Part Indian, Full Blood Cowboy

The world is missing one of its most original sons now. Ed Ketterman died last Tuesday when his big heart finally gave out. At the age of 75, not so old in these times, he made the decision he was tired and ready to move on. With his wife of fifty five years, and his loving family gathered around him, he took his leave the same way he lived his life - on his terms.

The day of the funeral, the main church was filled to capacity, with a large number of people relegated to the other side of the building where they could only hear the service. People of all ages came to say goodbye. It was no surprise to me that so many would come, but the preacher remarked on the unusually large funeral for someone Ed's age.

As I sat in the church with all those people who knew and loved Ed, I wondered who, in all of my life, was as honest and authentic as this good man. There was no one to compare.

Ed had a very quick mind, an excellent memory, and sized up any situation in an instant. He could not resist getting a person right where it stings, but it was never mean spirited. A darker man with the same attributes could have cut people to ribbons, but Ed's big heart and excellent humor saved all of us slower wits. There was always a twinkle in his eye.

Ed knew who he was and did not care who you may have thought you were. Marty Shottenheimer, head coach of Kansas City Chiefs, came through one day where Ed worked. The Chiefs had made the playoffs but lost in the first round. When Marty came by glad-handing everyone, Ed gave him the needle for bumbling the team's chances. Knowing Ed, he had distilled the entire failure of the game down to the pivotal point, and with his talent for truth, shot the arrow right into Marty's self important ego. Marty just walked on. Though I was not there, I can guarantee there was delight in Ed's eyes.

You never had to guess where you stood with Ed Ketterman. He would tell you straight out what he thought. It was never in an overbearing, heavy handed way. It was just plain words, simple spoke. And he had a great sense of humor.

For quite some time he had to have a mechanical apparatus that regulated his heart beat. It was something more complicated than just a pace maker, as I understand it. Last year he needed to go in for an adjustment to this technology, which required some surgery. When they asked him to remove his boots, he refused. Knowing Ed, he was just checking to see what he could get away with. Ed had the surgery with his boots on, like any good cowboy.

Ed on the right.

Ed was a cowboy, a roper, a horse trainer. He was a hunter. He had a passion for sports - from his granddaughter's softball to all major league professional sports. He was a husband and a family man. A good neighbor. A grandfather and great grandfather. His obituary read, in part: "10 grandchildren, 22 great-grandchildren and the many children that called him Dad and Grandpa". Some of those "children" who called him Dad are well into middle age. He was my father's best friend, so I have known and loved Ed from the day I was born. When my father died unexpectedly in my childhood, it was Ed's big heart that offered what shelter there was for my broken one.

Some years ago, a cousin in Ed's family traced the family tree and discovered they were descendants of Red Cloud's people, the Oglala Lakota. It did not surprise me in the least that Ed was Lakota.

There is no way to capture the man here, or do his life justice, or convey the grief his family feels at his passing. No way to fully honor this good man and what he meant to so many people. No way to explain who he was to me. It is a great sorrow that in this lifetime I will never again hear his voice, never see this man I loved as much as my own father.

It was a cold winter day when the hearse took Ed to his final resting place in a tiny township cemetery, not five miles from the front door of the house where he lived for the last fifty years. Four horses came galloping to the fence as the hearse drove slowly by. They took off to the west, bucking and cavorting in the cold air, celebrating the passing of an honorable Oglala son - a genuine cowboy - the best man I have ever known.

Choose Happiness

I was behind one of the new Smart Cars in the drive through the other day. I could not stop smiling. Two full grown adults were aboard, and it was just too darned cute - even from the back. Head on, these little cars look like they are smiling, too.

Until they are given four wheel drive and a higher road clearance, it simply will not be practical to drive a Smart Car and live on the farm. One good bounce over a deep rut in the road and the little Smart Car would likely be ruined. But if I lived in town, I would own one of these little jewels for sure.

Change takes a lot of effort to overcome inertia, to move the status quo off dead center, but once it begins, it becomes increasingly easier. As the technology for the greener energy sources and the far more efficient use of traditional energy improves, change will gain momentum and acceptance. Once everyone is driving a cute little machine like this, how could we possibly treat one another hatefully?

Truly, The Land of Oz

In the little town of Wamego, Kansas, there is an old wild west prairie town theater, the Columbian. Built as a music hall in 1893, genuine cowboys came there for entertainment. Some years ago a group of enterprising folks restored that wonderful old building located right on the main street. They have been holding plays and musicals there ever since.

It is difficult to gather enough support for the Arts in Kansas - except for country music, the highest art form embraced here. I find it remarkable that such a small town has managed to restore the theater, stage plays and musicals, and draw an international crowd at least once a year to OZtoberFEST (every October). It is a citywide celebration of the Wizard of Oz.

I have been asked at least five hundred times "How is Dorothy?" after admitting to an out lander that I hail from Kansas. The only thing the rest of the world knows of Kansas is from the movie "The Wizard of Oz" - Dorothy and Toto and Auntie Em, all from Kansas. When someone asks me about Dorothy or Toto, I always get to say yes, I am from Kansas and even better - I have an Auntie Em, too - my mother's older sister, Emma Jean, forever called Em. It is fun.

I am not complaining that Kansas' claim to fame is a wonderful, timeless story beloved by millions. We could be known as the state that elected a school board hell bent on teaching creationism instead of evolution in our public schools in the twenty first century!

Wamego has made the Wizard of Oz into a true event. The remaining original actors who portrayed Munchkins in the movie come for the festivities. My daughter and I attended a dinner with these tiny actors one year. We met them and visited just a bit with each one. It was fun.

One of the great grandsons of L. Frank Baum, author of the original book, was there, too. Robert Baum is a tall man, with white hair, and he was dressed as Professor Tinker, the fortune teller who was also the Wizard of Oz. Mr. Baum looked so much like Professor Tinker to me that I had to stop and do the math. The actor who played the Wizard could not possibly have still been alive! I thought it remarkable that he so resembled the Wizard. (What kind of crazy karma is going on there?!)

The Wizard of Oz is performed on the stage in the Columbian each year, and it is very well done. We are not talking a Broadway production, but the acting and singing are certainly well performed, and the stage sets are ingenius and excellent. The tornado was constructed from yards of dark cloth and spun about with appropriate sound effects - it resembled a tornado in appearance and behavior - so clever. My favorite, and the very best special effect, were the genuine sparks that flew between the finger tips of the Wicked Witch and Dorothy's ruby slippers! And yes, there is a little dog Toto, too. He resembles the original Toto, and knows his cues like any professional actor worth his dog biscuits.

After six years the play has been retired, but OZtoberFEST continues. The Oz Museum is open next to the Columbian Theater, and there are many other Oz related festivities each fall. I am sure there will be something else to take the place of the play.

This year when I drove through Wamego's main street during the 'FEST, there were license plates from all over the United States: New Jersey, Florida, New York, Tennessee, Texas, California... I can not remember all the different license plates I noticed. The magic of Oz still lives in Kansas, and pilgrims come from far and wide. How much fun is that?

Visit Columbian Theater here.
There are links to the Oz museum and the OZtoberFEST, too.

The Artist Daniel W Coburn

Updated December 18, 2018
 
I removed the link to Daniel W Coburn's Kansas photographs because the site no longer exists. I cannot find a link to his spectacular Kansas photography. He has moved on as a fine art photographer, not surprisingly, and as an author. I wish I could still link to his Kansas work because it was breath-takingly beautiful. He still has a website, danielwcoburn.com

Best of luck to him in all of his endeavors.

I once had a link to to Daniel Coburn's web site, where he had published some of the most beautiful photographs of Kansas. I felt that he was quite familiar with the beauty of Kansas and had captured moments in each season, each time of day that reveal this land to those patient enough to wait for the landscape to reveal itself.

Of all who have attempted to photograph the space and sky of Kansas, only Daniel Coburn succeeded in capturing what must be seen to be believed. He had photographed the spirit and beauty of Kansas.

The First Installment of Cave Woman* Adventures

This morning it was 15 degrees Fahrenheit . It was darned cold in Kansas. There was a beautiful but hard frost covering everything. All the standing water was frozen in the dog dish, the chicken pen, and in the horse tank. All week I knew it was going to become this cold but naturally, I could not be proactive. No. Cave Woman can only be reactive.

So, there I was, wrestling with frozen electrical extension cords covered in frost - because when I rolled them up last spring, I left them right where I would need them again - in nine months.

Extension cords are not very flexible in below freezing weather but I got one cord untangled and plugged into to the light pole. I needed another extension cord to reach all the way to the chicken pen. I eventually got the second one unrolled and threaded through the chicken wire. As I connected the two cords, I realized a moment too late the rubber had been stripped off the end of one of the cords - the one in my left hand - where the snap, crackle, and pop of 110 volts of electricity was sparking and smoking in my gloved fingers.

I did not die. I did take my glove off and check to make sure I had not blown any holes in my cave woman self.

When I left for work, all the chickens were gathered round the fresh water, happily drinking from their heated water dispenser.

The shock therapy cleared the normal brain fog. All morning my mind has been as sharp as a razor.

To be continued....


*A nod to the two Cave Men I work with, Rog' and Gary.

Dogs and Digital Mysteries

Digital Photography is the most miraculous thing that human beings have ever invented. No film, no waiting, no expensive disappointments. I can delete blurry and bad photos with reckless abandon. I can take one hundred photos of the same subject and not feel guilty. When I open the files on my computer screen, they come alive with the light from within, almost as magnificent as when originally seen.  Often there are things in the photo not noticed by my eye or my mind.

My little digital camera is capable of much more functionality than I know how to use. I have been experimenting with the camera's settings, hoping I can capture at least some of the more subtle and important aspects of subject matter that escape and frustrate me now. It is the same frustration I feel when I paint. I simply have not mastered the tools, neither the paints nor the camera, to reproduce what I see.

Once again, I tried to photograph the moonlit scenery. Tonight the moon is so bright that my eyes can distinguish some colors outdoors. Of course, master photographers have been attempting to capture the magic of moonlight since the first camera was invented and most have failed. Oh, but I think I can do better with my little Kodak?

It is very cold tonight and clear. It is beautiful.  I spent quite some time attempting to photograph the magic of the full moon illuminating the landscape. I wonder what my old dog Duke thinks I am doing when I go on these night forays. He understands feeding the horses, letting the chickens out of their pen. When my kids visit and hike the creek, Duke naturally gets the concept of the pack going on an adventure. I wonder what he thinks when I take the camera out at night, randomly flashing an exceedingly bright light at nothing he perceives as extraordinary.

We assume the concept of taking pictures, and any number of other things, are beyond the intelligence of dogs. What if they are actually a superior race, so far evolved beyond us that they know photography, digital or otherwise, is such a futile endeavor only human beings would waste their time with it? Dogs do not go to war, build nuclear weapons, oppress and torture others. Dogs do not get in political debates. Sometimes when the ol' Dukenator, faithful and forever loyal, accompanies me in my idiot adventures, I know he came from the wisest species in the universe.

The puppy Duke.

Mother Earth News - The Nightmare

The new issue of Mother Earth News arrived yesterday in my mailbox. I love that magazine. My entire life I have wanted to own a small farm and get off the grid. That has been the biggest and most enduring dream - that and being a successful writer. Well, I do own a small acreage now, but the "farming" and "off the grid" parts are long past taking root. As Bob Dylan says, "Some things in life it just gets too late to learn."

I have had gardens a few times in my life, beginning at age twelve. The only garden that came to fruition was a small garden planted in the back yard of a rental home in east Topeka where a chicken coop once stood, according to the owner. Chicken poop - the stuff of miracles!

The small garden yielded a respectable crop of green beans, my favorite vegetable of all time. I had never canned anything, but my neighbor lady (whom I forgave daily for her gossip, interference, and Christian judgment against my divorced lifestyle) guided me through the process over her garden fence. Soon there were fourteen quarts of home grown green beans magnificently displayed on the kitchen counter top - in brand new Ball jars - with shiny lids. No human being had ever been more proud of green beans.

After a few days, a sour smell began to permeate the house. I almost cried when I tracked it down to the jars of beans. They did not properly seal. My green beans were spoiling in the jars. I emptied the beans and gave the jars to my nosy neighbor and Jesus.

This bean debacle came after tremendous effort: I purchased fencing and fence posts, enclosing about a ten by twelve plot in the back yard. I hand dug the soil with a spade. I planted that garden with such high hopes. I even put in hybrid corn that was designed to be planted in a single row and only grew about three feet high. It was for small urban gardens. I harvested corn alright - one tiny little ear per plant. My little girl and I had two tiny "roasting ears" for lunch one day, laughing over the dwarfed ears. I figured a net harvest of about 54 kernels of corn. Those green beans were my shining accomplishment for so much work and expense.

The green bean failure came hard on the heels of the ill-fated year of 1980, when my husband left me unexpectedly on six acres of land in Osage County. I had decided I would stay on even though The Jackass had left. Early that spring, I ordered seedlings of evergreens and lilac bushes and some other plants from the Kansas State University extension office. I continued to work full time in Topeka and work full time at improving "the farm".

I planted a row of little pine trees in depressions I had carefully dug to protect them from the wind. I mulched them with straw. Because I was broke, I could not afford another garden hose, so I carried buckets of water to them. I nourished those plants as if they were babies all that horrible hot summer. I might have to remind you that the summer of 1980 was one of the longest unbroken string of 100 degree plus days on local record, but I continued to water my little trees with great hope and vision. It came to an ugly end when The Jackass, in a misguided and worthless attempt to assuage his guilty conscience, came to mow the huge yard while I was at work in Topeka. He mowed down ALL the little trees, and the lilac bushes, and everything else I had been nursing along that hateful summer. It was a symbolic final straw and I moved back to Topeka in time for my daughter to begin third grade in Topeka that fall.

Those two horrible gardening calamities ended my gardening dreams and I bought a Harley Davidson instead. I could share a few more pathetic attempts at gardening, but why reopen the scabbed over wounds?!

Now, instead of risking the heartache of failure, I read of other people's success in Mother Earth News. This year there was an article about a 13 year old girl gloriously successful with her organic gardening, raising chickens, baking bread and writing about it!

These are the things that drive middle aged women to alcohol.