Off the Beaten Path: The Kansas Prairie

  

Not all road trips are created equal.  I mean, the drive from Arkansas to Boulder is nothing like  Highway 1 on the California Coast.  But there are highlights: the stockyards / slaughterhouses right after you cross the Arkansas River into Oklahoma, the one island on the Muskogee Turnpike where my dad always stopped for a Coke, the Tulsa tollbooths, the truckstop at the Kansas border with pay showers in the bathrooms, Wichita's lonesome canal, the woods at the rest stop near Salina, the windmills when you first turn West, the Starbucks near Colby, the strip with the fake palm trees, the first sight of the Rocky Mountains.  That about covers it.

Early February, I got behind the wheel of my mother's car.  I had my girls in tow as well as a sense giddiness that did not seem to match what lay ahead.  One year, despite a sense of urgency to move forward fast, I turned off the Interstate.  It was summertime, and I had my kids but no husband.  I felt free to cut a corner before turning South.  We came across a dam, which led to a beach and a state park.  We threw on our bathing suits, swam and made castles in dirty landlocked sand for hours.  

This time, when we reached that same exit, we knew a storm was coming from the West.  I even anticipated camping out in a hotel for a couple of nights.  But, we turned, without regret. 

Instantly, the plains became bigger, and smaller at the same time.  They were someone's land, with evidence in the hay bales, the fences, the houses, even the deserted houses. We turned off our book on tape, cracked our windows.  Instead of cruising at 75 m.p.h., I pulled over time after time for photos.  Clara took out her camera.  June just got out.

In the photos, everything is big white sky, big brown field, and then some desolate figure in the bottom corner.  Against the greedy landscape, everything looks like bones:  tree bones, house bones, hay bale bones, windmill bones, even playground bones.  In life, there were thousands of birds.  It was a postcard for the Nature Conservancy prairie effort.  Plus, the wind carried the sound of all those birds.  It shook the grass to life and made energy to spare through those turning windmills.

Sometimes I think that I shouldn't take my kids off the beaten path so much.  They need predictability.  I mean, we were already on a long road trip, disconnected from the other half of our family, unsure of weather ahead.  But, I had to show them, and I had to see.  Maybe someday they will read or even write Willa Cather.  As long as they don't get lost on the backroads, even the backroads of their minds as my sister once wrote in a song, I think they understand that the reward can be worth it all.  

Off the beaten path

Parenting seems often to be on a beaten path.  Our lives revolve around so many rituals and routines, close to home.  There is an element of protection and shaping, but also of pure practicality.  We don't move with perfect agilely through the world, all six of us.  So, home is a nice place to be much of the time.  But, that's not to say that we don't break out.  

Recently, I took my girls up into the mountains, and the day turned out to be all quirk.  The birthday party that brought us there was at a surreal carousel, magically set up in a small mountain town.  Its very existence was spawned by a dreamer.   Then, during the party, Clara and I went to a used bookstore, coffee shop, ice cream parlor, jewelry store hangout across the street.  A heavy, mystical aura hung all around the place.  Along with the smell of books. We read funky sayings on the walls, picked out some treasures, patted the resident cat, read at a wobbly round table, licked ice cream and drank hot tea.

Thinking back, we could have been anywhere in the world.  And sharing that feeling brought us close together.

Little a Long Way

Over the weekend, most of it spent at home, a little snowshoe hike went a long way.  I was thankful for the day, the dog and kids old enough to make it beyond 20 feet.

An Hour and a Hill

On a recent weekend walk, albeit one peppered with bickering and tantrums, the kids found a hill.  They then proceeded to body surf for an hour.  It was a lot like sledding without the snow, or the sled.   

Everyone was fairly timid when they began.  But, variations came fast, including head first and the all-kid pile up.  For times when the sibling tensions return, I'll have to return to that hill.

Farmer's Market Dream

I dream of Farmer's Market mornings:  waking early, hopping on my bike, cruising along, free, and gathering up beautiful, local greens that spill out of my well-worn canvas bag.  Picking up a dozen fresh eggs, maybe grabbing myself a pastry and coffee, beating the crowd.  Then winding my way back home, peaceful and ready to meet the energy that awaits.

That's the dream.  The reality is that I can't easily slip out.  (John wakes the second I get up, which means the others do, too.)  Nor do I have the heart.  My short-sighted self thinks, "How can I deprive my kids from all the beauty and the education of the Farmer's Market?"  So we all go.  Clara, John and I bike, while Jeff takes the others in the car so he can add on some errands.

Here is a retelling of our family "Farmer's Market" trip:

We play pop-up tag in a nearby field.

We stare at the balloon man.

We invent a game that involves a wad of finger-knit.

We navigate some nervy time by the creek.

We enjoy a long trip to the bathroom.

We play hide-and-go-seek in the courtyard across the street.
(She's behind the pot.)

We throw pennies in a fountain.

And finally, I glimpse longingly at some radishes.

I did make it home with a dozen eggs and some pricey asparagus, but also with my dreamy idea of the Farmer's Market still intact.