Helping Birds Decorate Their Nests

You’ve heard the saying, “Looks can be deceiving.” That statement describes our little terrier’s coat. When you meet him, he looks like a sleek pooch who doesn’t shed.  That’s true July through February. However, when the calendar says spring, he gives March Madness a new interpretation.

Most folks who meet the winter Buster love to pet his silky fur and rub his soft ears.  Let them visit before a spring de-thatching, and they’ll wear Buster home. That little guy sheds like a champ. If there were Olympics for losing winter hair, our pet would win a gold medal.

Once we’re well into summer and he’s down to his hot weather duds, I forget about his ability to fill brush after brush with taupe fluff.  Throughout the cold months, I don’t think a thing about Buster’s special talent, but come those first warm days, and I remember he’s a nest building bird’s best friend.

As soon as I spy that first filament separating from a follicle, we spend spa time together.  I don’t know that he sees getting repeatedly swiped with a grooming glove as pleasurable, but I’m on a mission to capture that loose hair before it gets on me or someone else. He’s just a little guy—only 14 pounds, but he fills the grooming mitt or the wire brush time after time with handfuls of velvety fiber. 

 

For years, I tossed his winter long johns in the trash as quickly as I gleaned them even though I’d heard of folks who harvest their beloved beasts’ hair and spin it into yarn to use to weave or knit. That seemed over the top even considering how much raw material my little  half Jack Russell sloughs off each year. I figure he’s good to supply a child-size sweater.

During my musings, I read that birds line their nests with anything downy, including pet hair. Aha, the ultimate repurposing without purchasing a spinning wheel and the accouterments to take up either knitting or weaving.

Learning to up-cycle my pooch’s fuzz to improve neighborhood bird real estate changed Buster’s spring curse to a blessing.  Instead of being upset that his winter growth falls out, I pledge to capture every strand to share with robins, sparrows, wrens, flycatchers, cardinals, orioles, and even blue jays. 

Old Sol’s rays beat down to warm the tops of Buster’s and my heads and shoulders while balmy breezes riffle over us. As I comb my little friend to retrieve nest-decorating supplies, I hope my companion enjoys his western Kansas version of a tropical beauty treatment.

Spotting Buster’s fuzzy discards lining a bird nest makes those hours grooming him worthwhile.  I like thinking the coat that warmed him through cold winter days keeps future serenaders toasty and comfy until they fledge into summer skies.  

Growing Bookworms or the Blessings of Community Libraries

Watching how much my two-year-old granddaughter loves books reminds me of a seven-year-old,  toothpick-legged child who thought she was a big girl when her momma handed her her allowance on Saturday mornings. Along with that shiny dime, that little girl’s mother permitted her to trek uptown-- first to the dime store and then to the library. The coin was spent in no time.  It took much longer to wander up and down the bookshelf aisles searching for the perfect three or four titles to carry home so she could escape into those well-turned pages for a week of exciting adventure.

Yes, that scrawny little gal was me. I loved my weekly visit to the library. Spending that dime occupied a half hour or so of exploring the toy department from top to bottom. I combined this with obsessing over an old-fashioned candy counter where glass compartments housed chocolate stars, jawbreakers, licorice, and caramel clusters among other treats a clerk scooped onto a scale before bagging my treasure. Munching on gooey chocolate all the way home was satisfying,  but showing off my book selections to my mom highlighted the morning.  And the best was yet to come. . . .

Hours of joyous escape and new knowledge patiently awaited me as I examined each cover to decide where my escapades would begin.  After I piled the books in reading order, I’d curl up in a sunny, warm spot in the house—maybe in the living room or on my bed where I could escape into other lands and other lives.  My grandma’s house had a great walk-in closet I could turn into my secret domain for hours while words danced off pages into pioneer wagons or princess castles or Nancy Drew mysteries.

When I had little girls, they, too, loved trips to the community library where they could scan shelves just their height until they found books that begged to go home with them in their little totes. When they entered their toddler years, our local librarian hosted a scheduled event that made this place even more appealing.  It was a terrible day when you were too sick to go to story hour.

Every time I open the door to a library, I never know what journey I’ll experience. I’ve traveled through the ages in a page-filled time machine. I’ve met kings and queens, famous soldiers and presidents, along with some rock stars.  I’ve read tales that drew tears and sighs and those that made me laugh until I had hiccups.  I discovered the key to avoiding boredom amongst all those silent friends.

What would life be like without public libraries? As a lifelong card owner, I can’t imagine.  What I have learned doing research inside those walls is that not every town had a library.  It took a zealous ladies’ organization or a combination of clubs to start libraries in prairie communities.  In Logan Kansas, women recognized the need for a library in their little town and, with rustling skirts, got to work establishing one that still exists today. 

Ellis Kansas can thank the Union Pacific and a specific employee, Mr. Dorrance, for starting their library.  It seems appropriate the city fathers named a street after the person who made such a difference in his world. Hays, Plainville, Stockton and 56 other Kansas towns can thank Andrew Carnegie  and local taxpayers for their fine libraries. 

The first Carnegie Library in Scotland had the adage “Let There Be Light” above the door. I like to imagine such a motto exists in some form above every library entrance. 

It's Not Good to Want a Thing Too Much

One of my favorite novels to teach was John Steinbeck’s The Pearl.  I loved his use of landscape, the very human ways the main character Kino and his young wife Juana faced ills that befell them, and truths about human nature the author unfolded in quotes that emerge from my memory at odd times. One of those instances occurred last week.

Ever since we moved, I’ve anticipated planting a garden behind our shed.  A neighbor used his tractor to till well-rested soil to crumbly powder that sifted through my fingers like sand through an hourglass. After gardening on a rocky hilltop for almost two decades, I was giddy thinking about tucking seed potatoes and onion slips into fertile earth.

While some folks use an almanac to tell them the best time to plant, the weather channel’s rain predictions guide me. There’s nothing like a heaven-sent soaking to get seeds off to good start. Based on the report, it looked like Mother Nature would aid me in christening my new seed plot.

According to the internet, I could expect a 90% chance for moisture. That offered good odds even in these dry times, so I cut up seed potatoes, prepared onion slips and bulbs, and organized packets of early season seeds. The whole time I loaded my garden cart with supplies, words rattled inside my head like seeds in a dry gourd—“It is not good to want a thing too much. It sometimes drives the luck away . . . .”

Those syllables haunted me because I couldn’t remember where I’d heard or read them. In my imagination, I saw an Indian woman saying them, so I started a mental inventory of books, movies, and  TV shows I’d read or seen, hoping to come up with a source. Finally, I recalled John Steinbeck penned them decades ago when he told the parable of a young man and his pearl of great value.

Straddling rows of freshly planted Yukon gold, Kennebeck, and red Pontiac potatoes, I wished mightily for rain and remembered Steinbeck’s words. Surely the weatherman was more correct than a long dead author. When I rose from popping onions in fresh-plowed earth, a desire for sprinkles crossed my mind only to have that repeating quote attack. 

It made me wonder if a similar superstition drives farmers to understate their dreams for good harvests. I don’t know that I’ve heard an agriculturist boast about the quality of a crop in the field.  Too many factors can drive either production or prices south to make a person with expectations still rooted in dirt voice hope. 

Sunday dawned damp and gray. Perhaps I hadn’t wanted rain too much. Surely I had wished just enough. I turned on my computer to search the weather report. Rain was north and east of us, not over us. We’d had a hint of moisture, but not the real deal. 

This experience helps me understand why farmers are cautious. Steinbeck must have learned this restraint growing up in an agricultural region. Perhaps words he attributed to a young mother living beside the Sea of Cortez initially emerged from the mouth of a farmer visiting John’s father’s feed and grain store in Salinas. 

Serendipity on Highway 183

Some words stick in the mind, and serendipity is one of many rattling around my cranium. In college, I hung out at a retreat called Serendipity House. I’d never heard the expression before, so after my first visit, I hit the dictionary.

 Imagine learning this fun-to-say term meant happy accident or pleasant surprise. That definition fit the old two-story home that served as meeting place and comfort zone for on-the-cusp-of-adulthood young people. Since that time, other unexpected pleasures have made me smile and recall that melodious word along with the warm feelings that accompany it.

Recently, I lucked into one of those unanticipated bits of fortune that make me realize how blessed I am to call this prairie home. My unforeseen benediction required a sequence of events to fall into place. Once they did, I recognized I’d encountered a mini-miracle.

Yes, there are big miracles that no one can miss, and there are tiny wonders that happen every day that we may or may not recognize. Fortunately, this one snapped me like a full-stretched rubber band so I knew I had enjoyed something pretty darn special.

My happy adventure began in the wee hours before dawn. My husband and I awoke dark-early to drive to the Platte River so I could crane watch. He knows I love seeing tens of thousands of my favorite birds staging along its shallow waters, so he humors me with these Spring  junkets. It doesn’t hurt that a nearby Cabela’s is a great place to warm up after a frosty bird watching endeavor.

When we hit Highway 9 in the deepest shadows of pre-dawn, I noted the full moon that had shone into my bedroom window the night before had journeyed from East to West, where it hovered like a big ol’ communion wafer. By the time we reached the bridge over Harlan County Reservoir in Nebraska, pale rose and lavender fingers infused the eastern horizon, but the only star-spiked black outlined that buttery globe in the West.

Somehow, I got so busy watching dawn break that I forgot to keep an eye on that sinking disc. North of Holdrege, Nebraska, sunrise was in full display. A huge yellow sphere pierced orange skies when I thought to look West. Instead of the retina-blasting glow in the East, pale blue silhouetted a fading ball that was only a whisper of its earlier brilliance.

That particular section of Highway 183 permitted a clear view to the East and to the West so that I could see almost the exact moment that sun and moon were directly across from one another like round ends of dumbbells. If I’d been home, I’d have missed seeing this alignment of two perfect orbs because of interfering rooftops and a slight rise west of our house. 

In this serendipitous flash, every sense tuned into the cycles of light and dark that drive human existence. The imaginative side of me considered that for an instant, my husband and I swung in a prairie hammock whose ends connected to both sun and moon.

While I expected the exciting part of our quest to be skies and cornfields filled with thousands of sandhill cranes, that part of the day was just the cherry topping the hot fudge sundae. The instant of discovering me suspended between rising sun and sinking full moon will trigger 1000s of future smiles and the joyous repetition of one of my favorite words--serendipity.

A Pelican in the Wading Pool

Nobody told me when I married a game warden that a pelican would take up temporary residence in my children’s wading pool. Nor did I realize my two tiny daughters and I would spend a couple of days throwing our hooks and lines off a bridge over Big Creek trying to catch enough fish to satisfy that visitor. On the other hand, that eating machine never expected to vacation at our house either.

This event occurred in the late 80s somewhere around Memorial Day weekend. City workers called to explain an injured pelican was devouring gold fish in the  power plant pond. Despite their efforts to banish it, the bird was in the water gobbling little fishies.

This intruder had to be evicted. Every kid in town, little and big, loved that rock pool where they tossed breadcrumbs and oatmeal to tempt orange and white swirls to the surface. Even to feed something as exotic as a pelican was no reason to sacrifice the community fishpond population.

While my husband already knew about pelican beaks, the girls and I learned swiftly to stay out of range of that powerful weapon /lunch sack. Mr. P wasn’t at all happy about his forced removal and tried scaring us with clacking sounds manufactured by snapping jaws. It wasn’t worth risking hand or finger amputations to save frantic gold fish.

 I distracted this fellow while my brave partner snuck behind to slide a huge rubber band around that slashing defense mechanism. Once we had it disabled, we could see a broken wing had driven the creature to the city watering hole for dinner. Who knows how far the crippled bird had walked to fill its rumbling belly. We carefully swaddled it in an old blanket and hauled it home to figure out a plan.

Three decades ago, cell phones and instant communication were a thing of future, and the rehabilitator Wildlife and Parks used wasn’t answering the phone that weekend. As a result, we brainstormed a strategy to care for this creature our daughters had named LA Looks for the spiky top notch on it crown.

The girls volunteered their little blue wading pool to house our guest and their services as fisherwomen. Each had a Mickey Mouse pole they used to cast off the wooden bridge east of our house. It seemed like a good idea at the time, so their dad left us baiting our hooks as he drove off on patrol.

After catching a few palm-size fish, our youngsters released them into the water-filled container Mr. Looks now called home. My husband had unbound the critter’s beak so it immediately slurped up our meager contribution. We stared in disbelief at how swiftly he scooped our catch into his mouth and how far his pouch distended once full of flopping protein. It looked like an expandable bag until he slid those critters down his gullet. Then it shrank immediately back to its previous size.

The bird immediately searched the water for more food. Obviously, a few little perch weren’t sustenance enough, so the girls and I headed back to the creek. We filled a stringer to feed our guest, and once again, his response dazzled us. 

It occurred to me there was no way the human part of this equation could keep up with the pelican’s appetite. I needed to make a trip to the IGA fish department. All the way there, I wondered what it was going to cost to board this fellow until he went to the rehabilitator. I prayed my budget was as big as his stretchy pouch in case he had to stay more than a day.

Along with fish the girls and I caught, we supplemented LA’s diet with frozen whitefish. These codcicles confused him at first, but he eventually slurped them down the hatch. 

While I’d never want to feed a pelican week after week, hosting one for a couple of days was delightful. We were happy to learn LA Looks survived  surgery to show off how many fish he could tuck in his pouch for nearby zoo patrons.

Take Art Classes To Become an Expert Four-Leaf Clover Finder

St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone for another year. With the flip of that calendar page went the need to wear green and an urge to search lawns for lucky four-leaf clovers. The more common three-leaf variety representing faith, hope, and love symbolized Ireland’s most famous saint. Add a leaf to that trefoil and you get luck as well. Finding a shamrock with that extra something is the difficulty. According to some statisticians, only one in 10, 000 possesses the lucky fourth.

As a kid, I loved the challenge of discovering any shamrock. The same girl who struggled to spend 10 minutes solving a tough math problem could wander with her eyes to the ground for an hour or two until she shouted she’d sighted a fortune-enhancing chlorophyll producer.

What I’ve learned since is that paying attention to art instruction would have improved my chances for success. Yes, painting and drawing classes teach people how to spot the rare and unique.

When I was a youngster, I loved to draw and mess with clay, but I never took the coursework seriously. I considered art class a place to relax and have fun without straining my brain. Because I didn’t focus, I missed lessons that could have changed how I understood my world.

Over the past three years, I’ve reconsidered my attitude toward art and started taking as many painting and drawing classes as I can. What I’ve discovered is that learning to shape, shade, and adjust hues and values trains the mind to perceive. I thought I saw just fine all those years before I applied myself to really looking at something. However, the trip home after my first painting class revealed how many subtleties my untutored eye had missed.

Green and yellow are a multitude of hues. Study a grove of trees or a wheat field and try to identify all the shades present. I bet you can’t name all the colors right before your eyes.

Look at a lake, pond, or stream. Would one box of eight crayons allow you to depict that view even if you’re good at blending and shading? Could you do the job properly with a box of 64?

Examine the sky. Which part of it is lighter and which is darker? Does this pattern occur every single day? Does an approaching storm alter your observations?

How does incoming light affect a scene? Where do highlights and shadows form at different times of day or under varying conditions?

Though I’m still in the early stages of developing an artist’s eye, my few lessons have changed how I experience my world. I look for shifts in color and form. I seek what’s different. I search for repetition. There’s more to observe than I realized prior to stepping outside my comfort zone and putting a paintbrush in my hand in my AARP years.

 If only I’d paid close attention to those long ago art teachers, my educated eye would have zeroed in on so many more four-leaf clovers. What might I have done with that extra good fortune . . .?

   

Bread: Machine Vs. Handmade

Here’s a challenge: can you tell the difference between handmade and machine made bread? Handmade means no mixers, no dough hooks, and no electronic devices of any kind until it’s time to pop those risen loaves or rolls in the oven. If taste buds can’t tell a significant difference, why would anyone choose an old-fashioned technique to do a job?

I had a bread machine for years and used it when I taught so I could come home to the comforting aroma of baking bread that accompanied the meal simmering in my crockpot. It was a way to produce home-cooked food without having to eat European style at 8 or 9 p.m. 

Whether it was my imagination or not, I thought handmade bread tasted better, so when I had time, I skipped the plug-in contraption and learned to crank out a pan of rolls or golden loaves nearly as fast as I could measure ingredients into the mixing bucket and push buttons. Along the way, I discovered hand mixing and kneading reduced stress that knotted my shoulders and made my head ache. The fragrance was a bonus, but bread machine provide that as well so it can’t factor into the debate.

Recently, a friend and I quibbled over the merits of hand vs. machine made. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. You get the smell, taste, and freshness both ways. What you don’t find with appliance-made bread is the sensory delight of combining flour, oil, eggs, water, sugar, salt, and yeast into dough.

The other day I mixed five cups of flour into a soppy yeast sponge with my fingers and then kneaded the result until it was ready to rise. Creating that recipe, I realized I relish this aspect of bread making. It returns me to those wondrous childhood days when friends and I spent hours mixing dirt and water to a perfect consistency to manufacture loaf and pie-shaped mud confections to bake on broiling summer sidewalks and driveways. 

I should’ve recognized the warning signs of becoming an artisan baker even then because my companions always tired of this activity before I did. I’ve exchanged gooey, thick mud for sticky dough squishing between my fingers, but that sensation of preparing ingredients to the perfect consistency and then forming them into shapes ready for hot cement or oven is the satisfying part of both activities. 

The good news is my stress-busting, adult bread-making smells much better than the muddy concoctions of my youth. In addition, dirt pies never make it in the door let alone to the table when you talk about flavor or sanitation.  Bread rules over mud pies any day of the week.

In truth, it doesn’t matter that you use a bread machine or Kitchen Aide mixer to crank out a warm, crusty loaf. No matter how you make it, you produce that yeasty aroma that says all is well with the world and fresh flavor you won’t find in plastic-bag-encased-slices on grocery store shelves.

The real difference is that hand-made bread allows bakers to experience the evolution of dough from sticky glop to an elastic mound that sounds like a baby’s behind when patted. For those who savor touch as well as flavor in culinary creations, we’re compelled to dig in to our elbows to fully enjoy the flavors that satisfy our stomachs and spirits.

Spring Jig to Snow Shovel Waltz

It’s only been four weeks since Punxsutawney Phil popped out of his burrow on Gobbler’s Knob  at 7:28 a.m. eastern standard  time and didn’t see his shadow. According to legend, believers could do a happy dance because an early spring was just around the corner.  For anyone living in Kansas, that ground hog- inspired jig turned into a long waltz with a snow shovel.

Despite passing days and ample sunshine, many still have three to four foot reminders of the storm that blanketed our landscape and discredited Phil’s prognostication. On Saturday, I noticed clusters of big blue stem peeping through acres of melting snow, but seen from a distance, the prairies still sport a white topcoat.  Old Man winter is hanging on tenaciously despite warm weather’s best efforts to come calling.

Considering that Phil has only a 39% success rate, perhaps those optimistic  high-steppers should have waited to celebrate.  But, after this recent sunny weekend, maybe he was right and spring is in the air as well as in our steps.  If robins have anything to say about it, they’d tell us the rodent was right on and that white frosting on the prairie will soon turn to mud or running streams.

Even though most yards are still snow-covered, I saw at least a dozen red-breasted harbingers of warm weather hopping over a patchwork of grass and snow during my walk to church. I heard more trilling from neighborhood trees and shrubs.  Compared to the silent birds I saw fluffed and huddled during the height of the blizzard, these feathered visitors were an invigorated glee club celebrating the melt.

This robin invasion is a good sign that Phil is right and winter is over.  Daffodil, crocus, and hyacinth blooms will soon punctuate our flower beds.  The runoff from this late snow should produce lovely bouquets that some of us had given up hope of enjoying.

Not only did I relish watching robins scrounge for early worms as I ambled by, tiny streams trickled where the curbs and pavement met.  Watching the water flow on both sides of the road reminded me of narrow creeks I’ve hopped over on outdoor jaunts. I wondered if a listening device monitoring these rivulets would make them sound like rushing torrents.

We can hope this water is meandering its way into local creeks and eventually rivers.  It would be wonderful if the herons that nest nearby had to wade in deep water for their dinner once they return from South America. Won’t they be surprised to serve up dinner without having to fly to  a distant pool.

Whatever water does make it into ponds and streams will fuel a frog chorus as temperatures rise  and darkness falls.  A side benefit of this current sogginess is we can soon sit outside evenings and listen to the clinking ball-bearing sounds of chorus frogs or the bristly leg rubbing imitation that cricket frogs produce or the funny southern drawl of a Woodhouse toad. A little spring moisture gets more than robins singing.

Punxsutawney Phil may have gotten our hopes up that winter was over when he didn’t see his shadow.  However, the moisture from this late storm that changed many a jolly jig into a snow shovel promenade provided optimism for a greener, noisier spring than western Kansans have enjoyed for some time.  

Growing Older Has Its Merits

Growing older has its merits. You’ve made enough mistakes that you are wiser and more thoughtful. You’re comfortable with yourself. You take others’ opinions and feelings into consideration, but you know what you believe and consider that when you make decisions. You’ve survived catastrophes and tragedies enough that you understand time and love soften pain. Despite physical infirmities and the fact that when you reference commercials, movie stars, and music of your youth, youngsters don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Getting a monthly AARP magazine is a blessing.

That said, gray hair and wrinkles have downsides. One is becoming the oldest generation. The recent deaths of favorite uncles remind me that my husband and I are joining the ranks of elders. That’s hard to take when I think about how much I relied on these individuals for guidance, clarity, humor, and acceptance when I faced challenges or when I needed to know something about my family’s heritage.

An uncle by marriage survived the bombing of Pearl Harbor and served in the Pacific throughout World War II. He came home to be husband, father, and career teacher. Despite battle traumas Uncle Jay certainly faced, my brother and I knew only a kindly man who loved his wife, daughter, and a silly little dachshund. He kept an immaculate yard to de-stress from his classroom. To this day, when I think of him, I see Jay with hose in hand spraying down his already clean patio, watering his trees, or helping the love of his life with household chores.

My dad’s second brother Bob also came to maturity serving in the Pacific. He, too, loved his yard and garden and spent hours growing beautiful roses and luscious vegetables. I recall sitting with him in his front yard watching flocks of mallards fly in to feast on corn he set out for them every day. We didn’t talk much, but the pleasure he felt at these simple activities was evident. He found his peace in nature.

My dad’s oldest brother Seedy was a rough and tumble guy who’d grown to adulthood during The Depression and early Kansas oil boom years. When I consider him, I think of hard hats and rig clothes. My aunt kept reminders of his luck on a kitchen shelf. He and a drilling crew survived a fiery blow out, and the carbonized eyeglasses and tin headgear reminded me that life is tenuous.

This gruff uncle entranced his nieces and nephews by putting his thumb to his lips and blowing on it to make the brim of his hat rise. As a little girl, I tried and tried to make the same thing happen with my little straw cowgirl hat with no luck. I’d missed the part where he leaned back against the wall to create leverage.

Uncle Seedy always found coins in my cousins’ and my ears. Every time we visited, he mined a bank full of quarters and dimes out of these orifices. My joy in this activity continued when I took my little girls to visit him. Not surprisingly, they shared the family trait of sprouting money in their little ears. My aunt later told me a great-uncle had performed this trick with my dad and his siblings. Uncle Seedy loved passing on the magic.

Losing these men means missing their presence and their sense of homegrown fun at family gatherings as well as their wisdom and stories. After they passed, I longed to hear their insights about events that occurred before my time. They enriched my understanding not only of my universe, but also that of my parents.

It’s hard to think about stepping into their shoes. I don’t feel worthy or knowledgeable enough to carry their torches. I still can’t make my hat brim rise when I blow on my thumb or find money in children’s ears. 

Along with the benefits of aging come burdens. 

Frugal Fun

Go to enough auctions of people who survived The Depression, World War II, the blows of the 50s, and the one car families of the 60s, and you’ll find  boxes of small square table cloths and probably more than one deck of regular or pinochle playing cards and maybe a box of dominoes. These inexpensive, reusable items were ingredients for Friday and Saturday night good times as well as the center of family gatherings at holidays.

In small towns across Western Kansas, diehards still host Friday night pitch and pinochle parties and break out the cards when family comes for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The backbeat to a shuffled deck and sound of dealt aces, spades, clubs, and hearts hitting the table is the murmur of laughter and shared stories. The music of chairs scooching across the floor resounds as folks rise to go to the refreshment table to reload plates with salty pretzels along with homemade sweets and finger foods. Add a perking coffee pot and ice clinking in a tea pitcher, and you have a regular kitchen band accompanying the festivities.

I recently learned to play pitch and discovered what I’ve been missing all the years I haven’t joined in card games. This laughter-filled camaraderie requires concentration on the hand you’re playing, the hand you think your partner will play, and the ones your opponents hold. It’s much more fun than sitting in front of the TV or reading a book.

 Not only are you contemplating what to lay down next, folks of all ages are sharing their stories. This multi–generational interaction is good for the brain and spirit. I wonder if scientists know how much longer regular card players’ minds remain sharp versus electronically entertained brains or how much happier card players are than plug-in fun folks. Though I wouldn’t want to give up reading as a favorite pastime, card playing may cut into some of my page turning.

While we no longer worry about childcare, I can see where pitch or pinochle parties are a great way for young couples to socialize on the cheap. Several families could employ an older brother or sister at bargain rates to play games and entertain little kids while parents enjoy a few hours of grown-up time. This kind of adult/kid play date is win/win for everyone. Kids party with their buddies while mom and dad match wits and visit with friends.

Keeping fun local cuts down on gas expenses and refreshments can be as easy as ice tea and pretzels. A web site devoted to card party snacks encourages keeping food simple. Serving chips and dip or salsas takes up room while eating them increases the risk of marking cards. A community card party I recently attended suggested participants bring finger foods, which added to the fun at the tables. Because everyone brought a dish, no one worked too hard or broke the budget on an evening’s entertainment.

In today’ casual world, people don’t expect tablecloths when they play pitch or pinochle. However, it’s good to tear away from the TV, computer, or electronic games to sit down with friends and family for an old-fashioned good time. You’ll use your noggin, catch up with neighbors and loved ones, and go home glad you joined the fun--guaranteed.

When Nature Calls—Don’t Answer

Despite a flu shot and obsessive hand washing to avoid this season’s germ, it found me.  If folks tell you it’s bad, believe them.  If they add it lasts forever, it’s true.  After a week and a half indoors, struggling to overcome primary and secondary symptoms, cabin fever set in.  Climbing the walls had new meaning. I needed a dose of outdoor therapy to help me battle sniffles, coughs, and headaches left in the wake of this super virus.

Feeling sorry for me, my husband let me tag along on one of his expeditions. I think he was tired of listening to me whine and hoped sunshine and walking across open prairie or along a stream would distract me even if it didn’t cure me.

On a mission to improve my attitude, he drove along the North Solomon so I could photograph that morning’s beautiful hoarfrost before it disappeared.  A heavy fog and freezing temperatures had combined to turn the landscape into a winter wonderland that looked like a designer Christmas.  

Following this adventure, he intended to take me home, but I’d had enough of that place and insisted on continuing with his  journey, however long it lasted.  Sunshine channeled through the truck windows  and warmed me, making me feel better than I had for days.  Even better, he was going somewhere I had yet to visit.

Once we got to the area where he anticipated working, the dogs and I hopped out to hike.  This particular site has a number of huge trees, standing and lying on the ground.  I enjoyed the challenge of seeing what kinds of photos I could get with Old Sol directly overhead. 

An aged farmstead distracted us so we wandered down another trail to see what treasures we could capture with the Nikon.  Rusty hinges and windmill gears occupied me for some time.  Then I wanted to see what my lens would do with shadows inside a fallen barn and an old shed. 

About that time I noted a meandering stream full of fallen leaves that begged to be saved as images on an SD card.  Snow still lay on the ground, which reminded me it was frigid despite the sun beaming on top of my head.  The cold and the running water prompted me to recall the extra coffee I’d sipped that morning and how long we’d been away from home.

I grew up as an outdoors kid so finding relief in nature is not an issue.  However, there was a road not far away, and I didn’t know how well-traveled it was. I dismissed my discomfort, but every bush from then on screamed my name.

It took all my willpower to ignore my insistent bladder while I marched back to the truck where my spouse was storing supplies.  “Hey, is there a good place to answer nature’s call?” I asked.

He scanned the area and grinned an ornery grin.  “Sure, just look for trail cams.”

Holy cow! I hadn’t thought about game cameras.  Suddenly my fortitude strengthened so I could make it home.  Four walls and cabin fever didn’t seem nearly so bad when nature was hollering.

An Unlikely House Call

City dwellers take for granted easy access to all sorts of services.  With strip malls in urban areas sprouting like weeds in a wet summer, finding a groomer and pet care is as easy as taking a drive around a section is for me. During that four mile drive in a city, people have to choose which business to patronize.  In small prairie towns on two-lane highways where customers are in short supply, it requires ingenuity to meet people’s needs and make a living at the same time—that’s how a groomer who makes house calls came to be.

When we first moved to a small town bordering Highway 9, I figured I’d continue to drive our shih tzu- mix beast to his regular hair care professional. That wasn’t a serious problem because this kind woman understood Dudley’s issues about having his hobbit-like feet touched, his mouth shaved, and his ears cleaned, but it was long drive in bad weather.

 If you miss your appointment at  a good groomer, you wait until your next one for relief.  As winter-weather advisories began appearing on the radar, concern prompted me to see what was available in my new home town before I had to deal with a dog with dreadlock fuzz.

My investigation revealed an inventive neighbor in a nearby community .  This pet loving woman devised a mobile grooming palace using an old delivery vehicle—the kind with a passenger door like a school bus for easy entry with a pet in arms.  Inside, she has lighting, a water supply and large tub for bathing dogs, a grooming table, generator-driven blow dryers, shears and clippers, as well as a high tech nail file. 

You make your appointment, she shows up in your drive, picks up your furry critter, and returns him in less than two hours, clean and sleekly groomed—in Dudley’s case, feeling soft as an old-fashioned chenille bedspread.  I expected to continue to drive an hour to my previous groomer in rain, snow, and ice rather than suffer through his knots and tangles.  Then a little word of mouth advertising clued me into this gypsy-wagon inspired business.  

This canine stylist travels to each small town in our region at least once a month, making sure rural pets look as spiffy as any big city dog.  She goes several times a month to larger towns like Norton and less often to smaller communities.  She also grooms out of her home and provides boarding services for folks who don’t want to travel with their pets

Obviously, when someone parks a big vehicle bearing a Groomingdale’s sign in your small town driveway, there’s no secrecy about your pet’s appearance.  “Saw the dog lady at your house today,” comments everyone you see.  It’s embarrassing to admit you can’t shear your own pet, but it’s true.  I’m afraid I’ll hurt Dudley while trimming around his mouth, eyes, ears, and . . . the other end. 

 Another reason the groomer’s name is on speed dial is because friends  and family accused me of using a blender to cut our golden retriever’s hair every summer when he was still alive.  Even Tucker was ashamed to reveal himself in public until his hair grew out enough to hide the bald and uneven spots.

As long as this clever businesswoman is willing to make house calls to bathe and trim our fur ball at a reasonable price, she’ll have our business.   Dudley’s grateful too.

A Cure for Winter Doldrums

Cabin fever, winter blues, Seasonal Affective Disorder, and temporary insanity are terms that describe the blahs most of us experience this time of year.  Symptoms include paleness, sluggishness, restlessness, and downright irritability.  Fortunately, a cure exists, and it doesn’t require a Caribbean or Aegean Cruise (although those sound enchanting as I strain my brain to write.)

The good news is  Kansans don’t have to travel to experience the exotic.  It comes to our backyard. We only have to know where to find it in order to spice up dreary January and February days.  Google Kansas eagle migrations to start your exploration.  On a lake near you,  a few of  the approximately 1000 eagles that migrate here each winter have taken up temporary residence.   After arriving sometime in October, they spend their days soaring over open water or perching on ice floes or in high trees to search for dinner prior to returning to summer residences in March.

Once you’ve identified a locale that hosts visiting eagles, prepare yourself to  spend hours spying on them.  A good pair of binoculars or spotting scope will increase your viewing pleasure.  It’s more fun to see distinctive features rather than huge, dark blobs cruising over blue-white water or ice.   A camera with a telescopic lens isn’t essential.  However, looking at photos you took of birds perching and in flight allows you to discover details you didn’t spot during your initial investigation.

Anyone who’s spent much time out of doors in Kansas knows you need to keep warm while you scan sky and horizon.  Heavy parka, gloves, a hat or facemask, and insulated boots make this a more enjoyable experience.  If you’re warm, you can spend your time counting eagles, geese, and ducks as well as identifying species.  If you’re cold, well, it’s hard to keep binoculars still when you’re shivering.

A thermos of hot cocoa, coffee, or tea provides a nice break in this mini-vacation.  Add a sandwich or bag of cookies, and you can add an hour or two to your get-away.  While the goal is to watch eagles, you’ll see other birds as well, so take an identification guide to help you recognize other travelers to wintry Kansas water holes. 

Bird watching, especially cold weather bird watching is one of those Zen things.  Being still enough to watch eagles congregate either in a stark, towering cottonwood, or far out on a lake near an open pool of water without disturbing them requires intentional tranquility.  Those moments of purposeful attention are part of the rejuvenation you’ll experience on this little break from winter boredom. 

Ironically, your pulse will race upon seeing these majestic national icons snag a fish swimming too close to the surface or using knife-sharp talons to capture a slow duck.  It’s a thrill you’ll never forget.

Because it takes effort to enjoy winter eagle watching, it’s essentially a solitary endeavor.  Since you don’t have much human or mechanical sound competing with nature, the honking or quacking of a flock of geese or ducks rising from the lake or a nearby field drowns out all other noises.  It’s so loud you become part of the racket.

Very few places in Kansas are more than couple hours from a lake accommodating winter eagles.  Put your coat on, grab your binocs, and head for a few hours of winter blues blasting bird watching. 

You’ll find yourself smiling all the way home and at odd times for the next week or two.  Let folks wonder what you did to conquer the blahs.

Grandma's Cooking Secret

As a self-appointed foodie, I often watch Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives for cooking inspiration. Guy Fieri’s success at seeking out eateries with reputations for amazing fare motivates me to look for excellent dining on road trips.  Because of my research, I have a list of favorite restaurants. However, none of these culinary institutions matches the quality or flavor of my all-time preferred place to eat, Grandma Lottie’s kitchen.

I suspect every one of my readers has a family member who manufactures unforgettable meals out of a bit of nothing. That person in our family was an apron-clad Mrs. Santa look-alike who could turn the simplest ingredients into  feasts for kings.  I can’t think of anyone whose salivary glands didn’t kick in overdrive just thinking about a meal at Lottie’s table.

She’s been gone for more than a decade, so I’ve had time to consider what made her food so memorable. Her ingredients were common staples: eggs, flour, butter, dried beans, inexpensive cuts of beef, chicken, ham hocks, milk or cream, and sugar.  She would have been uncomfortable in a big city deli-grocery with aisles displaying fish, adobo, or wasabi sauces.  A trip past a meat department show-casing octopus, squid, or raw sushi ingredients would have left her shuddering.

After seeing a Face Book post requesting Grandma’s hot roll recipe, I think I’ve identified what made her cooking noteworthy.  She made everything from scratch.  She cracked the eggs and added the flour that turned into noodles and dumplings she added to her chicken or beef broth. Her combination of meat, broth, and noodles ladled over a heaping mound of hand-peeled, hand-mashed potatoes was the true ambrosia of the gods. She created everything filling the huge bowls setting in the middle of her table.  Nothing came from a jar, can, sack, or box.

I recall standing beside her  as she kneaded her famous bread dough that turned into airy dinner rolls, comforting bread slices that were palettes for homemade jellies, or legendary cinnamon rolls.  I’d ask for her recipe, and she’d say, “Oh, I use a little of this and a bit of that and mix it til it sounds like I’m patting a baby’s bottom.” 

It took me 1000s of mistakes before I understood I didn’t have to use exact measurements when cooking.  I, too, could mix a little of this and a lot of that to create breads, noodles, dumplings, and pies that reminded me of Grandma’s.  All that practice was an opportunity to feel like a girl again, watching Lottie transform Gold Medal flour and eggs into golden strips of rich dough or whisking eggs, milk, sugar, and cocoa together to turn an empty pie crust into a chocolate meringue wonder. 

Grandma couldn’t afford fancy ingredients or kitchen gadgets.  She made do with inexpensive recipe components and trusted that her sense of taste and touch would turn those into something special to feed family and friends.  Those of us lucky enough to sit at her table will confirm she succeeded time after time at proving she was a wizard in the kitchen.

The lesson for those who knew her was that it isn’t sophisticated ingredients that make a meal tasty. It’s time spent making dishes by hand that creates family legends.  Every moment I stir, roll, cut, and otherwise produce meals connects me to a woman who blessed so many with her gift of turning the common into the uncommon. The pay-off for preparing homemade food is life-long memories.

No Place for Sissies

We once invited a French exchange student to share our lives for six weeks one summer. Her first question after she deposited her luggage in the bedroom was, “Do you have tornadoes here?”

I paused a moment and answered thoughtfully, “Not many, and we always have plenty of warning.”  I reminded her she was very brave to fly from Paris through several U.S. airports.  If she could do that by herself, she shouldn’t worry about Kansas twisters.

The next day we walked around the section surrounding our house to introduce her to our country neighborhood.  She promptly spotted orange construction fencing around a pile of rubble in the east pasture.  That triggered a heavily accented, “What happened there?

“Oh, a tornado blew through last spring and took out our well house.  That’s all that remains,” I responded. “Look at that cottonwood lying  in the field.  It used to be right here by the road.”

Her brown eyes drilled into my green peepers as she demanded, “Did you know it was coming?”

We stopped walking while I considered her question.  “What? The tornado? Well . . . not really.  The weatherman missed on that one.”  It was a good thing Tucker, a golden retriever/greyhound cross walking beside us , couldn’t report.  He’d been caught in the storm, and when we found him afterward, his long yellow fur was entangled with leaves and grass.  We never knew exactly where he was when the winds hit.  What we did know was that he didn’t want to be outside in storms after that.

“But . . . I thought you said you had plenty of warning.” Imagine her strong French accent mixed with agitation as she confronted me.

I thought that was the end of our storm talks until we were driving down Old Forty toward Hays one morning.  Alexandra immediately zeroed in on the twisted windmill on the south side of the road and the ¼ mile of mutilated tree row on the north side of the highway. “So what happened there?”

“Oh that. That was a tornado a few years back.  It’s been a while.  Nothing to worry about.”

I’m pretty sure I heard something rude mumbled in a foreign language, but I ignored it and reminded her we don’t have many tornadoes around here. 

Another day during her visit, we headed toward Ogallah on Old Forty.  I’ve driven that road a thousand times and never thought about the farmstead surrounded by torn and damaged elms.  Our exchange student didn’t miss a beat before turning to me and asking in her quaint manner, “Another tornado that doesn’t happen very often around here?”   

“Right,” I smiled tightly,” realizing I didn’t want to drive her home on the Interstate that passed a farm twice damaged by tornadoes over the last decade.  I also didn’t want to take her south of Ellis where she could view the foundation of a farmstead where a tornado sucked the house off while a family sheltered in the basement.

Our exchange student flew back to France without experiencing a single weather front that forced us to cower and pray in the basement.  Looking back, I’m certain she experienced  nothing more  disconcerting than a few hot July days; however, she made me reconsider life on the western Kansas prairie.  It’s not a place for sissies.

Freezing Up a Memory

A friend’s Facebook post of her daughters holding a big bowl of fresh snow and smiling expectantly reminded me wintry weather isn’t only about driving carefully, shoveling drives, and making snowmen.  It’s also about adding milk, sugar, and vanilla to jillions of miniscule crystals to create something that glides across taste buds and slides into memory.

Who forgets the first time their mom or dad  watched huge flakes fall, saying, “Hope there will be enough to make snow ice cream.”   If deep drifts formed, that parent headed to the cupboard containing  mixing bowls and extracted the big one.  After that, a voice commanded, “Put on your hats, coats, gloves, and boots.  It’s time.”

Once outside, a picky grown-up identified  piles of clean snow and demonstrated how to collect a vessel full of pure goodness to carry into the warm kitchen.  Just gathering scoops of white intensified the shared experience as a result of silly jokes about putting uncontaminated snow in the bowl.  That always triggered laughter in families with pets as they raced their dogs to the deep drifts.

After giggling family members filled their container with heavenly gleanings, they hurried inside, wriggling swiftly out of coats and mittens.  Instead of begging to stand outside with tongues extended to catch still falling flakes, children begged to add ingredients that turned frigid molecules into a magical dessert. 

For each gallon of snow,  the chef poured close to two cups of milk into a little pitcher and stirred in a big tablespoon of vanilla extract.  They placed that on the counter while mixing a cup of sugar into the bowl containing those freshly gathered six-sided crystals.  Soon after, they added the blend a bit at a time while gently swirling a spoon through the concoction. Some families added flavorings such as chocolate or pureed fruit during this part of the procedure.  When the recipe reached a satisfactory consistency, they quit pouring and set the jug back on the counter.

By then, noses and fingers had warmed considerably.  Vanilla or other scents teased their way upward until it was time to dip servings into individual dishes and dig into this soon-to-be-a-memory delight.  When the clink of spoons hitting bottom changed to silence, the sensation of that cold, sweetness reminded everyone of eating cotton candy.  It was on the tongue one moment, and the next it vanished, leaving behind only a pleasant reminder.

Part of snow ice cream’s appeal is its total randomness.  Folks can’t predict when there will be enough snow until it has fallen.  Then they have to be in the right place at the right time with the right people and right ingredients to create a delicacy that prompts little ones to sing, “Yummy, yummy, yummy.”

 It isn’t just icy flavors cruising over hyped-up taste buds that produce this memorable experience.  It’s the combination of perfect snowfall, family time, frosty noses, added to insanely short-lived sugary impressions that turn this delectable goody into a lifelong reminiscence.  Test the power of this recollection by asking older relatives about their first batch of snow ice cream and watch their faces light up.

Janus Says Look Back to Look Forward

Like many folks, my nature is drawn to new beginnings.  That explains my love of sunrises, newborns of any species, and January 1.  It also explains why Janus, the Roman god of new beginnings--with his two faces--one looking back and one forward, appeals to me.  Since I first studied mythology, this odd looking fellow has intrigued me.  As 2012 winds to an end, that promise of a new start is more powerful than usual. Our move to a new home with a big garden spot suggests unlimited summer delights.

I’m not the only person in America who starts planning next summer’s garden the day after Christmas.  Before the lady who delivers my mail recovers from stuffing boxes with Christmas cards and last minute packages, seed companies inundate the postal service with scores of catalogues promising giant pumpkins and award winning tomatoes. Over the next few weeks, USPS employees with aching elbows and thumb joints will distribute millions of documents promising amazing summer harvests.

As much as I enjoy receiving Christmas letters, I love getting garden catalogues even more.  I haven’t checked with my mom, but I bet I now spend more time pouring through Burpee’s colorful ads than I did looking at the Monkey Ward catalogue as a little girl. Imagining what might grow from those bright seed packets is so much more exciting than looking at the picture of a finished product on a glossy page.

 You are probably wondering how ol’ two-mugged Janus plugs into my green thumb musings. Remember, he looks back and forward.  He reminds people like me to face reality when we really like to dwell in the land of hope and what might be.   That is the nature of a gardener after all.

Thinking of this two-faced god reminds me to recall last summer and my hopes for my tomato and pepper plants as I first tucked them into plowed earth. Even before tilling, I’d stashed dozens of mason jars, planning on serious salsa making.   To help the bees and wind fertilize  blossoms, I visited my garden each morning with paint brush in hand.  My efforts worked fine until extreme July temperatures halted production until nighttime temperatures cooled in mid-August. 

That’s the looking back face. Now for the forward looking Janus.  I’m scouring pages to find drought resistant seeds.  Heat Wave II tomatoes promise flavorful orbs even in sizzling temperatures.  Even more promising, black-eyed peas, spineless okra, cantaloupe, pole beans, jalapeño and poblano peppers, Sugar Baby watermelons, eggplant, and New Zealand spinach also thrive during hot, dry conditions.

Even though we have better soil at our new home, we must take additional measures to guarantee a good harvest. One early season action includes adding compost to our garden. This will nourish plants and help retain moisture.  Even if we escape record-breaking temps, adding broken-down plant material will maximize the plot’s potential. More strategies to survive drought conditions include adding a deep mulch layer and using soaker hoses once a week to water deeply. 

With Christmas a recent memory and January’s namesake Janus reminding me to learn something from last summer’s gardening experience,  I’m scoping out every seed catalogue I get my hands on and dreaming about working up a sweat picking baskets of produce.

Holiday Baking Cooks Up Memories

As soon as nights get longer and colder, I find myself scouring cook books and magazines for festive recipes.  The irony is that I may whip up one of two of these temptations, but always, always, I return to childhood standbys.  While new flavors tease family taste buds, traditional recipes comfort and connect us to loved ones and times long gone.

A perfect example is my faded and speckled fudge recipe written on a tiny scrap of yellow paper.  I remember as a new bride calling my mom  for instructions to make my husband our family’s old-fashion fudge.  Every time I place that yellow square by the stove, I recall standing at the phone  that night, connecting with home which was hundreds of miles away.  I had a new little house and loving husband, but talking to my mother reminded me of the family that nurtured me and of happy childhood Christmases. 

Recently, I discovered the original fudge recipe printed in my great-grandmother’s Searchlight Cookbook, which my grandmother gave to me. It made me wonder how many aunts, cousins, and other relation had  mailed or called either Great Grandma or Grandma to learn to make this family favorite.  How many of them felt momentarily transported to their loved one’s kitchen and then stood over their own stove while feeling their mom’s or grandma’s presence.

Not only did my mother make amazing holiday fudge, she also let my brother and me help her bake red and green sugar cookies each Christmas.  We would add ingredients she had measured, and then we’d watch as she turned flour, sugar, eggs, and more into  a soft, sweet dough that she’d let us roll into  small balls.  (I wonder if she knows how many of those pre-baked cookies we sampled . . .) 

Once Kent and I laid out even lines of cookies  in a 3 x 4 design on her rectangular baking sheet, Mom would carry out three little dishes—one filled with red sprinkles, one with green, and one with a drizzle of water.  She gave us each a flat-bottomed glass to dip first in the water and then in one color of sprinkles.  Our job was to flatten the dough ball, imbedding the colored sugar.  To this day, Christmas brings those sparkling green and red cookies to mind.

Marriage means more than joining lives, it means joining traditions, so I added my husband’s favorite cookie to my baking repertoire.  His famiy emigrated from Switzerland in the early 1900s and brought their linzer tart recipe with them to Kansas.  That concoction of ground almonds, flour, cinnamon, sugar, egg whites, and strawberry jam now graces Christmas plates in Kansas and Tennessee.  

Cream candy, forgotten cookies, frosted sugar cookies, fudge, linzer tarts, and more keep not only our house but our daughters’ smelling like  holiday confectionary shoppes.  However, it isn’t just the scent of baking that permeates the air, it’s  generations of family memories tickling our noses. 

I like to think that I’m not the only one who reminiscences while cooking.  When my daughters use family recipes, I hope they sense their mom, mom-in-law, their grandmas, their greats, great-greats, and great-great-greats in the kitchen.  No wonder it sometimes feels a little crowded during holiday baking.