark line of trees marks Big Creek’s winding path. Beyond, cars and trucks snake east and west along Interstate. To the south, Round Mound highlights the trail for travelers.  

At this turning point, I can easily believe I am at the center of the universe where heaven’s great blue bowl unites the horizon line in a giant circle.  Standing there, I think of Per Hansa’s wife Beret in Giants in the Earth.  I wonder why she feared this vast openness so greatly it affected her sanity. She could see all the world had to offer from any direction.  Perhaps seeing so much of that world frightened her.  Despite Beret’s reservations about open prairie, I feel delight and reverence as I absorb that view.

Discovering one’s neighborhood, including humans, beasts, birds, plants, landscape, and sky merits anyone’s time.  Meeting them through the eyes and noses of two very different dogs allows a vantage point I would miss if I walked alone.

Yellow Days and Hummers

           

            One of the best parts of traveling to the mountains in the summer is the chance to enjoy hummingbirds.  I can sit for hours watching those feisty little guys zipping to and from feeders that dangle from every possible eave. 

In years past, motivated by hummers we saw in the mountains, we came home to hang our own feeder. We usually did this in late July or early August, and all we got for our trouble was a wasp or ant invasion.  As a result, I cleaned out the feeders and buried them in the camping box, thinking I would use them only in the mountains.

A few autumns ago, I attended an auction in McCracken, and as I drove through that little hamlet, I noticed hummingbird feeders hanging in several yards.  When I ran into familiar folks, I asked about the feeders and one lady told me that hummingbirds pass this way on their fall southward migration.  I should’ve raced directly home to hang my feeder, but my brain was on overload, and I forgot.

Like many people, I remember stuff when I cannot use it, and each October I think I should’ve put the feeder out in late August.  This year, we got a gentle reminder.  My husband and youngest daughter happened to walk out the back door as a ruby-throated hummingbird sampled petunias blooming on the patio. 

When I returned from North Dakota, where hummers visit throughout summer, my family eagerly recounted the recent ruby throat visit.  With that kind of inspiration, I raced to the basement to dig the hummingbird feeder out of the camping box. Then I concocted a sugar solution.  My husband suspended the feeder so we could watch hummers as we worked in the kitchen. 

For several days, we never saw a hummingbird or heard its whirring wings as it jetted from branch to branch.  I thought I’d missed the one and only hummer to visit our neighborhood.  But, the solution in the feeder kept dropping, and I knew evaporation couldn’t account for every missing ounce. 

Finally, I heard the hoped for words.  “Karen, you have a hummer!”  I crept quietly to the kitchen window just as the tiny bird flashed away.  Darn!   A few hours later persistence paid off, and I caught the little guy sipping delicately from our red plastic blooms. 

As a youngster, I hated losing summer and all its enchantment.  But, now, as the earth rotates into that 33 degree tilt that tints late summer and early fall days with a golden hue, I look forward to visits from migrating hummers.  Once the sun shifts from its summer to autumnal position, my ears listen for whirring wings playing one of summer’s final songs.  I catch myself watching late blooming flowers, hoping to capture one of summer’s last magical moments.

HPPR 8/8/12

Watering Holes Cool Local Critters

When public pools were first built during the WPA years, I am sure naysayers complained about  wasting water and effort.  However, in heat waves such as we have experienced this year, cool town pools draw young and old like a magnet draws iron filings.   On our hilltop, we’ve created the equivalent of the public pool for our bird residents.

As heat built, wicking away available moisture, we put pans of water in shady places for our chickens.  I expected local birds to visit, but the crowds approach Disney visitor proportions.  These pools are a haven for adult birds parenting just fledged adolescents, which leads to funny scenes at the local “pool.”

Young robins with mottled coloring and spindly bodies remind me of 6^th and 7^th graders who have reached adult height but haven’t filled out. Their parents come to drink and groom circumspectly.  The young come for a drink and end up splashing half the water out of the container. 

Orioles behave more cautiously regardless of their age.  Mature birds and adolescents come to the water alert and prepared to flee at the least disturbance.  When young robins join them, the bright orioles leave immediately. House finches and sparrows also tend to be businesslike in their drinking habits, focusing on the drink and skipping frivolity.

A flicker youngster and its mother refreshed themselves yesterday and discovered tasty insects in a nearby elm.  Watching mom teach her baby to search bark and pick out insects consumed at least 15 minutes of my morning. 

Mom successfully pecked gourmet delights out of the rough bark. However, her offspring hunted without victory until the mother regurgitated insect chunks into its wide open beak.  I imagine she will be glad when that full-size child finds its own dinner.

Raucous blue jays are a rowdy bunch at the water.  They never come one or two at a time.  A gang follows soon after the first jay lands on the dish’s edge.  It’s the equivalent of  neighborhood kids agreeing to meet at the pool at the same time.  Once the troublemakers arrive, even the chickens back off. 

These pretty but noisy birds are the equivalent of bullies who push and dunk everyone else.  By the time they finish splashing around, I have to rinse feathers out of the remaining water.

Ironically, one little visitor challenges the blue jays to the water.  We have a juvenile squirrel who sunbathes by the water pans.  He doesn’t mind the other creatures who come in to drink as long as the family dog is inside the house.

No matter how wild and crazy  the robins and jays splash, that little squirrel lays outside the dish, preening like he’s in the shower.  In between bird visits, he pulls himself up on the pan’s lip to slurp a good drink.

While the water dishes aren’t permanent like a WPA pool, they serve the same purpose in providing refreshment to the neighborhood.  The lady watching from inside an air-conditioned house gets plenty of entertainment as well.

When the Dog’s Away

When we lost our big yellow dog last August, it left a hole in our hearts and an empty space in the middle of the living room where he used to lie to supervise household activities.  We had Tucker for 17 years, and he was an almost perfect dog that took care of us more than we did him.  We are still discovering some of the caretaking duties he performed.

One of his jobs was maintaining order on the ranch.  Unbeknown to us, Tucker acted as a gatekeeper for critters that came and went in the yard.  I credited him with keeping coyotes at bay, but he apparently also made certain deer, turkeys, and hawks stayed far from his family.  Now that he is gone, these creatures visit with impunity. 

This trespassing offends our little terrier and make him wonder why he can’t maintain order like the big dog did.  It may have something to do with his shrill bark and small stature compared to Tucker’s deep roar and pony-sized body.  Even I got scared when Tucker barked, and I knew I was allowed on the place since I fed him.

We have enjoyed seeing occasional deer at a distance; we now have a regular deer thoroughfare in every direction around the house.  My husband nearly ran into one in the driveway as he drove home the other night.  The terrier and I had a stare down with two bucks in velvet and three does on our way to the mailbox the other afternoon.  Watching out the window morning and evening  guarantees we’ll see a doe or maybe a doe and her fawn.

Since we enjoy wildlife and they don’t seem to cause harm, we mostly enjoy this and think how busy Tucker must have been shepherding all these four- legged creatures away from the place all fifteen years he stood guard duty out here.

Sitting on the back porch last, I watched fireflies dance until the wee hours.  Suddenly, I heard  a racket from  the bushes and trees that border the backyard.  Keep in mind, it was dark, dark except for a sliver of light projected by the yard light into the back yard.   Straining my ears and eyes, I determined where the sounds came from and focused on the tiny bit of light in that direction.  Soon, I saw shadowy figures emerge from the trees—a doe and two older fawns.  Totally unaware I was sitting within fifteen feet of them, they browsed a currant bush and then meandered across the yard to try out some other greenery.  I realized why I frequently heard Tucker barking through the night. 

While I miss our old dog enormously, it has been interesting to discover how busy he was as a guard dog.  No wonder he napped so much when he was in the house. Bbased on what I’ve seen since he’s been gone, he had a full time job keeping critters away.

Master Recycler

For weeks I have eyeballed a dead deer in a nearby wheat field.  Each time I pass, I see carrion eaters have whittled the carcass.  When I first spotted the broken body, I wished a highway crew would pick it up.  After observing how many meals it has provided not only to crows and magpies, but also to other scavengers, it served a better purpose where it is.

In nature nothing goes to waste.  My grandmothers recognized this truth as they recycled string, foil, sacks,  and glass. Plastic, foil, and paper may be convenient, but they will be humanity’s downfall.

Years ago, my family traveled to Cherokee Village near Talequah, Oklahoma. One discovery archeologists made as they researched the site was the lack of refuse in the middens.

The tour guides, descendants of former occupants, reminded us that ancient Americans used every part of creatures they harvested.  Skins provided shelter and clothing.  Villagers turned bones and bladders into tools, utensils, and containers. They used shells and claws for decorative and musical purposes.  Nothing went to the dump until it could not be recycled again. 

Nature follows the same rule. As soon as a beast or bird expires, its immediate biological functions cease, but new functions rev up.  The immediate use of the dead creature is obvious.  It is protein for other animals.  Using delicate nostrils, carrion eaters compete for delicacies.  At the same time, insect species discover the new food source and join the fray.

As insects arrive, the carcass assumes additional duties.  Many species utilize it as an incubator.  They drop in to eat, lay eggs, and depart, leaving larvae to incubate and perpetuate a species.

Once flesh is devoured, rodents zero in on remaining bones, a rich mineral source.  They nibble with relish.   We once discovered a shedding ground in Wyoming where we couldn’t find an un-gnawed antler.   

Not only does nature recycle her creatures, she provides plants, trees, and shrubs with remarkable recycling abilities. Walk through a wooded area and notice the carpet of dead leaves. 

Lift a section to observe a universe.   Those leaves and humus renew soil supporting everything living in that area.  Decomposition-generated warm temperatures initiate numerous biological processes.

 Fungi love decaying patches as they continue nature’s work breaking larger elements down into microscopic, absorbable elements. Similar activity occurs in compost piles, and good gardeners know compost is their friend.

Note fallen trees.  These  house birds, beasts, and insects.  Once decomposition begins, insects, bacteria, and fungi revitalize soil from which the tree sprouted. Kick it and watch it dissolve into sawdust and wood chips. 

It takes time to recycle plant and animal matter.  Despite our impatience watching this slow process, humans still create packaging that breaks down inefficiently.

Returning to recyclable packaging is a good idea.  It isn’t convenient, but convenience means we have time to squeeze one more stressor into an already crowded day.  If we enjoyed less convenience, we might enjoy the world more.  Stepping onto her porch to collect the morning milk delivery, Grandma saw many beautiful sunrises 

Under the Spell of the Moon

 "Buffalo gals won'tcha come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight. Buffalo gals, won'tcha come out tonight and dance by the light of the moon?"  Every time I see a full or nearly full moon, I think of this songmy father used to sing to his little girl any time we happened to view a

 full moon together. 

That probably began the magic of moon gazing for me. The gazing improved when my mother told her wide-eyed daughter to look for the man in the moon. Sure enough, I could spot his eyes, nose, and mouth.

 To further weave the magic, we read nursery stories about cows jumping over the moon and moons made of green cheese.  My brain teamed with delightful tales and wonderful images of dancing buffalo gals who looked much like Annie Oakley and Olympian cows that could leave the boundaries of earth's gravity behind. No wonder the moon cast its spell over me.

When we moved to Southern California, we discovered another kind of

 moon magic local to place.  Grunion, a small and silvery slip of a fish, answers the call to reproduce during spring full moons.  These sardine size creatures ride the waves in during high tide to spawn on the shore.

I remember arriving at Huntington Beach at high tide to find grunion hunters under a communion wafer moon. Driving home afterwards with empty buckets rattling did not dampen our mood. 

The joy of running barefooted in wet sand under a full moon reflecting off in-coming waves and listening to the song of the pounding surf made up for our failure as grunion-nappers.  This memory returns on nights I stand outside, basking in silvery moonlight.

Songwriters, lovers,  and poets know the moon and compose songs

titled "Moon River," "Moon Shadow," and "Blue Moon."  Clement Moore wrote "The

Night Before Christmas,” and spoke of the moon "shining on the breast of the new fallen snow."  In the poem "The Highway Man" the author writes, "the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas."

            These images fed my imagination so that when I had daughters, I wanted them to sense the magic I felt.  I had learned a silly rhyme from my grandmother, and the girls and I stood under a warm summer crescent moon and recited, "Look at the moon.  Someone bit it in two.  I didn't do it.  Naughty puppy, did you?"  They would giggle as only little girls can while the moon shone on tiny baby teeth pearls and reflected in their eyes.  To this day, I cannot see a crescent moon without remembering grandmother and toddling daughters.

Though the world changes, though our families grow and shrink and grow, though we age, the moon cycles every 29.5 days.  We can stand under the moonlight and know that light shines on our loved ones no matter where they live.  Just as the pull of the moon creates tides and wave cycles, it tugs our hearts and creates a life pattern on which we can count.

First Hunt: The Stories Begin

Parents mark children’s lives by firsts: first tooth, first word, first step, and first day of school.  As youngsters mature, firsts come further apart.   However, for a youngster who hunts, the list of firsts continue.  If my husband and his friends’ experiences are any indication, not only continue but  are infinite.  Hunters live for their stories, which always include a first. Perhaps this is a hunter’s way to cling to childhood’s elusive magic.

Last weekend my daughter joined a select group.  She got her first turkey.

 Hunting requires certain before, during, and after rituals.  For  dedicated outdoors enthusiasts, it is not bagged game that is the goal.  It is the  preparation.  Kelli and her dad spent months discussing their upcoming hunt: where to hunt, what to shoot, how long a shot to take,  and how one makes sure to shoot a tom.

 As opening day drew closer, she kept asking, “When?”  Finally, it was time. 

To build Kelli’s confidence, the two practiced shooting targets.  Considering she hadn’t used a shotgun much, Kelli showed promise.  But, there’s a big difference between a standing target and a moving tom.  Not a problem for Kelli. 

The night before the safari, she laid out camouflage and hunting boots.  She would be ready when the alarm sounded, even though she never shows such enthusiasm on school mornings.  Copying her dad, she set out her coffee cup. 

Those two were so efficient in their leave-taking I barely noticed them rising at 4:30 a.m.  This signaled new dedication from my daughter.  She never gets up early for any other reason.  This alone made a campfire story.

I figured she would hunt and return with tales of turkeys she saw and missed or couldn’t shoot.  After all, she’d heard plenty of these from her dad. 

By nine a.m., my crew returned jubilantly from the woods, lugging a big turkey! Underestimating the situation, I asked the adults, “Who bagged the gobbler?” Imagine Kelli’s joy as she proclaimed, “I did!  I got him in one shot.”

I wanted to hear the whole story, but I, too, had to follow the ritual.  Pictures first.  Kelli alone with her turkey, tail fanned out.  Kelli with turkey draped over shoulder.  Kelli with calling partners, Dad and Wes, on each side. At last, a photo of our aged dog creeping out to sniff Kelli’s trophy.  I can date the years of our marriage by photos of past hunts.  Now my daughter’s beaming smile added to those memories.

The photo op completed, Kelli could tell her story. The telling is so important.  It isn’t the shot--it is the preparation.  Arriving on site before the birds fly off their roost, listening to morning come to life, watching and waiting for gobblers to come to the decoy. 

Kelli provided Easter dinner, and she accomplished more than putting meat on the table.  If she had come home empty-handed, her hunt would have been successful.  She joined an elite group initiated into rituals of hunting preparation and storytelling.  In this group, she can count on many more firsts.  

Turkey Lonely Hearts Club

 Typically, when you see wild turkeys, you see them in a flock.  If they are out on a morning breakfast of grasshoppers and other early rising insects, several dine together.  At night, they usually gather in  large groups to roost in a big tree that allows each its own branch.  However, they roost close enough to one another for the  turkey equivalent of The Walton’s “Goodnight, John-boy” evening song.

For the past few weeks, we’ve had a lone hen roaming our property.  I am trying to solve the mystery of why she is on her own.  Is this a turkey choice?  Has she done something awful like Hester Prynne and been shunned by the flock? Does she have turkey body odor so no turkeys   hang  with her?

Ironically, my chickens don’t mind her presence.  I see her blue head bobbing up and down as she wanders in and out of their evening feeding routine, occasionally gobbling one of their grasshoppers.  Despite having to share their supply of bristly-legged insects, the hens and rooster include her in their pasture gleanings.

While this hen is far from the flock in our yard, she is brave about approaching the house.  Several times, she’s alarmed our little terrier by peeping into our living room window.  She’ll come right up to the plate glass and stare into the room.

 This is a wild turkey, so I am sure there is a more reasonable answer than an avian peeper, like maybe sampling insects lurking in the Russian sage growing in front of the window.  However, she looks like she’s checking out the activity inside the house.  Buster’s vicious, high-pitched bark does nothing to alarm her—at least when he’s inside the house.

I pointed her out to my husband and began explaining my creative and unlikely reasons for being in our yard.  As a wildlife professional, he looked at me and my meanderings like I was  from another planet or like I had been wandering in the extreme heat like this lonely turkey hen.  After a moment or two of serious thought, he dismissed my ramblings with, “Maybe she’s on a nest, a late nest granted, but still a nest, and she’s taking a break to eat.”

Whoa, that’s a thought I hadn’t considered.  We might be hosting a bunch of turkeys in the not too distant future.  You can bet I am on the lookout now whenever I see that hen turkey.  Perhaps, instead of being the lonely-hearted, rejected hen, she’s a harried mom trying to find a bit of time to herself to find a bite to eat. 

I still have the mystery of the lonely turkey hen to solve, but my husband has certainly pointed out that I hadn’t considered all the logical possibilities.  Even if I never figure out why this lonesome hen joins us on a regular basis, I am certain she knows what she is doing.