Spring Collage

Clockwise from upper left: storm clouds in March--you can see our little yellow house peeking through the trees at left, upper right; a spring pasture fire that escaped a neighbor's planned burn path,  but our ponds stopped the fire, lower right; trees along the "straightaway" in April, lower left; a May sunset reflected in the lake across the road from our house. 

Kansas is not necessarily known for its beauty, and I don't understand this. Case in point, the photos in the collage above. all taken within a mile of the little yellow house this spring.  

Gaps Versus Gates

He makes it look so easy.  

Despite town living during my formative years, I consider myself a farm girl because my roots run deep in the Ozark soil of my grandparents' Missouri farm home. That place became my heart's earthly home; it was at Grandma's house that I learned about the charms of a chicken house with cranky hens who would peck your hand if you tried to rob an egg, cast iron pumps that would yield water only with determined effort, and cane poles that required knowledge of how to pierce the living flesh of an earthworm who hadn't done anything to deserve it. There wasn't anyplace I loved better on this earth.

Grandpa's fields were surrounded by crooked log fence posts strung with four tightly stretched spans of barbed wire; a good four wire fence. His gates were built of hewn boards, later of metal pipe, and a lot of thought and effort went into them. He engineered his gates to swing silently open on well-oiled hinges. They were sturdy enough to climb and easy enough for a child to open. There were a few wire "gaps," on Grandpa's place, but they were considered inferior and Grandpa referred to them apologetically. A gap took time from a busy farmer's day, and Grandpa preferred his well built gates.

Grandpa farmed 80 acres of ground with the help of a Ford tractor deemed tiny by today's standards, and he kept his pastures mown for weed control and appearance. My grandparents' place was my gold standard of all a farm should be.

Then I married a Kansas farmer. In Kansas, there are no gaps, there are wire gates. The first time my husband referred to a gap as a gate, I politely corrected him, whereupon he corrected me: in Kansas, a gap is a wire gate, and gates such as the one Grandpa built are nice for folks who have lots of time to spend on such things, which Farmer John does not. John manages 3000 acres of farm ground and pasture all by himself. He's not so worried about appearances as he is about his bottom line, and he's a manly man. A few strands of barbed wire cause him no anxiety or inconvenience.

Not so, me.  Case in point, the other morning I went for a walk in the pasture across from our house. This requires climbing through a wire gap (I mean, gate), a skill I've honed over the years to the degree that even at my age and although I'm packing a few more pounds than I'd like, I'm proud to say I do well. I can slip through a small space bordered by rusty barbs that would require a tetanus shot if I erred an inch either way, and most times, emerge unscathed. But on this morning I had a problem. John had reinforced this gap, I mean gate, about every 12 inches with vertical lengths of twisted wire, because he has a calf that shares my skill in slipping through narrow places.  

I was going to have to open that wire gate, and I did not like the prospect. I very cautiously inched the restraining circle of barbed wire to the very top of the end post and jumped back, but to my relief the whole thing fell the opposite direction and my yellow lab and I continued our walk. Twenty minutes later I returned and lifted the end post. Five lengths of barbed wire sprang to malevolent life, each wire possessed by an independent directional goal to that of its neighbors. As I clung desperately to the post, it vibrated and jerked itself out of my hands.  My dog moved a cautious distance away as I repeated this effort several times. I finally managed to reattach the top circle of barbed wire, but was unable to fit the bottom of the post back into its smooth wire restraint.

I called my husband, who was working in a field five miles away.

"I can't get the gap shut," I said.

"Which gap? I mean, gate?" he asked.

There ensued one of those marital interchanges that are best not shared with others, but in the course of the conversation I decided to, one handed, slide the top wire down just a bit further for security's sake. Now, I swear to you this is true: the wire hopped about an inch down the post all by itself! When it landed, my thumb was secured between post and wire, and my poor, overworked husband then learned in great detail of my true, deeply held opinion of wire gates.

I extracted my thumb and went home. The cattle did not get out. And no mention was made that evening of my lack of skill in dealing with gaps. 

I mean, gates. 

Farmer John, the (Older) Lady Magnet

Farmer John with his mother-in-law, Anna Ruth

Farmer John exudes a good-natured, outdoorsman's kind of strength. In his flannel shirt and work boots I've always thought he looks like a man that can be depended upon to fix anything that's broken, and lend aid to anyone who needs it.

I'm not alone in this impression. Over the years I have been amused by the approving glances he attracts from women of all ages.  I'm only hoping that the college-age girls who still smile at him are thinking that he reminds them of their dads.

Happily, John is mostly oblivious to this kind of thing, and so it hasn't cost me more than passing annoyance. But in the past few years he's become just a little chagrined at the kind of female attention he's begun to attract.  Older women--much much older, as in over 80--will select him out of a crowd  to do their bidding. Wal-mart especially has become a hazardous excursion for this man who mostly likes to mind his own business. But he has a good heart and these aged damsels in distress guess, rightly, that he will do what he can to help.

This past week's trip to Wal-mart was especially taxing for him. Two older ladies asked him to reach for items off a shelf, and I volunteered him to help a third woman who was standing, alone and upset, looking at a container of beef bouillon that had been pushed out of reach on a tall shelf.  "My husband will help you!" I said.  And he did.

When we got to the store exit, there were two white haired ladies standing side by side, having an urgent conversation. One was saying, "I have to help you to the car or else I have to go get the car and bring it here..." And the other was arguing with her.

John walked out of the store and the argumentative lady pointed her cane toward him.  "You, get over here," she said.

To his credit, John didn't hesitate.  "He'll walk me to the car," she said to her companion, linking her arm through John's. And he did.

I think there is an element of divine provision in all of this. In the same way that emergency workers often come upon car accidents by chance and render aid, or off-duty police officers just happen to be available to help in some crisis, John's experience as a caregiver and his willingness to help makes him the choice, not only of elderly folks in need of assistance, but of the good Lord, who provides for His children through those who are willing to lend aid.

But I can't help teasing him just a little bit.  My husband, the elderly lady magnet! 

Broomweed Bouquet

I love broomweed. It grows in a natural bouquet-shaped arrangement of hundreds of tiny yellow blossoms, and dries on the stem in October and November. With no further preparation it is then ready to be picked and added to fall bouquets. It looks just like Baby's Breath, but is a lovely brown, almost gold shade when dried. I have spray painted it white and used it in place of Baby's Breath in bouquets, and sometimes at Christmas I spray it gold or silver. 

Lydia (main character in The Children Are Tender) likes it too. The following passage is based on a real life event; like Lydia, I once stopped on my way to school to pick a wildflower bouquet but mine included goldenrod, which turned out to be an unfortunate choice on parent/teacher conference day; sneezing ensued. Lydia is wiser and leaves goldenrod out of her bouquet:

I waded through the overgrown ditch and quickly picked a bouquet, bunching two varieties of sunflowers and feathery Indian head grass in my left hand as I pulled some dainty broomweed from the ground with my right. 

I picked the bouquet shown in the photos below in the late afternoon and liked the shadow it cast as I walked home. 

It looks right at home in the milk can I found in the shed behind the house. I painted the can country blue last summer, then autumn green for fall...kind of disrespectful treatment for an antique. But I like it!

Life Imitates Art

In The Children Are Tender, I created the character of Jenny, a little girl who pronounces every R controlled vowel as "oi/oy." For those who have not taught phonics, let me clarify: ar as in car, er as in her, ur as in hurt, and or as in for would all be pronounced with the oi/oy sound (coy/car, hoy/her, foy/for, hoyt/hurt). For example, when describing the February doldrums, Jenny said, "Now that Valentimes Day is oi-ver, there is nothing to look foi-ward to."

I loved Jenny, even though she was a figment of my imagination (when one writes fiction these things happen). I thought her way of speaking--which I could hear clearly in my head--charming.

Our middle grandson, Logan, was born while I was writing The Children Are Tender, and hadn't yet begun to talk in sentences when the book was published in 2013.

But since that time Logan, now age 3, has begun to talk at great speed--and he substitutes oi/oy for every r-controlled vowel.  It is adorable.  It is also a bit surprising since I'd never heard an actual child do this. It was as though my fictional little Jenny had found a real life voice in my rambunctious, rowdy, lovable little grandson.

One of Logan's favorite books is Henry Explores the Jungle by Mark Taylor. In this book Henry explores the "impenetrable jungle," and Logan loves that word "impenetrable."  Except when he says it, it sounds more like "Impenetroy-ball."  When I took the photo below of Logan standing in sunlit willow branches he had just said, "Look Gwammy! I'm 'tandin in duh impentory-ball jungoy!"  It took me a good five minutes to decipher his words, but once I did--I was charmed.

Like Jenny, Logan's speech pattern is developmental and will fade as he grows.  But while it lasts it is a sweet facet of this adorable little boy's way of describing his world.

Logan in the "impen-tory-ball" jungle.

Fond Farewell to October

 In late October, the air freshened and the sky changed from hazy to jewel-like, as though the crisp fall breezes had cleansed away dust and haze to reveal deeper shades of blue. 

Hay bale jumping, the farm boy's joy! Our middle grandson, age 3, knows no fear.

This is our oldest grandson and our yellow lab, Moose, who had to be boosted onto the hay bales (he weighs 80 pounds). Yes, I hurt my back.

This is how little boys help their grandmother rake leaves. 

Red maple tree turned to burnished orange in the afternoon sun. 

Our middle grandson loves hedgeballs, especially throwing them, which is how this one ended up in a carpet of maple leaves.

Most authors do not make very much money.  Case in point, my eleven year old Ford Escape in the photo above. But a sugar maple frame makes even my dusty ol' ride look purty.

The light! The vivid color! Thank You Lord, for October beauty. 

  

Unexpected Harvest

Don't you love life's little surprises?  Farmer John planted some pumpkin and squash seeds in a boggy place in the middle of one of his soybean fields last spring, then forgot about them.  When he returned to combine the soybeans just a couple of days ago, there were two great big pumpkins, quite a few smaller ones, and enough butternut squash to last us and all of our friends for the winter.

Another happy surprise has to do with my 35 year old quest to grow a sugar maple.  My grandparents had a gorgeous one in their yard that would amaze and impress each year with it's bright orange and yellow fall colors, and I wanted one just like theirs.  We planted two in the front yard and they died. We planted one in the side yard and it had been mislabeled; it was a red maple. We finally planted the one in the photo below and for 15 years it has been an oddly stunted disappointment. Each year its leaves have turned from green to dull brown and then fallen to the ground in sad disgrace by early November, and it just hasn't grown at a normal rate.  But this year, our little tree has redeemed itself.  Very rapidly, within a 3 day time period, it's leaves turned orange! Just like Grandma and Grandpa's tree! My grandparents' farm was sold earlier this year much to my grief, and it is heartwarming to see this reminder of the old home place right in my own yard.

We have two more little surprises due any day now, because both our daughter and our daughter-in-law are due to deliver babies within the next two weeks.  Blessing upon blessing this harvest season!

John usually won't pose for photos but he is proud of this pumpkin! 

The porch of the little yellow house is decorated for fall, thanks to Farmer John's unexpected harvest.

It IS a sugar maple after all! 

A friend from Arkansas told me she was disappointed in fall in Kansas.  "Not much color," she said. But I love the quiet beauty of softening browns and golds--and, I drew her attention to my bright orange sugar maple (above). Our yellow lab was anxiously helpful as I took these photos, and had be cropped out of every shot...missed cropping his tale from this photo, do you see it? 

Farmer John's Mad Carpentry Skills

Farmer John is...well, he is a farmer.  He is not fond of yard work; he prefers to disc and plant and spray and harvest 50 or 100 acre fields. He doesn't blink an eye at thousands of dollars spent for farm machinery, but hundreds of dollars earmarked for household use can cause him to squeeze his eyes tightly closed in pained resignation. He is especially oppressed by home renovation projects, famously muttering, "I hate this, I hate this, I just hate this" when we were picking out new kitchen cabinets a few years ago.

I call this a famous occurrence because it struck me funny. I laughed so hard I cried, and I'm afraid I've mentioned it whenever we've shopped for home supplies since.  "Remember that time..." here I begin to dissolve into giggles, "...when we were shopping for kitchen cupboards and you kept saying..."

Poor Farmer John.

I've always thought it odd that this man who is an accomplished welder and mechanic seems so inept when it comes to carpentry. Whenever I've inquired about building a shelf or doing anything requiring nails, hammers, and wood, he has had a stock response.  He stares at me, mouth partly open, with a crease between his brows.  It is as though I'm speaking Greek.  I have even felt sorry for him, thinking that it must be sad, having grown up around house builders and woodworkers as he did, not to share in their skills.

Fortunately, our son grew up to be a woodworker, and I've been able to turn to him when I've had need for someone to saw, build, or nail.  But our son is married now, lives 45 minutes away, and has a busy life of his own. 

A couple of weekends ago I was frantically preparing for company when the broken piece of trellis I'd propped along the ramp to my mother's apartment fell to the ground (our home has a "mother-in-law addition, where my 91-year-old Alzheimer's mom has lived for the past eleven years).  I was brought to tears; it just looked horrid and I couldn't get it to stay in place.  John happened to see me struggling with it and strolled up and watched for a few moments.

The next day he pulled into the yard in the farm truck and unloaded two six-foot pieces of trellis. 

He whipped two sawhorses from the bed, and placed one of the lengths of trellis across it. Striding to the ramp, he pulled out a tape measure and took three measurements. Back to the trellis, he measured, made pencil marks, then measured again.  He saw me watching him.  “Measure twice, cut once,” he said.

He plugged in an extension cord and attached some kind of a saw with a wicked looking circular blade.  “Oh be careful!” I warned. 

He didn’t reply, and I noticed he’d pulled a small, worn metal disk from his back pocket. 

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A chalk line.” 

 "A chalk line? Where in the world did you get a chalk line?" 

 He stretched a string across the trellis and snapped it expertly, once, then again, leaving a blue chalk guideline.  I plugged my ears as the saw sprang into ear-splitting action, and retreated to the house.  When I returned fifteen minutes later, John had cut the second trellis, matched the two pieces perfectly, and had used wood screws to secure the trellises to the ramp.  The whole process had taken less than 15 minutes.  

He tossed the tools into the back of the truck and as he prepared to drive away I yelled, "Wait! Thank you! I didn't know you could do this kind of stuff, do you think maybe you could do something about the trim on the back porch?...

However, the the wheels of the truck were already moving.  "Bye Hon, goin' to do some real work now." And he was gone.  He has to make a living for the two of us, and farming is more than a full time job.  

But you have to admire this man. He hid his woodworking skills from me for forty years and had me convinced that such things were beyond him. This probably qualifies him for some sort of a cagey husband award, but the cat is out of the bag.  I've made a list of a half dozen projects that I now know he is more than capable of completing.  

He can run, but he can't hide.

 

Beautiful September

Perhaps because I was a teacher for so many years and loved returning to work each fall, September is my favorite month. Well, until October comes and then maybe I'll say it's my favorite. And I'm fond of November too; perhaps we'd best just say Autumn is my favorite season and leave it at that.  I worked so hard on descriptive passages in The Children Are Tender that I think I'll be lazy this evening and use a quote from the novel to describe how I feel about this golden month:

In September, the leaves of the cottonwoods, wildflowers, and grasses became tinged with shades of yellow and amber so that the sun’s reflection from grasses and petals caused the light itself to appear warmed with shades of gold.  The Children Are Tender, p. 48.  

 The light is truly beautiful in September here in Kansas, as summer's harsh brilliance is muted.

Here's a photo of the front porch of the little yellow house; I'm pushing the season a bit with my mums and pumpkin:

My grandpa plucked this tractor seat from a pile of scrap metal on his farm and gifted it to my husband. That was about 40 years ago, and so this seat is probably 80 years old. Farmer John welded the seat to the legs of an old metal chair, and it has graced our front porch ever since.  

Above is an example of that beautiful September light. One afternoon about 20 years ago, my father-in-law stopped by and planted a little oak sapling in our side yard. Oaks are slow growing, and this sturdy little tree is still young.  It is beautifully shaped, and always reminds me of the Scripture, "They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor."  Isaiah 61:3

End of Summer

This spring I was ill with a series of viruses, and even the scent and sight of my lilac bush in full bloom did not tempt me to pull out my camera. But as summer blossomed into one of the most pleasant I can remember (we actually had ample rain during the typically dry month of July), I began to feel better. As the weather warmed, my desire to capture moments around and about this community I love re-emerged. I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the beauty of rural Kansas:

Nothing more small town or all American than a Fourth of July Parade. This gentleman, a WWII Veteran and our neighbor,  has led the parade for years.

Had to share this pedal tractor, a favorite in this year's parade, because the handsome guy with the dazzling smile front and center is our son, Jonathan. He was the inspiration for the character Marshal Rosencutter in The Children Are Tender. The good looking guy on Jonathan's left (to the right in the photo) is our son-in-law, Brian. Brian as I imagined him as a child (remember the little guy who loved snakes) is in the novel as well. 

This was the year for the 17 year cicada hatch--they are so distinctive with their red eyes. There were so many of them that locust song in June and July was nearly too loud for comfort.

And what is Kansas in summer without a good old fashioned thunderstorm? This one was like a bully who doesn't have nerve to carry out a threat, and sailed right overhead with only a few gusts of wind and a smattering of rain.

My outdoor rocking chair blew off the front porch one too many times last year, so this year only impatiens have been allowed to sit in it.

Love my Kansas skies...so blessed to live in small town Kansas, U.S.A. 

Rain and Milkweed Blossoms

Milkweed blooms in early June, typically just at the time when the air turns heavy with  Kansas humidity.  We've had heavy rains this spring and so the moisture in the air is more pronounced than usual, but because it is new for this season--something like the pleasant sense of warmth when you step from a cool room into a sauna--it is, for this moment, enjoyable.

Milkweed has bloomed in our roadside ditches, and I always forget that it's scent is nearly overwhelming in sweetness; more heady than roses, and even more beautiful than that of lilacs. 

One of the joys of writing a novel was that descriptive scenes forced me to observe nature in minute detail as I struggled to do justice to our rural countryside. I feel strongly that the beauty of our state is underrated, and so I worked hard to help others see and appreciate Kansas beauty.  I rememeber laboring over the following passage, but I'm so glad to have this record of Kansas in the spring:

A thunderstorm riding the edge of a cold front had moved through in the night, leaving the early morning air cool and fragrant with the heavy purple scent of crushed milkweed blossoms. When I looked toward the east, I was awed to see millions of tiny droplets of dew coating the bent grasses in the pasture beyond the fence, each drop serving as a prism to reflect the angled sunlight. The hazy air was full of cottonwood fluff and swooping dragonflies, their back- lit forms creating a diaphanous, otherworldly beauty.

Milkweed--just one of the treasures of living in rural Kansas.