Wild Foods Waiting in the Woods

It’s morel time! Yes, the late April turkey season means it’s also time to heat up the cast iron skillet for these wild fungi my husband brings home from his turkey hunts.

 When my spouse first introduced me to these alien-looking treats, I wasn’t sure I should put something that ugly on the table. Of course, there was also the issue of worrying about poisonous mushrooms. He assured me he’d found and eaten morels since he was a little boy so I  needn’t  worry about dying an early death from consuming these. After I fried that first batch and helped devour them, I realized he knew good wild food when he saw it. These edibles capture the essence of spring—fresh, earthy, and rich.

Lovers of these seasonal treats get antsy when the temperatures rise and rain falls. Both are necessary for a decent harvest of an object that looks like a cup-shaped sponge on a stem. Recent dry years have frustrated even the best mushroom hunters.

My fungi finder has the greatest success when he returns to spots where he’s found treasure in the past. They are fungi so they reproduce from spores that spread when something, be it human, beast, or wind, moves the host. The act of picking them releases these reproductive parts so they do grow back in the same places under favorable conditions.

Finding these delectables is an iffy proposition that depends on perfect weather conditions as well as whether or not some other hunter—homo sapien or critter—gets to the patch first. To propagate spores for next year’s harvest, many ‘shroomers carry a net bag to store their finds so the microscopic organisms spread as the hunter carries the bag through the woods. This technique also prevents their finds from getting mushy.

Once those goodies are home, the cook needs to shake and brush off as much dirt and as many of the tiny insects that occupy those crevices as possible. No matter how small, each morel is its own universe and resulting home to a vast and varied population of tiny critters. Once they’re clean, it’s time to slice, halve, or dice. Avoid soaking or freezing morels. These actions may destroy every bug, but they leads to mushy mushroom syndrome.  Folks who harvest more than a mess, clean and dry them for later use.

Scores of morel recipes exist. For those who want to savor that taste of pure spring, go simple. Slice or halve them lengthwise, dip in an egg or milk wash, and roll them in either seasoned flour or cracker crumbs. Then fry them in sizzling oil until they’re crispy. Drain and serve the flavor of April and May on a pretty platter. We never have to worry about leftovers at our house when I serve them this way.

If you prefer more creative ways to serve these, I  have a friend who minces her morels, sautés them in real butter, and then encloses them in a cream cheese pastry that she pops in the oven until it’s golden. While I prefer fried, those woodsy popovers melt in my mouth.

Morels may be the ugliest food ever cooked, but they’re worth trying. Folks who invest the time to learn to identify edible mushrooms and the make the effort to find them hidden in wooded areas will harvest a tasty meal or two each spring. In addition, they’ll make good memories.

  

Lazarus Is Back!

Typically, my mom and I don’t name plants, but in this case, the moniker is perfect.

The first Mother’s Day after my mom moved to Kansas in 2008, I searched Hays for the perfect gift to welcome Mom to her new home. After scouring department store aisles, I gave up in defeat and stopped by a local garden center to buy a few plants so my trip wasn’t wasted. The moment I pulled up, I knew I’d found the perfect present. Its magenta color was gorgeous. In addition, that particular plant would remind mother of happy years in Southern California where a vibrant bougainvillea larger than this one grew up our fence.  

I was right.  Mom loved her new addition to the blooming pots in front of her house. Because it was in a planter, she could move it to best capture sunrays and yet protect this tropical native from scorching July and August temperatures. It thrived under her care and soon needed a larger home. Mom replanted her “baby” and nurtured those scarlet blooms.

By the end of September, she wondered what to do to protect the stunning foliage from harsh seasonal elements. It seemed a shame to let it freeze after it had grown and produced so many beautiful blossoms. Inside wasn’t an option due to poor natural lighting. After asking around, Mom found a spot in the Ag greenhouse and donated winter rent to house her treasure.

After the last frost date arrived the next spring, Mom ransomed her baby, reinstalling it on the east side of her garage. At first, the woody stem appeared dead. Both of us mourned and planned to find a replacement. Fortunately, we procrastinated long enough that little green shoots had a chance to develop and inspire a name for this seemingly expired plant—yes, that was the first time we called it Lazarus.

For the next three years, Mom shuttled the increasingly larger Lazarus into shelter each autumn and retrieved it each May. It did so well under her care regimen that mom repotted it at least one more time. After she brought it home each spring, she’d trim it to a stub and wonder if it’d come out of it. By August, that nubbin turned into a full size bush of flaming color and reminded us why Lazarus was the perfect name. 

This last fall, Mom’s standby wintering spot was unavailable. We hashed over choices, none of which seemed suitable. Just before the first freeze, we transported it to my sunporch where we hoped it wouldn’t get too cold. 

By late November, Lazarus dropped every leaf and looked truly dead. I broke the bad news and left the ugly remains on the porch until spring when I planned to pull the goldfish trick and replace mom’s plant before May. I intended head to the greenhouse in a few weeks to buy a similar sized bougainvillea to put in her big pot. 

I should’ve known better. After five years of Lazarus returning from the grave, it happened again! That dead-looking skeleton sprouted green shoots at its base the second week in April. As much as I hated calling Mom last fall to tell her miracle was dead, I couldn’t wait to announce this unexpected resurrection. I don’t know how long Lazarus will be with us, but I’m shooting for passing it on to one of my daughters after I’m gone.

What To Do with a Left Over Easter Lily…

Thinking about Easter brings to mind loss, hope, resurrection, sunshine, courting birds, greening yards, bunnies, colored eggs, and lilies. Yes, lilies. Each year, members of our church celebrate the lives of loved ones who’ve passed on with a parade of towering white Easter blooms. I love to walk into the sanctuary that first Sunday the white blossoms outline our altar. My nose picks up their sweet scent, and I think about how the first historical evidence of this flower was imprinted on a Cretan vase over 2500 years ago.

Just seeing the ladder of leaves that lead to the balloon-like blooms shouts Easter to me. When the florist wraps deep purple foil around the pot and ties on a fluffy, white bow, I’m transported across time to my first memories of this special holiday. I think of lacy dresses, shiny white patent leather shoes, basket- shaped little bonnets that I only wore one time a year. I recall soaring hymns like “The Old Rugged Cross,” “He’s Alive,” and “ In the Garden.” I can almost feel the warmth of my mom’s or  grandma’s bodies as I recall times I stood singing those songs next to these much loved women. My mouth waters at the recollection of ham dinners followed by homemade chocolate and lemon meringue pies. 

Now, those trumpet-shaped flowers are reminders of too many loved ones who’ve wrapped up their business on earth. Despite this overpowering sense of loss, I’m glad that our church family shares these recollections of good times and happy hearts. Here’s the dilemma. After Easter each year, each of us is supposed to take our plant home. 

That’s good for a week or two. Often times, ours is still blooming so we enjoy setting it in the window. Once the flowers dry up and fall off, it’s time to make some decisions. In our case, that means it goes to the lily bed out back.

The woman who lived here before us started the tradition with a leftover Easter bloom. Since we moved in, the plot has grown. Right now, it’s manageable and hasn’t taken over the rose garden. Looking ahead, I see issues.

Lilies spread, and if I keep adding to this bed each year, I’m going to end up with a yard full of plants that bloom only once a year. Granted, they are lovely at that moment, and the scent is heavenly, but afterwards, they are leggy, green plants.

I guess I need to keep in mind these are symbols of the resurrection, and they’re easy to grow. I can’t say that about everything in my yard. Once established, they bloom later than the ones we place on the altar at church so I get to enjoy them a second time each season. One article I read suggested tossing them on the compost heap. It’s hard to do that when these will thrive, and I’ll enjoy even more fond memories of a favorite holiday.

Practicing Patience in an Asparagus Patch

Longer, warmer days work function as a Siren call to gardeners.” It’s time. It’s time. It’s time to plant.” Tillers and shovels turn over winter-rested soil in plots around town while grocery stores and garden shops advertise seed potatoes and onion sets. Aggressive green thumbs have tiny shoots of lettuce, radishes, and spinach peeking through and stretching toward the sunshine. Our patch isn’t that far along yet, but we’re celebrating a landmark at our house—we picked our first homegrown asparagus this week!

Since I was a child, asparagus has meant springtime to me. This began when the eight-year-old me discovered a bed of the funny looking shoots in an abandoned field on my way home from school. I didn’t know what the alien-looking stuff was so a neighbor boy and I plucked a stem and took it home for my mom to identify. She immediately identified it and warned me not to trespass and steal. I assured her this came from an empty lot that didn’t have a house anywhere near it. Knowing what I know now, I realize this must have been an old, old plot growing where a home once stood.

Not long after that, my mom cooked asparagus for our family, and I discovered it tasted much better than it looked. Once I got married, asparagus became a rite of spring at our house because my husband liked it every bit as much as I did. We had a couple of fronds growing in the yard of our first home, so we looked forward to sampling the few bites we harvested each season.

Once we moved to the country, we found a few shoots growing wild along our creek. Again, we’d relish those fresh spears, but there were never enough to make a mess of our favorite spring veggie. We bought and planted crowns a couple of years in a row, but due to bad weather conditions, they never took off. I swore then that if I ever had a yard with good soil, I’d have my own asparagus bed with enough to share.

Finally, that dream is coming true.  One of first plantings in our new home was a long row of asparagus crowns. We studied the complicated planting procedures and followed them. We learned that successfully growing asparagus takes effort and time. We planted in April and didn’t see a single sprout until August of that year. We’d begun to think we’d wasted time, effort, and money. Despite their slow start, once those shoots peeped through, they thrived.

The patience part came into play the following spring. The asparagus rulebook says you can’t harvest asparagus the first few seasons it grows in your garden. You have to let those roots get well established, so you water it, tend it, trim back the foliage in the fall, and think longingly about tender spears of buttery goodness for at least two seasons. 

That brings me to the moment. We ate our first mess of homegrown asparagus this week. Each of us had enough on our plates that we could gobble to our hearts content.  This wasn’t a tiny sampling. It was a feast. The flavorful shoots were so tender they melted in our mouths. That isn’t something I can say about store bought asparagus.

So thirty-eight years into marriage, we finally have an asparagus bed big enough to harvest more than a few tiny tastes of spring. Watching us savor each forkful, you’d agree that it’s been worth the patience and the work.

The Homestead Act and New Trails across Kansas

Imagine reading flyers posted outside the local mercantile that promised affordable land with rich soil, a healthful climate, and railroad access. President Lincoln’s signature on The Homestead Act of 1862 led thousands to respond to these booster mantras. In addition, railroads promoted and profited from newly acquired government lands. As a result, schemers and developers publicized the region labeled “The Great American Desert” on maps as a way to live the good life and get rich at the same time. Man and machine-made trails soon riddled a country once traveled only by game, indigenous peoples, and a few hardy trappers and explorers passing through.

Dreamers and the downtrodden looking for opportunity headed west. W.R. Hill, a developer, joined with African American minister Reverend W. H. Smith to form the Nicodemus Land Company. They promoted a town site and farmsteads along the South Solomon River in western Kansas. One group interested in promises of country filled with plenty of wild game and affordable land included slaves emancipated from former Vice-President Richard Johnson’s estate in Kentucky. This group and others gathered what they imagined they needed to farm their own acres and bought Union Pacific tickets to the Promised Land.

After a long journey, these first immigrants arrived in Ellis in June of 1877. They discovered this was not the end of their travels. They still had a journey of about 35 miles to their new homes. This humble group that began an historic Kansas community walked behind a wagon filled with their meager belongings to begin the Ellis/Nicodemus trail, a route they and other newcomers would travel to and fro many times during the following months and years.

Keep in mind these fresh arrivals were from the South, a well-watered land with established agriculture. They arrived on the high plains at the beginning of summer so they would’ve scanned acres covered with still-green buffalo grass and emerging blue stem rather than thriving farmland. Used to seeing groves of hardwood trees, they’d have wondered at the scarcity of such on the plains and at the lack of variety they’d used to build and warm their former homes. Rivers where they came from were wide and deep, so their first jaunt across Big Creek in Ellis would have triggered some mumbles. What they say when they first saw the Saline and South Solomon?

For the next few years, the Ellis/ Nicodemus Trail became the standard route between the two communities. According to old Ellis Headlight and Nicodemus news articles, these newly minted agriculturists and businessmen brought grain to the mill, broken tools to the blacksmith, and their sick and injured to the company doctor available in the thriving railroad community of Ellis. One report described the excellent quality and quantity of broomcorn delivered by Nicodemus farmers. Another detailed how the railroad doctor set a Nicodemus man’s badly broken leg.

Today, that trail is a memory and a few references in old newspapers. If local historian Angela Bates has anything to say about it, this route will once again be marked and affiliated with the Nicodemus Historic Site. This path offers evidence that peoples of the prairie didn’t live isolated lives. It indicates connections between rural communities that still exist even if the roads between them are different.

Bohemian Halls in Kansas

I’ve grown up hearing America called the melting pot of the world. If you spend time traveling Kansas, then you understand the Sunflower State is the biggest bubble in that boiling mess. In a few hours’ time, travelers can visit Lebanon, Denmark, Norway, and Cuba. During that journey, drivers can drop south to Glasco, named for Glasgow, Scotland. Kansas is a state of many cultures, evidenced not only by town names but also by buildings designed to honor old-country customs.

It’s interesting to cruise our state checking out churches, schools, barns, old homes, and main streets of ethnic communities. It doesn’t take long to realize our ancestors brought their building styles from their homelands and recreated them in a region with little moisture and few trees. One of my favorite discoveries includes local Bohemian Halls. Once I spot one, I think immediately of either my favorite American writer Willa Cather or of singer Chuck Suchy and his tales of transplanted Bohemian culture.

For years I thought the Wilson, Kansas, area was the main destination for immigrant Czechs. Since then, I’ve discovered that Bohemians settled many regions of our state. One is Cuba, Kansas, off Highway 36. It has a wonderful ethnic hall where families gathered on Friday or Saturday nights to socialize and dance. It would have been a place to speak and hear a longed-for native language, evidenced by Ćeska Narodin Sin written above the entry. Not only is Cuba home to this Czechoslovakian National Hall, it also has a Czechoslovakian National Cemetery with Czech inscribed tombstones. 

A short distance south, sightseers can find another such site in the countryside near Delphos. Again, the closest town’s name misleads one to think of Aegean, not Czech, culture. Despite the confusing designation, this area welcomed many Bohemian settlers who cooperatively built this structure for common use. Current area residents maintain the building and grounds, continuing a longstanding tradition for surrounding communities.

Bull City Café in Alton is close enough to visit in the same day. What does that have to do with Bohemian Halls, you ask? In a former incarnation, the building was a Czech cultural center near Claudell. At some point, townspeople moved this edifice into Alton to serve as the local cafe. Once inside, you can view a Czech exhibit that explains this structure’s history. In addition, current operators have kept the old stage in place so diners can see where musicians of old would have stood to play and sing.

These are only a few of the Bohemian communities in our state. Interested folks can spend the rest of their lives cruising blue highways. Along the way, they’ll discover scores of tiny towns settled by people who left brought their culture and their halls to a new country. If walls could talk in these old buildings, I wouldn’t understand a word. I would, however, recognize festive rhythms of polkas and other folk dances and the shooshings all mothers use to soothe tired little ones. After decades of teaching high school, I’d also quickly identify the laughter of flirting couples. Some forms of communication are universal.

I hope these small towns find resources to preserve these remnants of their not so distant past. Such structures tell part of the story of dreamers who came to our state seeking a good life on the prairie.  

George Washington and the Mumps

After receiving scores of Presidents Day sale flyers in my mailbox, I’m flashing back to childhood celebrations of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington’s birthdays. Keep in mind we didn’t combine birthdays fifty years ago. We turned February into one long party. We feted Lincoln on February 12 and then Washington on the 22^nd. When you added in a Valentine party, February was a festive month for elementary students during Eisenhower and Kennedy’s terms.

Due, I’m sure, to Lincoln’s distinctive features, my classmates and I cut our 16^th president’s side view out of black construction paper every year. I recall the rhythmic sound of the teacher stapling these on a white bulletin board. Along with creating our annual artwork, we heard the story about Abe’s difficulties attending school. That tale made me grateful my classroom was a short walk from home.

February 14 distracted us momentarily from our patriotic lessons. Twenty or more of Abe’s silhouettes served to backdrop an equal number of red wrapped shoeboxes, decorated with crudely cut out hearts and lacy doilies. Candy and cookie-fueled primary students stuffed cutesy Valentines into those narrowly slit containers. Those who could wait hauled their loot home and spent the evening tearing open teeny-tiny envelopes to sound out sentimental sayings.

Recovered from our sugar high, we spent the next eight days practicing for the Father of our Nation, George Washington’s birthday blowout. This extravaganza involved  cutting out construction paper hatchets and cherries and young children waving American flags of varying sizes in a pageant directed by the most commanding teacher in the school.

I loved the hours of preparation that led up to these events. After pinning our hatchets and red fruits to stage curtains, dozens of scrappy grade-schoolers practiced marching in wide circles either to a John Philip Sousa selection or to “Yankee Doodle.” After we perfected parading until we could do it without a teacher’s intervention, we’d learn flag care rules. 

Our teachers drilled into our flighty brains that Old Glory must never touch the ground. They emphasized treating the red, white, and blue with respect. Once our rarely focused gazes acknowledged this solemn responsibility, an adult would hand each of us a handkerchief -sized American flag attached to a wooden dowel. I don’t recall classmates poking or stabbing anyone with these handy weapons. During those post WW II and Korean Conflict years, even little kids knew the American flag was more than a piece of fabric.

My greatest sorrow in grade school occurred during second grade. Mrs. Hill picked me to lead the flag procession that began the celebration, something I liked even more than receiving Valentines stuffed with extra lollipops. Unfortunately, two days before my starring role took place, I awoke with a temperature and swollen jowls. Those were the days before vaccinations, and I had the mumps.

While I sat at home examining a paper bag filled with red candy cherries my parents bought me to celebrate George Washington’s birthday, one of my classmates led the procession onto the stage. To this day, when I see red jelly balls in the candy bin at Orscheln’s, I remember the buckets of tears I cried at missing my moment in the spotlight.

Shake, Rattle, and Roll

Elvis wasn’t the only the person to note a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on. Lately, it appears that even more of it is taking place. Kansas residents have experienced plenty of recent unexpected movement as the earth repeatedly shifts under feet and houses. This messes with people’s equilibria and generates questions.

Sunflower state residents expect to read news accounts of tornadoes, blizzards, drought, and occasional floods. To some viewers’ surprise, residents can add earthquakes to the list of events that keep us on our toes. Frequency of these events has increased enough that some reports suggest property owners add insurance coverage and schools implement drills to prepare students. Despite more headlines, seismic movement isn’t new to this area.

Historically, our state has always had earthquakes. Keep in mind people need to occupy a landscape before someone records weather and geological statistics. The earliest record of a strong quake indicates one affected the Lawrence and Manhattan areas on April 24, 1867. The unusual earth movement caused shelved objects to fall, plaster to crack, and stones to loosen and fall from buildings as far away as Manhattan. Ongoing reports of notable tremors in Northeastern Kansas continued into the new century. 

While most of these events occurred in Eastern Kansas, seismic activity didn’t leave out the western part of the state. An intensity V event shook Dodge and Meade in 1904. In 1933, rattling dishes and swaying houses had citizens of Norton County exiting homes, wondering what was happening. A similar event rattled the same locale in April 1961. 

While weather usually dominates regional news, earthquakes claim more headlines as they occur more frequently, especially in the southern part of the state. According to January 2015 records, 79 seismic events rattled communities along the Kansas/Oklahoma border.

These reports remind me of my childhood in Southern California, where earthquakes occurred frequently. While schools in Kansas practice tornado drills, California practices earthquake survival. Instead of herding students to a nearby basement or inside hallway, the insistent alarm signals kids to crawl under the nearest desk or table and to protect the back of their necks with their hands.

I recall the quick shuffling to find a secure place and then the giggles as we looked around the room at one another in awkward positions that often revealed underpants or bare skin, depending on what our friends wore to class. Unlike children in Kansas who have seen the devastating power of tornadic winds, few youngsters in California have seen true seismic destruction. A buckled sidewalk or cracked wall along with items tossed off a shelf are what kids have experienced.

While most earthquakes I lived through were moderate, we lived in Southern California during the1971 Sylmar 6.7 earthquake, an intensity XI event. I recall awakening to a terrible screeching sound that came from the stressed, twisting joints in our house walls. Responding to training, my brother, mom, and I automatically raced to our bedroom doorways where we hung on to the doorjambs as the rocking and rolling continued. Our visiting grandmother refused to join us, saying if she was going to die, she was dying in bed.

After the ground stopped rolling, we picked up whatever had tumbled from cupboards and closets, dressed, and headed to work and school. Throughout the day, students saw playground goalposts swaying like giant pendulums during strong aftershocks, events that follow powerful seismic activity.

On the news that night, we realized people closer to the epicenter in the San Fernando Valley had experienced more devastation. Freeway overpasses with vehicles on them had collapsed as had a portion of a medical facility with resulting fatalities. Though we didn’t have the advantage of satellite news photos, onsite news reporters captured pictures of gas fires that broke out when lines ruptured. This was an enlightening peek at earthquake induced havoc.

While current reports don’t incline me to purchase earthquake coverage for our home, I think Kansans should learn more about earthquake survival and implement drills into the school year so children know how to respond. If nothing else, those under desk and table drills are good for a belly laugh or two.

George Washington Carver--Kansas Connections

The simplest snacks often taste the best, which is certainly true about a favorite go-to goody, peanut butter sandwiches. I can’t imagine life without Jif in my cupboard. A blob of this yummy goo combined with grape jelly slathered on fresh bread makes a fast breakfast, lunch, or supper. That same recipe creates delicious pre or post dinner snacks. In honor of this popular food item, January 24 has been designated National Peanut Butter Day. This red-letter event makes me think about George Washington Carver, the man often credited with inventing peanut butter.

Many folks know he taught in Tuskegee, Alabama, where he investigated hundreds of ways to use peanuts. However, few people realize he went to grade school and high school in Kansas. Before enrolling in Iowa State College, he homesteaded near Beeler, Kansas. Yes, the person responsible for my beloved PB and J treats has Kansas connections.

Born and raised on a farm near Diamond, Missouri, Carver moved as an adolescent to Fort Scott, Kansas, to further his education. Later, he followed friends to Minneapolis where he attended high school from 1880 to 1884. Upon graduating, he applied and was accepted to Highland College in the northeast part of the Sunflower State. 

Unfortunately, after he arrived, university officials rejected him due to his race. Disappointed, but having faith in God’s purpose for his life, George traveled west to homestead (SE ¾ of 4-19-26) and build a sod house near Beeler, Kansas, from1886 to 1888. Neighbors appreciated his polite demeanor, love of nature, sketches of local plants and animals, and accordion playing skills. For some reason, he decided he wasn’t meant to be a western Kansas farmer and moved to Iowa before proving up his land.

Once in Iowa, Carver studied art and music at Simpson College before going on to earn an agriculture degree followed by a master’s degree in botany at Iowa State College in Ames. Again, people noted this quiet, refined, Godly man who worked hard to accomplish his goals and practice his faith. Word of this brilliant scientist and his work found its way to Booker T. Washington, who recruited George to teach at Tuskegee Institute. Carver responded to Washington’s offer, “pledging ‘to cooperate with you in doing all I can through Christ who strengtheneth me to better the conditions of our people.’”

After he moved to Alabama, this brilliant scientist invested his time and talents to discovering and teaching others numerous ways to use peanuts, sweet potatoes, pecans, and other Southern crops. A deeply humble Christian who believed his purpose was to help fellow humans, this inventor patented only three of the many products he discovered. Peanut butter was not one of those. Instead of getting rich and living a life of ease, Professor Carver devoted himself to  rising early each morning, seeking God’s will, and working hard to improve Southern agriculture and living conditions.

Since grade school, when I first read about this amazing man, I’ve admired and wanted to know more about him. Imagine my pleasure at discovering his Kansas connections. On a warm spring day, it’s a pleasant drive down Highway 96 to connect to the trail to Carver’s homestead. Once there, you won’t hear him play his accordion. However, you’ll view acres covered with descendants of the native grasses and wild flowers he sketched while distant offspring of meadowlarks that sang to him serenade you.

Oh You Better Watch Out, You Better Not Cry, Belznickel Is Coming To Town

                One of the bonuses of teaching for so many years is that I’ve learned much from local speakers who have shared their knowledge with my students and me. In  1986, Lawrence Weigel, a regional historian from Victoria, began a tradition of speaking to my classes about local Volga German Christmas customs. Even though my grandma’s family came to America from this region, I’d never heard about the character called Belznickel that Mr. Weigel brought to life in my English classroom.

                This unique Christmas visitor wore a fur or buffalo hide coat and appeared in Volga German homes a few weeks before December 25^th. According to our presenter, not only did this caller dress in rustic, handcrafted clothing, he also wore clanking chains wrapped about his waist to warn youngsters of his arrival. Sometimes he even carried a coiled whip to add to his intimidating presence. I was as wide-eyed as my freshmen were upon learning about this guy for the first time. This wasn’t the Santa we knew and loved.

                My class’s informative guest told us this was an old-country custom intended to reinforce good behavior. Belznickel entered pioneer homes, where children lined up to confess the past year’s bad deeds. After owning up to their naughtiness, youngsters would kneel and pray. Belznickel might leave a piece of candy for repentant kids.

If a youngster failed to account for every shortcoming, this all-knowing being would remind the frightened child of his or her misdeeds with more than a few specific details. Our speaker went on to tell us about a time a teenage boy in his family had acted disrespectfully to this nighttime caller. In a flash, the dark Santa threw the miscreant into a burlap bag and toted him several miles away from home before turning the lad loose to find his way back home, a changed young man. 

                According to Mr. Weigel, this folk personality who originated in the early settlers’ original native land of Germany was a means of social control. Parents would inform a neighbor or distant relative willing to play the role of Belznickel about their children’s poor behavior throughout the year. During a visit, if the children failed to fess up, the dark Santa would remind them and perhaps make them hold out their hands for a switching.

                Several years after I first heard this tale, I discovered one of my younger colleagues at had survived annual visits from the Black Santa on Christmas Eve prior to the later arrival of Jolly Old St. Nick. My friend’s family also descended from German immigrants who had settled near Hutchinson. Like the pioneer children in Victoria that Mr. Weigel told stories about, this teacher along with her brothers and sister had to own up to their shortcomings under the watchful gaze of a Santa dressed in dark clothing as well as their watching parents.

                After hearing these stories, I realized Belznickel was alive and well into the 1960s and maybe 70s. Hearing my friend’s firsthand accounts left no doubt that these visits impressed upon youngsters the need to be good throughout the year in order to avoid getting to know the Black Santa too well.

                While I’m glad my grandma did not pass this practice on to her children or grandchildren, this old world custom intrigues me. Over time, I’ve found several Christmas decorations that depict Belznickel to display on a shelf or hang from our tree. When guests ask about the unusual Santa ornaments dangling among the evergreen branches, I get to share Mr. Weigel’s story and connect someone else with Kansas’s interesting past.

Elderberry Elixir

Despite the fact I had a flu shot the minute the doctor made them available, one of those germs invaded, took up residence in my ears, lungs, and sinuses, and has hung around with his buddies far too long. I’ve taken antibiotics and added a few homeopathic treatments to see if I can send this invader packing. Some of my self-care, which includes slathering Vicks on my feet and wearing cotton socks to bed, has offered comfort but not a cure. Several sympathetic friends recommended taking elderberry elixir, and one provided a bottle of his homebrew. When I looked up elderberries, it appears science agrees that syrups made from this native fruit have successfully evicted this nasty attacker and its accompanying symptoms.

The friend who gave me the tiny bottle of potent purple syrup started growing elderberries on his property so that he can manufacture enough immunity-boosting tonic to share with family and friends. After using it for several years, he swears it either prevents or reduces any number of respiratory illnesses along with other ailments. Research supports his personal anecdotes. In addition to curing these conditions, Chinese practitioners use medicines made from this plant to treat rheumatism and traumatic injuries. The bad news is that an 8 oz. bottle of elderberry syrup at a health food store dents a checking account considerably. For the same price he would have spent for tonic someone else concocted, our buddy bought plants from a local nursery to add to his landscaping and research how to make his own brew.

Elderberries grow wild around most of Kansas so cultivating them doesn’t require extreme effort. According to our acquaintance, he planted a few roots the first year, and, in no time, they grew three to six feet high, bloomed, and produced fruit. Soon, he harvested stems full of dark purple berries, knocked the fruits loose against the sides of clean five-gallon buckets, and began simmering the plump ovals into concentrate. He’s still experimenting with the perfect recipe, but following his initial success, he’s expanded his garden.

After looking up this therapeutic powerhouse, I learned folks use both blossoms and berries to make teas, wines, cordials, tonics, jams, and syrups. This single plant probably helped many a prairie granny woman or native healer fill a medicine bag with cures various ailments. I can see where the jams and syrups would prevent scurvy and other conditions caused by vitamin deficiencies. Before antibiotics, flus and chest colds could turn deadly, so pioneers and Native Americans welcome d a syrup that reversed or shortened symptoms.

Not only are these fruits good medicine, elderberries taste good. Anyone who likes making homemade jellies, jams, and syrups will love adding this flavor their selection. Add a pie filled with these succulent goodies to the menu and guests will salivate.

People need to know something else about this native plant. For all its benefits, those consuming it should be aware its fruits and flowers need to be fully ripe and heat processed. Individuals who consume raw products have found themselves suffering from a form of cyanide poisoning. Other wild berries produce similar concerns, so cooks need to educate themselves before tossing raw fruit in a salad.

Nearly out of my bottle of homemade elixir, I either need to find a stand of wild elderberries that I have permission to pick or take a lesson from our friend who grows his own and start my own berry garden. With such a flavorful treatment, there’s no reason to suffer through weeks of upper respiratory infections in the future.

Did You See that Sign?

Anyone cruising rural or urban highways has spotted a diamond shaped, bright yellow sign featuring a leaping whitetail buck. These deer crossing emblems alert drivers to potential car/deer collisions, and they’ve led to humorous incidents as well.

Curious sorts who google leaping buck logos discover references to a letter asking in seeming sincerity why the Department of Transportation doesn’t move those deer crossings to areas with less traffic. The well-intended writer points out doing so would reduce accidents. This little joke has made it to You Tube and other mainstream media sources. I suspect comedians like Jeff Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Guy have gotten some laughs at this concerned citizen’s expense. 

When I typed in “history of deer crossing signs,” I wasn’t looking for a funny story. I wanted to know why the antlers  are backward. I don’t know when it first occurred to me that these illustrations are incorrect, but I’ve known it for decades and enjoyed informing less observant friends of this mistake. It seems to me that if feds hire an artist to create a sign used across the nation, someone would make sure this specialist knows what a buck looks like in silhouette. 

What I found, in addition to the lady’s letter wondering why the DOT guides deer to cross busy roads was numerous responses noting the backward antlers and accompanying answers. Some folks don’t think the antlers are reversed. Those writers feel the sign correctly represents a whitetail buck, which makes me wonder how close those people have been to these critters. Practical sorts remind complainers that people crossing signs aren’t anatomically accurate either. Who has a gap between his  body and a Charlie Brown-style round head?

Finally, I found a response that addressed my question, which was why wasn’t the artist familiar with deer anatomy. If the explanation is correct, this has to be one of the longest lasting public acts of insubordination in the United States of America.

According to one citation on snopes.com, the artist didn’t feel appreciated. As a result, he or she created the backward antler sign to see how long it would take someone to notice. Based on the article, it was ten years before anyone even contacted the department responsible for codifying highway signs. By then, thousands of these inaccurate emblems marked public roadways, where they remain today. If this is true, I hope the illustrator found a more satisfying line of work.

These warnings have finally been around long enough to require replacement in some places. When we visited Rocky Mountain National Park in September, we noticed a few new signs alerting drivers to the possibility of deer crossing the road. To my relief, these new ones represent white tail antler anatomy correctly or as much as it can be in silhouette on a bright yellow background. 

I’m glad someone noticed and is making sure new signage isn’t a successful act of insubordination or of poor editing in the graphics department. I am going to miss seeing the incorrect ones and chuckling at this national boo boo. Maybe our government will offer old ones at a surplus auction so we can decorate the garage wall with a fond memory.

Time Traveling Pilgrim

Imagine a time traveling pilgrim joined your family’s Thanksgiving celebration this year. After you got over the surprise of finding in individual wearing a tall hat, short pants, stockings, funny looking shoes, and possibly carrying an antique weapon in your dining room, you’d have to wonder about the differences between 1622 and 2014. Questions might include what this visitor thought about modern homes, holiday foods, and current pastimes to celebrate a national holiday that ties contemporary Americans to one of the first English settlements in the new world.

Wouldn’t that guest be surprised to find our homes outfitted with thermostat-operated heating units that don’t require a body to cut and stack enough wood to last the winter. Next, imagine eyes widening at the sight of water running through a faucet into a sink that drains and the exclamations of surprise when the traveler discovered that a simple flick of a handle turned that fluid hot. Astonishment would continue as the newcomer wandered about flicking switches that turned lights on and off and rotated knobs that made burners glow and ovens heat. I chuckle to think about the first trip to an indoor bathroom. Surely, this guest would yell in wonder when he heard that flush.

After recovering from so many unexpected surprises, the company would join the family at the table. While the lack of King James-style thous, thees, thys, and thines in the before-meal- prayer would confuse him, he’d recognize gratitude when he saw it. Despite feeling unsettled by all these new experiences, he’d identify the tantalizing scents wafting off roasting turkey and baked ham. That creamed corn and whole cranberry sauce might look a little familiar too, but he’d be confused at the selection of olives, celery, and okra on the relish tray. French-fried onion-topped green bean casserole, marshmallow-crowned sweet potatoes swimming in a bath of melted butter and modern stuffing would defy explanation. Despite the traditional beginnings of this feast, Mr. Pilgrim wouldn’t recognize much of its contemporary presentation.

After dinner, everyone, including this guest, would cave-in to the post pig-out nap urge. He’d follow the crowd into the living room or den. After folks settled into their seats on the couch, recliners,  and floor, he’d wonder about those tiny figures in helmets and bright jerseys hitting one another and  chasing after an elliptical shape on a flat screen. A youngster playing X Box in the corner would add to his confusion. How did that child control the characters dashing about and firing weapons that didn’t require immediate reloading in this contraption? Another youngster tapping away at the keyboard on a cell phone would catch his eye at some point. What caused those frequent dings and vibrations accompanied by the teen’s chuckles? Why weren’t folks talking to one another?

Life has changed considerably since 1620 when pilgrims first arrived at Plymouth Rock.  Some changes are good and some require consideration. It’s worth taking a moment this time of year when we count blessings to think about how a predecessor would view the world we have created.

               

The Ugly Side of Autumn

How is it that gun-metal skies, golden leaves, and russet milo fields can stun the eye yet cause eyes to swell, noses to run, and throats to itch badly enough that sufferers want to take a wire brush after them? Every fall, these irritating symptoms remind me that spectacular seasonal beauty comes with a price. I don’t even have to stand in a field of this attractive grain. Living in the vicinity is enough to drive me and others nuts.

That price includes twice-daily, high-powered allergy pills that seem to control the itches and drips two or three of the 24 four hours they promise to deliver. Add to that pill supply multiple boxes of Kleenex and rolls of super strong, soft Viva paper towels to handle obnoxious drainage. Eye and nose drops sooth irritated, red eyes and inflamed nose membranes. Nothing addresses the incessant throat itching that induces pig-like snorts and grunts or the itchy welts hidden under long sleeve shirts and slacks. Hard to believe, but acres of gorgeous russet milo are the fiend in this annual curse for Great Plains allergy victims.

These folks are everywhere.  You hear them sneezing and hacking in the row behind or ahead of you in church or at the movie theater. They’re the person with bulging pockets of tissues. Janitors dump trashcans regularly to stay ahead of these snotty people. Out of the corner of your eye, you see them discreetly wiping a drippy eye or nose. They itch, so you notice them trying to scratch without drawing attention to themselves. It’s a cruel season for those sensitive to milo.

Steroid shots offer significant relief, but they have side effects that I prefer to avoid. As a result, I try to tough out the worst of these annual symptoms. Unfortunately, I used up all my luck this fall. No matter how I timed taking allergy pills, I couldn’t get control of the drips, itches, and weird noises . I tried natural remedies like eating locally produced honey. I even resorted to mind over matter practices to control that terrible irritation that triggered those disgusting pig noises. Despite great intentions, I learned my mind wasn’t stronger than the allergens produced by this beautiful grain. It took everything in me to resist scratching my throat in public. How do you explain to a class of teenagers that their teacher isn’t really hacking up a giant hairball?

The turning point was when I couldn’t sleep through the night.  Burning urges to ream out my scratchy throat defied even the most pleasant dreams. Midnight bouts of violent coughing disturbed not only human household occupants but also our pets. I finally caved. I had to have the injection.

I don’t know why I waited so long to call the doctor. Within four hours of receiving an almost painless jab, I was a new woman. The sneezing and coughing reduced to almost nothing. My skin felt like new flesh, and the urge to make porcine sounds vanished.

One little poke with a sharp needle and I don’t mind driving past field after field of reddish orange grain. Heck, I might even volunteer to join a harvest crew and get right In the middle of my fall nemesis.  

Travel before Modern Technology

Before my students read a section of Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca’s travel journal about his exploration of Texas, I had them write directions from their house to a nearby destination. It sounded like a simple assignment until I add these qualifiers. They couldn’t use man-made landmarks or addresses in their instructions, nor could they use vehicles or GPS systems. They were limited to foot travel, and they needed to depend on the sun and stars for directions.

                Once I limited their options, the noise level in class increased exponentially. “How can we give directions without addresses or things like elevators, highways, railroad tracks, and bridges?” The next question was, “How can we travel without a GPS?”

                “Hmmm, how can you? What do you have to use?” I asked.

                After a great deal of hemming, hawing, and investigating Google Maps and Google Earth to see what natural features might direct a traveler to the writer’s objective, these budding explorers set to work detailing how a visitor unfamiliar with this area might get from point A to point B with the least amount of difficulty. 

                When they shared their products with the rest of their classmates, we recognized the best instructions involved specific directions that often referenced the rising and setting of the sun or the location of the North Star. Another writing strength was the use of geometric terminology such as “Walk parallel to Middle Creek for so many feet or miles until you get to the big cottonwood tree, where you will make a perpendicular turn to the west.” Some students established guidelines such as walk at a steady pace for an hour. This certainly provided an estimate to guide others, and it gave me an idea of who had actually traveled such a route at some point in time.

                This was a difficult assignment with the objective of showing students how difficult it must have been when the first explorers journaled about their discoveries in this country. After we read the short de Vaca passage in our lit book, we realized our narrator wasn’t only unfamiliar with the landscape, its vegetation, beasts, or its human inhabitants. He or the translator wasn’t very good with using pronouns either. This made it difficult for us to know whom or what the author was referring to on his expedition across what is now called West Texas. During the time he describes, this place didn’t have a name recognized by Europeans. It was simply described as a land of little water and food. Because of his confusing pronoun references, it’s difficult to identify individuals or cultures he refers to during this exploration. 

                This task offered a peek at one obstacle newcomers faced before section lines and roads divided our nation into an easily navigable grid. After completing our directions, my students and I realized that highways and technology make travel easier. I think we all have more respect for folks who entered uncharted territory and tried to explain to others how to follow. It also makes me appreciate KDOT and their efforts to guide travelers safely to their destinations.

Passing the Candy Bag to the Next Generation

Our daughter sent us a picture of our granddaughter dressed up as a pretty princess for her first trick or treat outing. Our kids waited until their daughter was almost four to let her join the ranks of smiling goblins knocking on doors in search of goodies on Halloween night, and it’s clear this cutie pie enjoyed her adventure. Her smile radiating above her flowing white dress switched on a deluge of happy memories from my brother’s and my years as beggars who also loved this holiday.

As a fan of “The Rifleman,” “Gun Smoke,” and “Combat,” my brother often costumed himself as either a cowboy or a soldier. He had the necessary plastic rifles and pistols along with hats, vests, and bandanas in his toy box. If he was tired of the old West, he had an equally fine collection of imitation WW II armament that he and dad used to aid actors on the TV show “Combat” during their firefights. At every commercial break, father and son chased Nazis down our hallway and out of closets. For Halloween, Kent could smudge his face with black and be ready to defend the neighborhood outside our front door as well.

During regular playtime in our yard, the tomboy side of me joined the boys in their shoot ‘em up western and army games. However, for Halloween, I didn’t want to be Festus to my little brother’s Matt Dillon. Some years I wanted to be a pretty spook so mom would let me sort through her flowing skirts, rope necklaces, bangle bracelets, and glittery earrings until I’d assembled a costume that would make a Roma princess green with envy. This was one of the few times she’d let me wear her eye shadow, lipstick, and rouge, which might explain why I often chose this costume.

As much as I loved to glide down a dark sidewalk in full gypsy array with my mother’s necklaces and bracelets clinking rhythmically against one another at each step, some years I dressed up as a sad- faced hobo. In the early 60s, folks still talked about men who’d ridden the rails during The Great Depression. Apparently, I found this notion romantic. I’d slide into mom’s too big britches, tie a piece of rope around my waist to hold her pants up, and wear one of dad’s huge shirts with tails that nearly reached the sidewalk. Some years, mom would draw a dark beard on my face with her eyebrow brush and once, she applied coffee grounds to my cheeks so it looked like I had scruffy whiskers. Top that with one of dad’s old felt hats, and a pig-tailed blonde became Freddie the Freeloader.

Halloween was a heady day for two youngsters who rarely roamed the neighborhood freely. We’d lug our brown paper sacks from one lighted doorway to another, knocking and chanting the requisite Trick or Treat. If we were lucky, a local mom handed out homemade popcorn balls. If we were unlucky, the grocery store had a sale on saltwater taffy just before the big night and the neighbors stocked up on my least favorite candy.

Times have changed considerably since my brother and I were trick or treaters. Despite the passage of time, the look on our granddaughter’s face in her first Halloween photo tells me that she has discovered how much fun it is to be a goblin one night a year.

Dead Right and Rumble Strips

There was a time that I found rumble strips—you know, those zig-zaggy indentions down the middle and sides of highways—to be nothing but obnoxious. They make terrible sounding vibrations when crossed, regardless of whether drivers intend to  pass over them or not. They remind me of a dentist using the big drill to grind out a chunk of old filling. My feelings about those asphalt irritations changed the day  those rough-carved asphalt concaves saved not only my life but my mom’s. Since then, I’ve new respect for that once disturbing noise.

Prior to my attitude changing  experience, my familiarity with those indentions bisecting highways was how they sounded when I passed another vehicle or when I cruised too close to the edge of the highway.  Once I hit them, I knew it. Not only did the sound remind me of getting my teeth fixed, the non-stop shuddering rattled and shook everything loose in my vehicle.  If I didn’t hear something clattering before, I did after hitting a few rumble strips.

Because I’d never fallen asleep driving, I hadn’t needed them to awaken me to get back in my own lane. I didn’t recognize their value until the day that thunkety-thunk-thunk-thunk told me I was about to get run over by a big red truck on Highway 36.

Mom and I had driven west from Phillipsburg, heading toward the Prairie View turnoff to Logan. Not far out of town, I noted a semi hauling a big trailer speeding up in my rear view mirror. No problem, I thought. We had time for it to pass long before we reached our exit. 

Even though I slowed enough  the driver could easily swing around  me in the open lane, he didn’t.  Every time I checked my mirror, I saw more of his grill creeping up on the back of my little Toyota. As we got closer and closer to our left turn, I wondered how he’d slow enough to avoid running over us. So he knew my intentions, I flicked on my signal far in advance.

Initially, it appeared the driver backed off. I breathed a sigh of relief and positioned my car to turn across the east-bound lane. Despite feeling safer, I began checking every mirror. Imagine my surprise when I heard that ominous, familiar vibrato.  I knew I hadn’t crossed the center line, and there was nothing in the rearview mirror. Quickly, I looked over my left shoulder, where I saw the passenger door of my nemesis. That enormous beast had zipped round me on the left in a turn lane. Yikes!

Thank goodness I didn’t turn. Once the behemoth sped ahead, I breathed deeply and completed my maneuver. Then I thanked the Lord I’d heard that warning sound I once deplored. Mom and I sighed with relief that we hadn’t become statistics.

Now days, I savor that growl whining out from beneath my wheels as I pull out to pass. I also discovered last winter  it comes in handy when I drive through deep snow. Even if the road isn’t cleared, that vibration tells me I’ve driven too far toward the ditch.

When I took my husband up to show him where I nearly died that October day, he noted the double yellow line that means no passing. Then he calmly informed me that I was right about being indignant, but if I hadn’t heard that warning and proceeded to turn , I’d have been dead right. Thank goodness for rumble strips.

 

April May Not Be the Cruelest Month

Decades ago, the poet T.S. Eliot told us April was the cruelest month. For years, I’ve accepted his word on this without question. After all, her weather is a bit more than schizophrenic, switching from balmy spring breezes to stinging ice pellets in a matter of hours.

After this past Saturday, I’m thinking September may beat my birth month out for this title. How do we go from stunning 90 degree temps one week, late summer blooms, happy butterflies and jewel-toned hummingbirds fattening themselves on autumn –tinged nectar to curled and blackened leaves and no lovely creatures flitting from one blossom to another overnight?

In less than a fortnight during early September, Mother Nature switched gears on her big and little darlings. Humans replaced shorts and t-shirts with slacks and sweaters. Some turned on furnaces to burn off that early morning chill caused by temperatures in the 30s. Unfortunately, birds and insects caught mid-migration didn’t have the same options people had to adapt to this harsh change.

Within 24 hours, weather that had provided a lush fall banquet for flying creatures sent any still moving to fly south as fast as their wings could carry them. Unfortunately, some were either too busy eating to pay attention to the shift in the barometer, or they just didn’t get going fast enough. I don’t know the answer. However, after that tomato-killing frost, I saw monarchs with wings like stained glass windows frozen to death, their bodies flattened on the ground beneath their last perches.  

Recent autumns have spoiled me into believing the first frost wouldn’t come until after the beginning of October. Though I’d noticed a slow-down and smaller sizes in tomato production, I assumed we had at least a month before we had to worry about Jack Frost swooping into our yard with his chilling crystals. I was sure the Weather Channel frost advisories were just apocalyptic hype sometimes promoted by the media because it draws ratings. Even my husband, who reads weather better than most, thought the meteorologists were crying wolf. 

While covering my tomatoes might have lengthened their season by a couple of weeks, nothing I could have done would have saved either the two little hummers frequenting our plastic feeders or the butterflies still flitting from one zinnia or cosmos blossom to another where they extended their curling tongues to taste one last bit of Kansas summer.

Fall is a still my favorite season, but  Mother Nature has put me on notice that I can’t count on enjoying weeks and weeks of bird and butterfly watching. I’m wondering how long we have before we see only stark skeletons of once fully dressed trees. She may also be telling me that this winter will be a bit rougher than those in the past were. Perhaps I better prepare better for this and stock up on sunflower seeds and suet blocks to feed overwintering birds.  

Summer Fun at Vacation Bible School

 As a kid, I loved going to Vacation Bible School. Even as a four-year-old, I could tell the day’s structure was perfect to educate a youngster. Children, teachers, helpers, and leaders gathered in the sanctuary to begin the session with prayer, music, and a chance to plunk coins noisily into a metal offering plate. At that age, I didn’t appreciate the time grown-up leaders spent organizing classes, activities, and snacks.

Back then, it seemed like everything just happened. It never occurred to me our music teacher not only had to play the piano, he or she had to keep track of what songs students had sung  the past few years of VBS and select new ones.

 As we marched into crafts, I never stopped to think that our teacher had to come up with age appropriate and inexpensive projects for at least four classes. That individual also had to make sure the activities weren’t repeats of past years and that they were difficult enough to challenge older youngsters but easy enough that little ones didn’t end up with glue and cotton balls in their hair and up their noses.

Those who taught Bible stories didn’t have to worry so much about repeating the story as they did about what a three-year-old can do compared to a fifth grader. Ten-year-olds can interact with the actual lesson much better than those little ones! Questions big kids ask usually have something to do with the message. That isn’t necessarily true in the toddler session where stories of cats, dogs, bugs, and other subjects can derail the teacher’s original topic.

Our recreation coaches made similar adjustments. What engages a big kid is usually different from what entertains a tyke. If a little one can’t pull the trigger on the squirt gun, the water games won’t be fun. Twenty minutes take forever if activities don’t match interests and abilities. When they do, times zips by.

With all this play and studying, participants needed an energy boost—just the job for the snack committee. After townspeople donate goodies, the kitchen crew manages those twenty-minute shifts with military precision. They prepare, serve, and clean while navigating around energetic little ones.   

Just as they did when I was a kid, church communities still unite each summer to offer local children a chance to learn about God while having a glorious time. To get momentum going, someone volunteers to organize the whole shebang. This person usually manages a home and day job in addition to picking VBS curriculum, finding helpers, ordering materials, and setting dates. Remember, this event takes place in the summer so that means coordinators work around vacations, fairs, and ball games.

In modern times as well as the past, little ones entertain and inspire grandparents, parents, and neighbors with energetic songs and memorized Bible verses in the final program. That short presentation lasts about as long as it takes to eat Thanksgiving dinner and reminds VBS staff that their jobs are important. Like that famed holiday dinner, VBS requires hours of planning and effort before everyone enjoys the outcome.

The Ol’ Swimming Hole

“Marco.”

“Polo.”

“Marco. Gotcha!” 

“You peeked.”

“No, I didn’t.  I caught you fair and square.”

I loved daily visits to the pool when we stayed with our grandparents during the summer. From the moment sunlight flooded into my upstairs bedroom to pop my eyelids open in the morning until the lifeguards opened the doors, I had only one thought on my mind--to swim until my swim-suit wearing, whistle blowing heroes shut lights off and locked gates. It didn’t take long after I’d checked in  with my season ticket before I was out the dressing room door and in head tuck-diving position near the deep end ladder. Kansas summers were for swimming, and I lived to splash, race, and dive in those refreshing blue waters.

As a youngster in the 60s and d 70s, I thought everyone took Red Cross swimming lessons and could stroke their way across the pool so they were allowed to go off the diving board. What a surprise when I discovered that many older people weren’t swimmers. When I innocently asked why they hadn’t gone to the pool to learn, the answer startled me.

 As youngsters, their community didn’t have a pool. Oftentimes, it wasn’t until the WPA built one that folks could enjoy seeing the bottom of a swimming hole. Those elders had done their splashing in creeks, rivers, ponds, and lakes if they swam at all.

During those dry years, many didn’t have a pond where they could dogpaddle on a hot day. As a result men like my uncle in Southwest Kansas joined the navy during WW II and learned to swim as an adult in military training. He wasn’t alone in this experience. What I considered a childhood rite of passage didn’t occur because there wasn’t anywhere to swim.

To a girl who’d learned the Australian crawl not long after she’d learned to walk, that required mulling.  No pools in these hot, western Kansas communities! And what was this WPA people mentioned?  Grandpa straightened me out on that. He explained it was the Works Progress Administration, designed to provide jobs for those who needed work during The Great Depression. These individuals built pools, park shelters,  and golf courses among other projects. 

When I visit towns like Ellis, Hays, Holton, and Herington, I marvel at the attractive stone structures that bear testament to this difficult time in this country. These pools were state of the art in terms of design and filtration systems. In addition, they weren’t useful only as watering holes where kids frolicked on scorching days. Skilled architects needed work as much as the laborers and masons who dug holes, poured cement, and set stone. These gifted artists designed attached concession stands and dressing rooms to please the eye as well serve specific functions.

I learned the WPA built 805 pools across America during the 30s and 40s. Communities continue to preserve and update them so that young and old can cool off during the dog days of summer. While not every town got a WPA swimming hole, word got around about how nice these were. Today, you rarely visit a Kansas community on a hot day without hearing youngsters hollering “Marco Polo” as they blindly chase friends through the water.