A Fun Project

The Sketchbook Project is an ongoing art project originating in Brooklyn, New York. For a small price you can purchase a 5 x 7 sketchbook, fill it with whatever art or design or thoughts you wish, then return it. It will then live in Brooklyn for some unknown amount of time - reluctant to say "forever" because that is not likely. At least for the foreseeable future it will reside with thousands of other notebooks submitted by artists from all over the world. I paid to have mine digitized so it is available on-line.

You can safely follow the link provided to view my book. If you scroll down once you get there, there is a link that allows you to skip to another random notebook. You can continue to skip to another random notebook to your heart's content! There are children's books, and fantastic artists, and designers, and all manner of work from everywhere. I find it delightful and amazing.

My sketchbook can be viewed here.

I chose the 2018 theme "A Long Story with a Short Ending". That brought to mind the beautiful landscape where my home is located. I have often thought of how incredibly long it took Nature to produce the tall grass prairie. I continue to grieve that my people - the European ancestors who stole this land - destroyed it in considerably less than 200 years. There truly is no longer a functioning prairie biome in Kansas. There are no apex predators. Countless species of plants, insects, mammals, fish have all been extirpated or made extinct. Invasive species are finishing what our greed and ignorance did not. All that is left is a tiny echo - to our everlasting shame.

Of course, I did not want to commit such grief and negativity to my contribution to the Sketchbook Project. I simply included a nod to the forces of nature that created the land where I live, and how exceedingly short my life is in comparison. It was fun.

Pay a visit to my notebook. Maybe you will want to order you own sketchbook to participate in the 2019 edition! Happy sketchbooking!

Alternate Universe?

One of my most favorite things in this world is a soft serve ice cream cone. I loved them from the very first taste, and well over six decades later I still love them. If something is wonderful, you want to share it with those you love, which for me includes the dogs. (The horses get apples, pears, and very occasionally a white and red peppermint candy.)

Beginning with Nuke, my first German Shepherd, I would occasionally give him an ice cream cone which he gulped down in one ferocious bite! Then Duke came along. On his yearly trip to the vet, I would get him an ice cream cone which he also consumed in one big, unceremonious, wolf-like chomp! Once in awhile I would take Duke with me just so he could have a cone, too. He enjoyed a special treat no reason.

Jake, my least favorite dog of all time, gets a cone after vet visits. His method of eating it is only a tick better than the other two yahoos: two bites, maybe because he is timid by nature.

Then came Ms. Mattie, my favorite dog of all time - Ms. Pretty Girl and Smartest Dog. Well, she got an ice cream cone right away, when she was still a puppy, but I scooped out most of the ice cream first. She daintily consumed the ice cream, holding the cone still with her front paws. Once the ice cream had been eaten she took tiny bites of the cone. Amazingly well mannered!

Jake just had his yearly visit to the vet for his shots and a check up, so I stopped at McD's for cones. He politely tasted the ice cream when I offered it then he ignored it. After a few attempts, I finally threw it away. Entirely unexpected behavior! Jake is a weird dog, so I did not think too much about it. Yesterday, I was thinking of an ice cream cone for myself, so Mattie and I went to town specifically for cones from McDonalds. Mattie reacted the same way Jake did! She politely tasted it when I offered it to her then she ignored the whole thing.

The ice cream tastes the same to me, but for some reason it is nothing my dogs want to eat. Perhaps I shouldn't eat soft serve from McDonalds either. Maybe it is just that particular McDonalds, or maybe it is something that has changed in the recipe of McD's soft serve. Or, the only other possible explanation is that I have fallen into an alternate universe...

I Wax Poetic

I began writing poetry when I was in third grade. I had watched figure skating on television and was stunned by the beauty and grace of the skaters. That coincided with a school assignment to write a poem. I wrote the worst poem of my entire life - two horrific rhyming verses about "beautiful shimmering crystal ice". Yes, it was embarrassingly awful but I was only seven and it was my first poem. I remember only the first verse now. However, I will never forget that Mrs. Deere wrote in big, red, cursive letters across my paper: "You surely had help writing the assignment". I had not heard the word "fuck" yet - or if I had, I did not know how to use it appropriately to express myself. I can assure you that my feelings toward Mrs. Deere and her red ink pen at that moment could have been succinctly expressed thusly: "Fuck you Mrs. Deere. Fuck you very much."

Mrs. Deere's lack of faith did not deter me. I continued to write terrible poetry. By the time I was in senior English class, I wrote a poem that earned an A+. I have forgotten the teacher's name, though I remember her face and quite a lot of what she taught us. An A+ was quite an achievement in my long suffering, boring, dismal academic career. My parents heard the same thing every year: "Does not work to potential." I wish for their sake, and mine, that we later discovered that I was a goddamned American genius but that never happened. Perhaps the closest I have ever came to some sort of intellectual vindication was a comment made by my PhD - graduate class professor - brain scientist - neighbor. She often encouraged me to go back to school, in my late 50's! I said it would be a waste of everyones time as I am sure I would earn the same depressing grades I always earned. She said, "You would be a shining star." I know I should not be bragging but I believe that may have been the deepest compliment I have ever received in my entire life.

When I was a young woman, I shared my poetry with a boyfriend here and there, but only one was ever even slightly impressed. I have a very fundamental understanding of quantum physics, which showed up in my poetry for awhile. The one minimally impressed guy did not appreciate the poetry but was instead "amazed" that I understood physics. It was a very backhanded compliment. So, no, I never went out with him again.

I discovered the one and only fan of my poetry when I wrote a poem specifically to honor my good friend who once ran a sweat lodge on his property. He is a Vietnam veteran. I was always profoundly struck that he survived the horrific combat of the Vietnam war to later become a fierce and powerful healer. All the men of my generation were affected by that war, one way or another. They were either drafted or enlisted. The alternatives were mostly dishonorable. It was a very difficult time in our country. I came to have a tremendous compassion for those men, my generational brothers, caught in those awful times, facing those unhappy decisions. Every choice a young man could make had serious consequences. My poem must have struck a nerve with my friend. He was so enthusiastic that I became unafraid to share more of my work with him. He told me once, "I get it! I am right there with you!" No author could ever expect a better compliment.

High on his appreciation, I began to take my own work far more seriously. This occurred at a time when civilization had finally made its slow, meandering way to poor, conservative, backwater Topeka, Kansas in the form of an actual coffee house. They had open mic nights - poetry slams decided by immediate round of applause whether a poet made it to the next round. With my children in the audience, I stood in front of a packed house and read a poem - out loud - through a microphone - in front of strangers. I was quaking with nervous energy.

Amazingly, it was well received and I qualified for another round. It came down to middle-aged me and an incredibly handsome, stream of consciousness young guy who blew everyone away with his unrehearsed wit and imagery and strange cadences. I came in second behind him but he absolutely deserved first place. I was just impressed with the applause and the enthusiasm for my poetry from that predominately young crowd. An older woman whose poetry did not get more than polite applause had already left as if she was angry. I was certain I was going to be humiliated in a similar fashion. I would not be angry but I would be very embarrassed. When I got up there, I was looking out into a sea of faces, knowing I was about to publicly humiliate myself and my children. I will always cherish the memory of seeing my children's beaming faces, their smiles from ear to ear, encouraging me to go for it. So I went for it - and came in unofficially second and that was damn well good enough.

So... after a quarter of a century, I am going to subject myself to another round of horrible self-doubt and public humiliation this weekend, reading a poem or two during an open mic session - unless after I hear other's work I decide to just stay in my seat.

Relatively Speaking...

You get a little better idea of this guy's size...

This big white horse recently moved into the neighborhood. I first noticed him when he was in a pasture next to the road. I so much wanted to stop and pet him but I did not. He is enormous! He is spending the summer in a very large pasture, and I only got these pictures because I have a telephoto lens. The photos do not convey the true size of this guy. I wish I knew more about him. He is beautiful!

Going from a local giant down to one of the tiny frogs that live in my front yard:  I had to stalk this little dude with my camera for a long time before I got a good photo. He is about the size of a fingernail. He and his kin spring about a foot into the air - an enormous jump, considering how small they are! I make the effort to avoid stepping on them.

I do not know what species of frog he is - if he is full grown - why he lives around the house rather than at the edge of the creek - why I never saw anything like this around the other house? I wonder if he is one of the peepers I hear all night long. So many questions, and no where to find the answers!

The toads that live in the dirt under the porch and hang out at the dog water tub are quickly growing large. The dogs completely ignore the toads, and the toads do not seem to care that they have to share a significant portion of real estate and resources the with canines. At some point, I am sure Duke sampled a toad and knows to leave them all alone. Jake surely discovered the same bitter truth. Otherwise, there would not be a single toad living around the front steps.

Yesterday I witnessed a horrific accident when Duke mindlessly stepped on a toad right in front of me. The poor toad was laying belly up in the grass and I thought he was either dead or mortally wounded. After I got both dogs occupied elsewhere, I came back to check on the unfortunate toad. He was still belly up and motionless. Using the machete, I gently and carefully prodded the poor guy, and he came to life enough to at least right himself. His color had gone from the usual black, brown and tan to a greenish yellow. Either he was dying or toads have certain chameleon-like abilities. As I watched, he hopped to safety under the steps. I hope he was unhurt, but getting stepped on by an 80 pound dog cannot be too healthy.

It is amazing the useless things I learn simply by walking to the car every morning. A small toad produces an enormous amount of fecal matter. I see scat on the sidewalk almost every morning, and the toads are the most likely donors! I cannot imagine how many insects they have to eat in order to leave that much manure behind. The foremost question in my mind is why do they have to poop on the sidewalk? You can bet I avoid stepping on that, too.

Signs - Some Good and Some Not So Good

When I get in my car, the same one with another four years of expensive monthly payments due, I am greeted with this array of good news. Change the oil soon. 16 miles left before the tank is empty. And yes, something is amiss with the engine. N i i i i i i i i i c e!

When I left my house this afternoon (with a maximum range of 16 miles) I discovered cowboy sign at the top of the driveway. My neighbors moved a herd of cattle and a few of the beasts must have tried to escape down my drive way.

I have always loved hoofprints. They literally marked all the years of my childhood.

Another sign of spring, at last.  Two unknown (to me) "weeds" with beautiful green flowers.

This is a normal intersection in Wabaunsee County, Kansas. It is aligned to the cardinal directions, and there is certainly nothing unusual about the location. You cannot be truly lost in Kansas. You may not know exactly where you are, but by simply continuing to drive due east, west, north or south, you will soon intersect another road, and then you will know where you are. Unless, of course, you come across this stack of confusing road signs!

Where the hell am I?

Lastly, here is a sign of the end of the world:  This is the one and only photograph I was able to capture of the full lunar eclipse. I have had my camera for over two years now. You would think I would understand how to set the aperture and the speed so I could capture something as beautiful as this. I even had the camera mounted on the tripod and the telescopic lens attached.

First, I accidentally took a photo of the tripod (with the tag still on it). Then I photographed the boards of the front porch. I took a brilliantly colored photo of the moon, full of light, but it was smeared all over due to movement of the tripod. Amazingly, I managed to get this one, single, beautiful, if too dark, portrait of the moon and the star, or planet, beside it.

The most amazing thing was the fact that at totality, I could rest comfortably in my own bed with a perfectly centered view of the moon through the south window. Magic!

The Pyramids of Kansas

It was about a week too late for photographs of the enormous mounds of the north central Kansas milo harvest by the small town of Glen Elder.  This was the last uncovered hill and it only shows a bit of the marvelous striations of colors from the various strains and hybrid seeds.  Normally these enormous hills are beautiful mosaics of yellows, golds, reds, browns and beige.  Every year when I drive by, I wish for my camera.  I remembered to take my camera this time but just missed the best and most beautiful.

At this particular site, there are three huge covered buildings, and there were three enormous outdoor mounds already covered with the heavy plastic tarps. I failed to get a good picture of the entire complex.  There are millions of bushels of milo there.

According to KSSorghum.com, in 2011 Jewell County led the state in highest sorghum production with 5.95 million bushels followed by Smith County with 4.97 million bushels. Mitchell, Rooks and Osborne County rounded out the top five. Marshall County saw the highest yields in 2011 with 112.5 bushels per acre.  Glen Elder is in Mitchell County.  Kansas typically produces between 40 and 50% of the nation's sorghum crop. 

My "warm and fuzzy" feelings about milo was dealt a blow when I read that the Kansas Grain Sorghum Producers Association "continues to play a key role in advocating and protecting crop protection choices for Kansas sorghum farmers. KGSPA is one of the founding leaders of the Triazine Network, a national coalition of agriculture groups who continue to work to keep the atrazine and other triazine herbicides available to growers."   KGSPA is the only organization with a registered lobbyist representing sorghum growers in the Kansas Legislature.

After reading that, I went to the Environmental Protection Agency web site.  The EPA is concerned with the widespread contamination of drinking water.  "Atrazine is currently one of the most widely used agricultural pesticides in the United States, with estimated production of 76 to 85 million pounds annually."

All I can say is that I am thankful for the EPA's monitoring of this herbicide.  I hope they know what they are doing.

Shamelessly Pandering to My Readers

I know a very fine young man originally from the Sichuan Province of China who sometimes reads my blog. He is always complimentary of it. Of course positive responses are welcomed regardless of the source, but when a person who speaks English as a second language claims to enjoy my ordinary chronicles, that compliment carries some value. It certainly carries more value than my son's opinion of his mom's "lame stories", for example.

I recently had the chance to ask my friend from whence he hailed in China, or as we say out here in the backwater of America,"Where ya fruuum originally?" Translated that means "Where were you born and raised?"

Since I know very little about the Sichuan Province of China I did what any citizen of the world would do and googled "Szechwan" - because that is how it is spelled on the menu in every Chinese restaurant I have ever been in. (Some of us on Planet Earth have never had the opportunity to travel far from home.)

While reading about the Sichuan Province of China I discovered this map:

It startled me. The outline of China resembles a distorted outline of the United States. Sichuan Province roughly occupies the central part of China the way Kansas sits in the heart of the USA:



When I saw this similarity, I wondered if there are Sichuan equivalents to the more colorful characters of Kansas. Did a Sichuan man spend his life collecting a thousand miles of string into a ball that his town later enshrined as a tourist attraction? Did an artist build a giant plate-steel meat cleaver, paint it lime green then display it on the corner in Chengdu? Is there a crazy Sichuan man who dances exuberantly on street corners with a table lamp, complete with the electric cord and light bulb but minus the shade?

I am going to go out on a limb and guess yes, there are crazy, quirky people and funny, unfathomable things in Sichuan, too, but maybe nothing as horrible as this:

Indications of Evolution... Or Not

The gravel roads going both east and west from my home have been recently renewed with fresh rock.  While necessary, it is always better when the roads have been pounded into a surface resembling concrete.  New rock yields about a year's worth of dust that finds its way into every nook and cranny in a vehicle, and in my case, into the house.  It means a fair amount of mud though we have almost forgotten what a muddy road is thanks to the extended drought.  It also means that I can no longer drive 50 miles per hour.  Fresh gravel is the equivalent of covering the road with marbles.  After the county has brought in new gravel, it takes a couple of days to adjust to a slower and safer rate of travel.  That is why I almost drove into the ditch Sunday afternoon. 

I was going a little too fast for fresh gravel when I spotted a small snake racing across the road.  Normally snakes stop and lay in a straight line, thinking they are camouflaged - not a good strategy.  This little guy knew better than to act like a stick but instead of turning back he was slithering across the road at top speed.  I quickly slowed down, hoping he would stop.  He must have been a racer because he did not slow at all.  I instantly recognized a fateful encounter for him, so I hit the brakes - a little too hard - and the car began to skid in the loose gravel.  I kept steering away from the snake but quickly ran out of room and the snake just kept racing toward the front wheels of my car.  Luckily for me and the snake, I was not going so fast that I lost control.  I avoided the ditch and the snake, seeing in the side mirror that he was unharmed and still racing for the other side. 

Snakes know nothing about insurance companies.  Even if we could somehow speak their language, it would be impossible to explain about the human snakes that have successfully lobbied the government into an unholy morass of liability laws that do not favor "the insured".  In addition, this particular snake had no idea that I was genetically predisposed toward hating snakes - that I was tenderly nurtured by a man who fearlessly locked up the wheels of his truck, skidding recklessly, confidently, to kill any snake unfortunate enough to cross his path.  My father would slam to a stop, crash into reverse and floor it in order to run over any snake he spotted in the rear view mirror. 

I have evolved past my fear and loathing of snakes - as long as I am at a safe distance.  I have often stopped in the road to get a good look at one laying still, stretched in a perfect line.  If I wait long enough, it will eventually make its silent, graceful way across the road.  I have overcome the unreasonable fear and hatred of snakes learned at my father's knee but not because I have grown wise or mellowed with age.  There is only one reason why I do not kill every snake that crosses my path: mice.  Snakes eat mice.  I wish mice would cross the road in front of my car.  I learned the techniques of vehicular assassination from a master.  I would kill them all in cold blood and back up for good measure.

The Sun, The Moon and The Stars

The Sun's Halo


The Moon and the Rose


and the Sweet Gum Stars... all in Gage Park.

The Junk Drawer

Every endeavor needs a MISC file, a catch-all, a junk drawer. This post qualifies for such a distinction.

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The rains are within twenty miles of here as I write this, 1:40 am central daylight time. The radar shows a band of strong rain building to the west. It does not appear that it will quite make it far enough to the east before it has slipped away northward. Though it rained the other night, leaving about an inch of water in the dog bowl, the soil beneath the dish was as dry and dusty as if it had never rained. It is going to take a lot of water to saturate the soil again, fill the ponds, restore Spirit Creek. Eventually, it will rain again. It always does. It always will.

I just heard the first rumble of distant thunder! The Duke and I need to take a little stroll about the place to see if we can entice those Thunders this way.

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An unexpected, wonderful event happened to me today. My friends returned from a trip to California, bearing gifts. They brought a living white sage plant to me. I often burn the dried leaves of that plant. It possesses a much stronger aroma and presence than the Plains sage. To have a houseplant again is good. I have had none in my house for many years. It will be pleasant to share my indoor space with a living plant this winter and I hope we have a long, lasting relationship.

People and plants can have enduring, monogamous relationships. A great aunt on my mother's side of the family had a particular cactus that flourished in her care. It started as a little cactus she got on a trip through the desert when she was a young woman. In time, it sent out long tubes of spine-covered arms in all directions, dominating its space in her comfortable old home. My aunt took a hatchet to the cactus in order to give my cousin a start from that venerable old plant. Apparently, the cactus took no umbrage to the axe treatment. For many decades the cactus thrived in the care and companionship of my aunt, growing far too large for its allotted space. I never heard of its fate when she passed away. Truly, the cactus was too large to be moved. Perhaps it soon followed her and they continue their long companionship in a new environment.

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Amazingly, the rain looks to be splitting right around the county. There is a clear area almost exactly in the shape of the county as the rain moves to the northeast. I should not despair, but when it is so close, and the chances for more rain are still a week into the future, it is disappointing. Perhaps my neighbors have field work that needs to be done right now, so they are hoping the rain will hold off, Duke and my enticements notwithstanding.