My dad tells a story about when he was a young man and went out hunting with his grandpa.
It was a cold and windy day, the arctic north wind a sudden change from the pleasant southern breeze that had been blowing all summer and into the fall. Even down along the river bottom with it's abundance of trees both big and small the wind zipped along, making your cheeks smart. They'd already walked a long way when Grandpa finally spied some turkeys in a clearing. They loaded their guns.
"Don't shoot unless two or more of them have their heads together," Grandpa warned. To dad it seemed like an impossible suggestion. But sure enough, as soon as two or three turkey heads were all lined up, Grandpa squeezed off a shot. By golly, he brought the birds down alright.
Unfortunately, three birds with one shot still meant three turkeys to clean in the wind and the cold.
I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.
But it has always struck me that more important than the stalking, more pressing than the need for meat, out of a hunt whether for turkey, antelope, deer or bears, was the need to glean a good story.
My own deer hunting story is really one of pure luck.
It was Saturday night of closing weekend and I was heading back to college the next day (shameless plug for Wayne State College) so this was my last chance to get the big buck I'd been salivating over for a week straight while I languished in the intellectual cage known as higher education. I've always been a kid after my dad's own heart and I shared a love of hunting, though not of early morning hunting, with the guy who gave me his name.
I was nervous. Not because I might have to shoot something but because I might not kill it with a shot. I was wracked by the idea that we might have to finish off the poor booger at close range. If there was a time to make a clean shot just like we'd practiced, this was it.
We took off around 4:00 with sunset just over an hour away. The best place to find deer is along the river so over the bridge and around the bend to Grandma Jamison's house we went.
"Keep your eyes open for some deer." I quickly went to scanning the trees and hay meadows as we trundled past in the big green pickup. Nothing moved.
We topped the hill on the east side of our ground. That's when we spotted him. Across the hay meadow and standing broadside on a hill was a buck of good shooting size. I won't lie and say he was the biggest buck I've ever seen but I will say my dad shows everybody with any interest in hunting the rack from my first deer.
Anyway. We got out of the pickup, crunching as quietly as we could across the vaguely scattered snow left from a freak storm a few weeks back. The buck didn't even raise his head.
Strategically placed, because we strategically place things instead of losing them or forgetting them at our ranch, on the field was a half of an alfalfa bale. A perfect place to brace up and take aim at the old buck.
I sighted him up. Dad asked if I was ready to shoot. All I remember thinking was: if I wasn't ready now, I didn't think I'd ever be.
I squeezed off a shot. The reverberations bounced off the trees and came ringing back in waves. The bucks head came up, he ran forward a few paces, the does with him scenting the air and skittering away. He limped on three legs.
Dad squeezed off a shot beside me.
I'd like to tell you that the buck went down after that or ran away without a scratch.
He didn't.
He kept standing so I squeezed off another shot.
Nothing.
Dad gave it one more go and the first big buck I'd ever shot dropped to the ground.
All said, we hung up the deer about sunset, one of the shortest hunting campaigns I've ever heard of. But it made a good story and when you go hunting. that's really the prize you come home with. That, and the sting of a north wind on your cheeks.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Playing the game
I've attended a lot of sporting events in my life. Basketball and volleyball games consumed the majority of my sports time but for a short spell, my mom (bless her soul), got us interested in soccer (futbol).
Now at the time I didn't have much appreciation for the game, let's face it, I was twelve. And on top of that, I was from the Midwest, specifically Nebraska.
Nebraskans are die-hard American football fans. We even built our stadium so that it alone dominates the Lincoln skyline. Little boys dream of one day playing for the Huskers. Every man, woman, and child owns some piece of Husker memorabilia while each fall thousands of fans make the pilgrimage from their homes to THE Homeland: Memorial Stadium.
So when the World Cup came around I expected a handful of fans to be interested in the game because that was about the number of fans that turned out for the games when I was 12.
What I found was that futbol is becoming popular in the Midwest. And I was behind on the times.
The sports bar in Lincoln, complete with Husker jerseys, pictures, and logos on all the tables, was packed with U.S. fans. In fact, I was informed, Lincoln was the starting point for a group of fans known as the American Outlaws which now spans the country cheering on U.S. futbol. Each tense moment in the U.S. v. Belgium game was met with cheers, jeers, and sighs. The tension was nearly as thick as a Husker game as blasphemous as that sounds.
In this city where American football is the epitome of Nebraska-ness, fans of every size and shape gathered to cheer on a team playing a sport popular the world over. The Midwest has caught futbol fever and I don't think it's going away.
Nebraska is changing, slowly but surely, and this change in sports taste reflects that. Whether it's in the big stadiums of Europe of the backyard games we played after VBS futbol is a popular sport.
Now at the time I didn't have much appreciation for the game, let's face it, I was twelve. And on top of that, I was from the Midwest, specifically Nebraska.
Nebraskans are die-hard American football fans. We even built our stadium so that it alone dominates the Lincoln skyline. Little boys dream of one day playing for the Huskers. Every man, woman, and child owns some piece of Husker memorabilia while each fall thousands of fans make the pilgrimage from their homes to THE Homeland: Memorial Stadium.
So when the World Cup came around I expected a handful of fans to be interested in the game because that was about the number of fans that turned out for the games when I was 12.
What I found was that futbol is becoming popular in the Midwest. And I was behind on the times.
The sports bar in Lincoln, complete with Husker jerseys, pictures, and logos on all the tables, was packed with U.S. fans. In fact, I was informed, Lincoln was the starting point for a group of fans known as the American Outlaws which now spans the country cheering on U.S. futbol. Each tense moment in the U.S. v. Belgium game was met with cheers, jeers, and sighs. The tension was nearly as thick as a Husker game as blasphemous as that sounds.
In this city where American football is the epitome of Nebraska-ness, fans of every size and shape gathered to cheer on a team playing a sport popular the world over. The Midwest has caught futbol fever and I don't think it's going away.
Nebraska is changing, slowly but surely, and this change in sports taste reflects that. Whether it's in the big stadiums of Europe of the backyard games we played after VBS futbol is a popular sport.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
You think I would learn
You'd honestly think that I would learn.
September is not traditionally a frigid month in Nebraska. It's a time of changing seasons: the cottonwoods, old creaking, giant trees, begin to change their leaves the bright green waving pieces turning brown and yellow before falling to the ground. The sea of green that was prevalent the entire summer suddenly becomes dotted with bright red bloodspots as the sumac plants shed their normally muted green leaves for the bright red suit of autumn. The air chills but not by much; every other day is still a good hay day or at least that's what my dad says.
Which is why, when the temperature suddenly dropped in the first few weeks of September, I refused to believe it.
Dad and I had been going out to the calving pasture every morning for the past few weeks to tag calves and run out pairs. This particular morning, I watched my dad dig out his winter coveralls, put on two layers of coats and his heavy boots. My dad usually digs out his coveralls as soon as the temp gauge hits 60 degrees. I usually don't dig mine out until much later. In fact, we tease him that he's just silly for wanting to put on his coveralls in the middle of summer.
So while the morning looked like another summer day, the gauge in the window said differently: a measly 36 degrees to start out the morning, and cloudy to boot.
Dad shrugged into his layers upon layers of clothes and I just put on a heavy coat, sweatshirt and my ball cap, chalking the coveralls up to my dad's overdeveloped sense of cold. I didn't bother to look at the temperature in the window myself.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
The clouds hung low and ominous over the green Nebraska prairie as a fine mist dripped onto everything. Beads hung on the tall grasses, Trees collected raindrops like fine diamonds, holding them on thin leaves until they grew too numerous for them to keep to themselves and they spilled from the sky in a shower of sparkles onto the gray earth below.
As soon as we pulled the four-wheelers out of the shop I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. The slight northern breeze felt like a hurricane force gale when combined with the self-created wind of the four-wheeler. I could already feel the sharp singing of the windburn begin on my cheeks. The thin summer gloves I'd decided would be enough for my fingers let every needle-like finger of wind through, numbing my hands until I couldn't feel my thumb anymore. But my pride, the same pride that made me ride on the sled behind the tractor during a winter storm without ever admitting to my dad how cold I was, kept me from running back to the house for more clothes.
I glanced at my dad from beneath the layers of hoods that I, thankfully, had conceded to wear. He looked cozy in his coveralls.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
We sorted off one pair. I watched, shivering as my dad searched through the dozens of little red tags in his pocket for the correct one. With a sinking heart, I watched him put ALL of the tags back in his pocket, look up, and say, "I'll have to run back and make one."
So there I sat, shivering in my Carhartt coat, one sweatshirt and summer gloves, holding myself as close to the warm four-wheeler as I could, cursing my stupidity only to have the words snatched away by that bone-chilling northern wind.
I tried to convince myself that it wasn't that bad. But mind over matter doesn't work on that north wind; it blows and howls without a care for anyone that stands in it's way, no matter how many blustery words they blow back at it.
If only I'd taken my dad at his word and put on my coveralls. After so many years he knows when it's cold out, really cold, coveralls cold.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
September is not traditionally a frigid month in Nebraska. It's a time of changing seasons: the cottonwoods, old creaking, giant trees, begin to change their leaves the bright green waving pieces turning brown and yellow before falling to the ground. The sea of green that was prevalent the entire summer suddenly becomes dotted with bright red bloodspots as the sumac plants shed their normally muted green leaves for the bright red suit of autumn. The air chills but not by much; every other day is still a good hay day or at least that's what my dad says.
Which is why, when the temperature suddenly dropped in the first few weeks of September, I refused to believe it.
Dad and I had been going out to the calving pasture every morning for the past few weeks to tag calves and run out pairs. This particular morning, I watched my dad dig out his winter coveralls, put on two layers of coats and his heavy boots. My dad usually digs out his coveralls as soon as the temp gauge hits 60 degrees. I usually don't dig mine out until much later. In fact, we tease him that he's just silly for wanting to put on his coveralls in the middle of summer.
So while the morning looked like another summer day, the gauge in the window said differently: a measly 36 degrees to start out the morning, and cloudy to boot.
Dad shrugged into his layers upon layers of clothes and I just put on a heavy coat, sweatshirt and my ball cap, chalking the coveralls up to my dad's overdeveloped sense of cold. I didn't bother to look at the temperature in the window myself.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
The clouds hung low and ominous over the green Nebraska prairie as a fine mist dripped onto everything. Beads hung on the tall grasses, Trees collected raindrops like fine diamonds, holding them on thin leaves until they grew too numerous for them to keep to themselves and they spilled from the sky in a shower of sparkles onto the gray earth below.
As soon as we pulled the four-wheelers out of the shop I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. The slight northern breeze felt like a hurricane force gale when combined with the self-created wind of the four-wheeler. I could already feel the sharp singing of the windburn begin on my cheeks. The thin summer gloves I'd decided would be enough for my fingers let every needle-like finger of wind through, numbing my hands until I couldn't feel my thumb anymore. But my pride, the same pride that made me ride on the sled behind the tractor during a winter storm without ever admitting to my dad how cold I was, kept me from running back to the house for more clothes.
I glanced at my dad from beneath the layers of hoods that I, thankfully, had conceded to wear. He looked cozy in his coveralls.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
We sorted off one pair. I watched, shivering as my dad searched through the dozens of little red tags in his pocket for the correct one. With a sinking heart, I watched him put ALL of the tags back in his pocket, look up, and say, "I'll have to run back and make one."
So there I sat, shivering in my Carhartt coat, one sweatshirt and summer gloves, holding myself as close to the warm four-wheeler as I could, cursing my stupidity only to have the words snatched away by that bone-chilling northern wind.
I tried to convince myself that it wasn't that bad. But mind over matter doesn't work on that north wind; it blows and howls without a care for anyone that stands in it's way, no matter how many blustery words they blow back at it.
If only I'd taken my dad at his word and put on my coveralls. After so many years he knows when it's cold out, really cold, coveralls cold.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
An ode to summer
Okay, so maybe not so much the exact word freedom but you get the sense. No school, no schedule, no snow, no boots just bare feet, pools and hayfields.
Summer in Nebraska means cool, humid dawns that rapidly dissolve into hot, muggy mornings which then transition into hay weather by early afternoon: hot and dry with a little breeze blowing in from the south. Clouds often build from wispy, thin strips on the western horizon into monstrous thunderheads by the time the sun sets. They rumble, deep, throaty voices making the whole plains shake. Time seems to stand still in those moments as the inhabitants of the summer plains wait to see if blessed rain will pour from the sky or if a sharp crack of lighting will steal the hard work of their hands from them in a flash of fire.
Freedom is playing with kittens all morning in the cool shadows of the house then clambering into the pool when the afternoon with it's oppressive heat comes sneaking along. It's spending so much time swimming that little red heads fade to blonde and freckles become more prominent.
Every day is spent gathering in the summer grass so that a little piece of the warmth can be unfurled when winter finally does come. A long arduous process that can seem monotonous becomes an adventure as the first few fawns of summer peep their heads above the long prairie grass and turkey nests come alive with baby chicks as the tractor roars close to their home. The sweet smell of mowed grass mingles in the air with the heavy fragrance of the wild plum bushes as they bloom in the humid summer evenings.
It's the first few sips of sun tea when the heat of the day is still lingering in the jar. It's the feel of laundry right off the clothesline, crisp and warm from time in the sun. It's racing back while chasing cattle as a storm closes in from the west. It's going to summer camp, having friends over, and celebrating birthdays. It's target practice and fair time. It's vacation Bible school and the croaking of frogs in the dam below the house.
Summer is freedom. hayfields, swimming, and thunderstorms.
The season is short and you have to savor every single moment, saving it to remember when the snows blow in and the temperature drops below zero.
Those sweet, free days of summer never last long. School starts too soon and before long those simple days of kittens and pools are just a happy memory.
Until next summer.
Monday, July 7, 2014
The end of a never ending road
.JPG) |
| The long road home |
It runs from river to river, with only a hill or two to break the monotony. But the distance is short and the road is simply the most convenient way to connect two points rather than a grand display of the benefits of American infrastructure.
The road seemingly stops just beyond that last rise. It crests the valley hill then simply disappears. That's where the world ends.
Sure, there are towns that exist beyond the edge of the river but they are inconsequential. The road, for that matter, is of little consequence as well. While hours may go by without a vehicle traversing the gray expanse, the fields and gravel roads, invisible from the highway teem with life. Cattle wander from pasture corner to pasture corner, grazing slowly on the tall blades of summer grass. Mowers hum and buzz as they make sweep after sweep around fields slicing down the grass to dry before a rake sweeps it up to be baled, a little piece of summer that will be served during the long cold winter that inevitably follows the summer warmth. Children play and laugh in makeshift pools and creeks,the tumbling, rushing water cutting valleys into the prairie floor. All this activity happens in the byways and hedges along that solitary stretch of road far from the rush of traffic that plagues other parts of the state. Life happens away from the road, houses are built miles from the highway with dusty country lanes creating spidery maps over the fields.
Most locals' commute takes them out onto the road; mothers in their vans and suburbans cautiously making their way onto the highway to take their young children to the little schoolhouse, fathers in big pickup trucks lumbering away to tend to the cattle, teens zipping past on their way out of the hollow to the high school far from the straight road. But the road never rushes like the interstate, with cars ebbing and flowing over it like the river over rocks.
The road, a straight arrow to the heart of the heartland, leads the wandering children back again to the world from the abyss beyond the river. Just to follow that lonely, empty road will eventually bring the wanderer home.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
A Mother's Day gift (sort of)
This store was the last stop of the day.
Ashley jumped down from the pickup, landing on the cement with a click of boot heels. She slammed the pickup door shut. It was humid and hot outside. If her hair hadn't been in a ponytail it would have been a floofy mess. There were thunderheads massing in the west. No wonder it was humid out.
She turned and followed Dad into the store. Being around so many people always made her nervous but at least going to town with Dad was more of an adventure than with Mom. Her mother made her talk to people and tried to get Ashley to talk back. Dad just joked and didn't usually expect a reply. Ashley enjoyed that.
Dad got a shopping cart. He usually bought more stuff than he needed. Mom called it junk. Dad called it necessary. Ashley just carried things.
"Suppose they still have chickens?" Dad leaned over and whispered at Ashley. Well, it wasn't really a whisper but he didn't say the words out loud either. Neither of them said the words out loud. It had been at least five years since they'd gotten any chickens at their house.
The discussion had been raging for years between Ashley, Mom and Dad.
Ashley wanted a bunch of hens so she could get eggs.
Mom liked the idea but insisted they build a chicken coop first.
Dad just bought things.
She shrugged at Dad's question but smiled when she saw the glint in his eyes and the little grin he wore. The grin made the scar on his upper lip stand out. Her older sister said that some people thought her dad was intimidating; Ashley didn't think so.
They started to make their way around the store. Dad hefted a bag of horse feed into the cart. Ashley set a new brush for her goats on top. They picked out a couple bags of bolts and Dad looked at the stores selection of gloves.
Then they hit the tanks.
Desperate cheeping and peeping echoed out of the oblong metal tanks. Four little tanks were set in a neat row, topped with a heat lamp. Two men were standing nearby talking. One was wearing the green vest that showed he was an employee of the store.
When the employee saw Ashley and Dad he straightened up.
"Well, hello! Looking to purchase some chickens? These feller's here are only a quarter a piece." He smiled at them and Ashley thought he looked a little sinister. Everybody who made a living selling stuff looked a little suspect to her.
Dad was grinning now. He clapped Ashley on the shoulder. She started to smile a little too but crossed her arms and didn't let the smile get to big.
"We weren't planning on it but that's quite a deal."
Both of the men were nodding now. Ashley felt butterflies come up in her stomach. Goats, a dog, and now it looked like she might get chickens after all. She didn't let it show though. Better to remain impassive; when you get too excited about things, she reasoned, you always got disappointed.
"Are they laying hens?" There it was. The question that the purchase hinged on. Ashley felt nervous.
The employee shook his head.
"Nah, they're roasting roosters." The men laughed at the joke.
Well, there goes that plan Ashley thought. Dad looked over at her again and stuck his hands in his pocket.
"What do you think Mom would say if we brought her some chickens for Mother's day?"
Ashley had forgotten that Mother's day was tomorrow. It was an extremely convenient excuse. She felt a little bubble of laughter come bubbling up. Ashley just shrugged but her smile got a little bit bigger. It was silly but she liked plotting with her Dad.
"There's twenty of them here. Just a quarter a piece."
Dad looked at Ashley again.
"We'd have to butcher them in a couple of months."
Ashley peered into the tank. They were older chicks so they weren't as cute as the little fuzzy ones. It was much easier to consider butchering them when they looked so gangly.
"Okay." It was just one word but that was all it took to put Dad into motion.
"We'll take 'em!"
The employee grinned and went to get a box. Ashley found she couldn't stop smiling. Mom was going to get the best Mother's day present ever. And Ashley was going to have fun this summer.
When Mom saw what was in her Mother's day present she vowed to never let Ashley and Dad go to town alone again. They just grinned and set about building a suitable shelter.
Ashley jumped down from the pickup, landing on the cement with a click of boot heels. She slammed the pickup door shut. It was humid and hot outside. If her hair hadn't been in a ponytail it would have been a floofy mess. There were thunderheads massing in the west. No wonder it was humid out.
She turned and followed Dad into the store. Being around so many people always made her nervous but at least going to town with Dad was more of an adventure than with Mom. Her mother made her talk to people and tried to get Ashley to talk back. Dad just joked and didn't usually expect a reply. Ashley enjoyed that.
Dad got a shopping cart. He usually bought more stuff than he needed. Mom called it junk. Dad called it necessary. Ashley just carried things.
"Suppose they still have chickens?" Dad leaned over and whispered at Ashley. Well, it wasn't really a whisper but he didn't say the words out loud either. Neither of them said the words out loud. It had been at least five years since they'd gotten any chickens at their house.
The discussion had been raging for years between Ashley, Mom and Dad.
Ashley wanted a bunch of hens so she could get eggs.
Mom liked the idea but insisted they build a chicken coop first.
Dad just bought things.
She shrugged at Dad's question but smiled when she saw the glint in his eyes and the little grin he wore. The grin made the scar on his upper lip stand out. Her older sister said that some people thought her dad was intimidating; Ashley didn't think so.
They started to make their way around the store. Dad hefted a bag of horse feed into the cart. Ashley set a new brush for her goats on top. They picked out a couple bags of bolts and Dad looked at the stores selection of gloves.
Then they hit the tanks.
Desperate cheeping and peeping echoed out of the oblong metal tanks. Four little tanks were set in a neat row, topped with a heat lamp. Two men were standing nearby talking. One was wearing the green vest that showed he was an employee of the store.
When the employee saw Ashley and Dad he straightened up.
"Well, hello! Looking to purchase some chickens? These feller's here are only a quarter a piece." He smiled at them and Ashley thought he looked a little sinister. Everybody who made a living selling stuff looked a little suspect to her.
Dad was grinning now. He clapped Ashley on the shoulder. She started to smile a little too but crossed her arms and didn't let the smile get to big.
"We weren't planning on it but that's quite a deal."
Both of the men were nodding now. Ashley felt butterflies come up in her stomach. Goats, a dog, and now it looked like she might get chickens after all. She didn't let it show though. Better to remain impassive; when you get too excited about things, she reasoned, you always got disappointed.
"Are they laying hens?" There it was. The question that the purchase hinged on. Ashley felt nervous.
The employee shook his head.
"Nah, they're roasting roosters." The men laughed at the joke.
Well, there goes that plan Ashley thought. Dad looked over at her again and stuck his hands in his pocket.
"What do you think Mom would say if we brought her some chickens for Mother's day?"
Ashley had forgotten that Mother's day was tomorrow. It was an extremely convenient excuse. She felt a little bubble of laughter come bubbling up. Ashley just shrugged but her smile got a little bit bigger. It was silly but she liked plotting with her Dad.
"There's twenty of them here. Just a quarter a piece."
Dad looked at Ashley again.
 |
| And this is how the story ends: dinner |
Ashley peered into the tank. They were older chicks so they weren't as cute as the little fuzzy ones. It was much easier to consider butchering them when they looked so gangly.
"Okay." It was just one word but that was all it took to put Dad into motion.
"We'll take 'em!"
The employee grinned and went to get a box. Ashley found she couldn't stop smiling. Mom was going to get the best Mother's day present ever. And Ashley was going to have fun this summer.
When Mom saw what was in her Mother's day present she vowed to never let Ashley and Dad go to town alone again. They just grinned and set about building a suitable shelter.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Youngest sibling syndrome
It was hot.Too hot to be outside but she was out there anyway. Both her sisters were in the hayfield so Sam just sat on the step, her head in her hands.
Hot and boring.
At least at camp last week she'd had lots of other little friends to play games with. Now there was no one to play anything with. Mom was busy working in her workshop. Dad was out with the sisters. Even the dog was boring; he just laid in the shade of the doghouse his pink tongue lolling in the June heat.
Maybe they could fill the pool.
The idea gave Sam hope. She jumped up and ran into the garage where Mom was working. The saw was running, the buzzing blade filling the shop with so much noise that she slowed down and put her hands over her ears to block it out. Mom was deaf to anything else so Sam just stood and watched.
When the saw stopped, Mom smiled at her. "What's up buckwheat?"
Sam took two giants steps closer trying to think of a good argument for mom to go get the pool. Absentmindedly she stood on one leg and scratched a bug bite with her toe, the pose reminiscent of a crane standing in water. Bubbles the cat, scratched herself on Sam's leg while she was standing still. The cat meowed piteously.
It gave Sam an idea.
"Never mind!" She turned and scooped up the cat, grinning brightly. There was always something to do even on a hot Nebraska afternoon. Sam tromped out the door back into the sunshine.
Her captive struggled as they went from the cool shade of the garage into the muggy sunshine. Sam held on.
"We're gonna play hide-and-go-seek Bubbles." She set the cat down on the cement but kept petting her to keep Bubbles content. The dog raised its head watching the pair. "Now, I'll count and you go hide." This was the best idea Sam had had all afternoon.
She covered her eyes with her arm and began to count. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5..." All the way to fifty. "Ready or not, here I come!" With a flourish she opened her eyes. Bubbles the cat, looked up at her from her spot on the cement and meowed.
"No Bubbles!" Sam stamped her foot and growled. "Ugh you're supposed to go hide." She sighed. "Fine, you count and I'll hide." Scooping up the cat she marched over and deposited her on the step. "Count to fifty Bubbles." Then Sam ran away to find a hiding place.
Luckily, Dad's pickup was parked outside of the garage. She jumped in the back and waited. And waited, and waited and waited. Sam began to wonder if Bubbles had forgotten about her.
She poked her head up and looked around. Bubbles wasn't on the step anymore. "Where's--" But before she could finish the question the cat jumped up on the edge of the pickup meowing at Sam. "You found me Bubbles!" Sam crawled down and covered her eyes. "Now you hide."
As she counted, Sam wondered if the goats would be better hide-and-go-seek players. Maybe that was what she would try next. She reached fifty and opened her eyes. Bubbles was strolling lazily toward the cat house not even trying to hide herself. Sam sighed, got her boots and went down to see if the goats would be better at games.
There was a chance she could teach them to play Tag. "Come on Bear!" The dog jumped up from his shady spot to race after the little girl. Even if the cats or goats couldn't play games like her friends at camp, Sam knew one game they were good at: Pretend. And in the end, that was the best game of all.
"Bear, quick! Get in the ship, this ocean is full of snakes!" She jumped in the rickety old wagon and it became a great pirate ship the rolling hills of grass and sand becoming the ocean she had never seen. The dog followed her, Sam's faithful second-in-command. "Let's go find buried treasure." Bear barked once in agreement his pink tongue lolling in the hot June sun.
It was still hot as the sun began to sink in the west but the day was no longer boring.
The everyday adventure begins
One interstate runs through the bottom third of the state of Nebraska. It links Omaha, Lincoln, Grand Island, Kearney, and North Platte as well as dozens of smaller towns along the way. For most people, this is the only glimpse of Nebraska life they'll ever see: the miles and miles of unbroken pavement that zips by at 75 mph.
But if you ever want an adventure, exit at Grand Island, drive north for three hours, watch the landscape shift from farmland and little towns to prairie where you can see for miles. Take a left then a right and before you know it you'll end up in the heart of the heartland. This is the place where one-room schoolhouses still exist and the closest neighbors are five miles away (as the crow flies). This is the place where fields of sunflowers grow wild, cattle outnumber people 5 to 1, meadowlarks and coyotes sing side-by-side, and change comes slowly but life is an everyday type of adventure.
That is home.
I'm the fifth or sixth generation to live on the same plot of ground that was homesteaded all those glorious years ago. And even though the years have passed, not much has changed. Winter is full of chores, hardship, and snow. Summer is full of freedom, dust, sweat, and sunsets that tug at a persons heart and make you wonder how God could ever paint anything so beautiful. Fall is full of apples right off the tree, garden harvesting, and one lazy afternoon watching the Huskers play football before going back to work. Spring is full of hope, rain, and tender green grass that just begs for a nap in the shade of a tree with the river singing in the background. But while the basic template of rural Nebraska life has remained the same, everyday is a different adventure just waiting to happen.
With my cast of characters who are more apt to improvise their lines than stick to the corporate script and a pristine wild setting I want to leave the city lights behind. I want to show you what Nebraska is really all about: diligence, perseverance, patience, joy, dirt, sweat, grass, fresh air, neighbors, cattle, and freedom.
This, finding the everyday adventure, is Nebraska.
But if you ever want an adventure, exit at Grand Island, drive north for three hours, watch the landscape shift from farmland and little towns to prairie where you can see for miles. Take a left then a right and before you know it you'll end up in the heart of the heartland. This is the place where one-room schoolhouses still exist and the closest neighbors are five miles away (as the crow flies). This is the place where fields of sunflowers grow wild, cattle outnumber people 5 to 1, meadowlarks and coyotes sing side-by-side, and change comes slowly but life is an everyday type of adventure.
That is home.
I'm the fifth or sixth generation to live on the same plot of ground that was homesteaded all those glorious years ago. And even though the years have passed, not much has changed. Winter is full of chores, hardship, and snow. Summer is full of freedom, dust, sweat, and sunsets that tug at a persons heart and make you wonder how God could ever paint anything so beautiful. Fall is full of apples right off the tree, garden harvesting, and one lazy afternoon watching the Huskers play football before going back to work. Spring is full of hope, rain, and tender green grass that just begs for a nap in the shade of a tree with the river singing in the background. But while the basic template of rural Nebraska life has remained the same, everyday is a different adventure just waiting to happen.
With my cast of characters who are more apt to improvise their lines than stick to the corporate script and a pristine wild setting I want to leave the city lights behind. I want to show you what Nebraska is really all about: diligence, perseverance, patience, joy, dirt, sweat, grass, fresh air, neighbors, cattle, and freedom.
This, finding the everyday adventure, is Nebraska.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)