Not enough friends? Or too much bread?

Posted on November 28, 2011 by Lou Ann Thomas

            A friend recently gave me a bag of starter for Friendship Bread.  I love the easily customized, moist, sweet bread that can be created from the starter, so I was thrilled. 

            But if you have ever received a bag of Friendship Bread starter you know that it can quickly become a curse.  Oh, it starts out innocent enough.  The small baggie of beige batter appears harmless.  It’s basically one package of dry yeast, some warm water, three cups of flour, sugar and milk.  The instructions that come along with the starter don’t appear foreboding either, although it does require a bit of a commitment.

            There is nothing insidious about any of that, you might say.  However, you would be mistaken.  Within the bag of starter and accompanying recipe lies a sweet confection that could easily take over your life.

            The first few days you simply squeeze the bag.  Of course, the recipe leaves it open as to how much squeezing is required.  Being a member of Over-Achievers Anonymous (yes, it’s true, we have our own 12-step program, only we’ve expanded it to 24-steps), I squeezed mine several times a day.  I pulled myself back from actually setting a timer and squeezing it every two hours.

            After being lulled into what would soon prove to be false security, the directions begin to get a little more complicated.  Soon you are asked to add more milk, more flour and a few other ingredients.  You then return to squeezing for another few days.  All of that is followed by adding the rest of the ingredients and separating the result into equal shares of starter, which you are instructed to now pass on to other unsuspecting souls.  This is how this edible chain letter is spread.

            This is also when I knew I had bitten off more bread than I could chew.  I was unable to find anyone who would take the starter bags of Friendship Bread.  It seems as though everyone I know was aware of the pitfalls of raising this bread.  And by now I indeed felt as though I was “raising” it because it was requiring more and more responsibility and a commitment similar to owning a pet.  It had to be tended daily and fed regularly, and it felt somehow cruel and heartless to dump it out.  I honestly considered driving mine into town and leaving the bags of starter near a house that looked friendly toward baked goods.

            But instead I called my friend Andy, who was a professional baker, to ask if I might drop off some bags of Friendship Bread starter.  His answer was a surprising and emphatic “No!”  Then in a softer, more compassionate tone he explained, “I love Friendship Bread.  It’s delicious, but it gets way out of hand.  Do yourself a favor and get rid of it now, while you can.  I’m telling you this for your own good.  It will take over your life.  Get out now!”

            No one else I knew would accept a bag of Friendship Bread starter either, and since I had so much time and energy invested in the ever growing bags of batter I couldn’t bear to throw it out, so I’ve been spending every spare moment squeezing dozens of bags.  I’m also spending 10 to 12 hours every couple of weeks baking the bread.  My freezer is full of the stuff and my countertops are overflowing with bags of bread in various stages of completion.

            Andy called the other day and when I told him I didn’t have time to chat he knew the real reason.  “It’s the Friendship Bread, isn’t it?  You didn’t get rid of it soon enough and now it has taken over, hasn’t it?  I tried to tell you….”  I hung up before he finished.  I had bags to squeeze!

Posted in Grass & Grain Columns | 2 Comments

Hanging on to the top rungs

Posted on September 15, 2011 by Lou Ann Thomas

             In the past few months we have lost several elders from our community.  These are people I have known my entire life.  Several were “neighborhood parents” when I was growing up.  In small communities like this we had more than one set of parents.  Everyone in the neighborhood watched out for us and had the authority to correct us when we needed it.  It was not unusual to do something ornery on the way home from school and by the time we arrived at our front door our mother was waiting for us having heard of our latest indiscretion from one or more of the other Mom’s.

             The passing of each one of these lives feels as though it has created a tear in the fabric of this community.  There are certainly holes where each once lived, gave, smiled, laughed and loved.  Each one had a space and place in the community that cannot be completely filled by someone else in the same way.  Each gave of themselves and their resources in a distinctly individual way and their absence is now palpable.

             So with each one there is great sadness at having to live on without them.  But there is also some trepidation.  I have never known life without Henry, Leroy, Judy, Jean, Edna Mae or any of the others who are no longer here.  And although no one can take their place, they did leave work behind for someone else to do.  They left places of giving that still need to receive.  They left songs to be sung that someone will be called to sing.  They left families behind who still need to be loved.

            And they left my generation to wonder, “What is this new place we find ourselves occupying?”  The elders were our insulation from our own mortality.  With them passing we are left pondering our own place in the order of life.  If we look at life as a ladder, as long as I have my elders a rung or two ahead of me, I don’t have to worry so much about that last step.  But with my elders passing that leaves me feeling rather precariously perched on higher rungs than I now feel comfortable.

             Most of the people I’ve had to say goodbye to lately lived lives that were full of family, service, community, adventure —  life.  They left behind amazing legacies.  They were active in the community, serving on boards, committees, volunteering in places where they saw needs that they might fill.

            I really do none of that.  In fact, I avoid most things that would require me to attend meetings.  So I wonder what will I leave behind?  What will be my legacy?  And what am I doing with my life that may count or matter?

            I am grateful for the opportunity to ask these questions, since my mortality is certain.  Maybe that too is part of what my elders have left behind.  Their passing reminds me that I can’t change the fact I too am going to die.  But I am in total control of how I live.  I am also grateful to my elders for being such good examples that a life well lived is the only life to live.

Posted in Uncategorized | 7 Comments

Doing The Stupid helped make me smarter

Posted on July 11, 2011 by Lou Ann Thomas

Over the weekend I mowed my lawn.  It had been over two weeks since I started that project because shortly after I did I accidentally mowed over my dog Sam’s 40-foot tie out cable.  The cable became immediately and tightly wound around all three of the mower’s blades. 

Yeah, I once again did The Stupid.  I’m not new to The Stupid.  I’ve visited it often through the years.  We all do – at some point.  Some of us more frequently than others, but who among us hasn’t found themselves scratching their head, gazing into their life rearview mirror, wondering how such a good idea could go so wrong so quickly?

There was the time I got my truck stuck up to its hubs in the backyard.  And about that, allow me to share a bit of my hard-earned wisdom with you.  When your tires are mired in mud, continuing to push the accelerator to the floor seldom works as well as you think it might. 

Lesson:  Forcing your will, on anything, especially mud, rarely works to your advantage.

There was also that incident when my chain saw became almost permanently wedged in the trunk of a fallen locust tree. 

Lesson:  Cursing will not speed up the solution to any perceived problem, although it might help you feel slightly superior — momentarily. 

At least until you realize you are still stuck, the chain saw has not wiggled an inch, or that cussing does not repair the gouge in the floor caused by thinking, “This file cabinet won’t scratch the floor if I only move it a few inches.”

I suppose I could blame my latest Stupid adventure to having purchased a dog tie out that was covered in green plastic.  Putting a green tie out in the yard.  What was I thinking?  Maybe I could hold accountable my ability to become lost in a semi-meditative state while driving my lawn tractor around and around my yard.  But that only means I was operating heavy equipment without paying much attention to what I was doing.

That attention was certainly focused the instant I drove over that cable.  As I heard the blades under the mower deck come to a screeching halt, I immediately knew what I had done.  There was no doubt — I had done The Stupid. 

When you find yourself in that place of wondering what you were thinking, or if you had been thinking at all, you hope getting out of The Stupid will be easier than the situation may initially indicate.  You hope it will be a simple task to drive out of the eight-inch deep mud ruts, or to glue the yard light back together after testing, by twisting it, to see if its frame is metal or plastic and discovering it is not only plastic, but very old, brittle plastic that is now in two pieces – one in each hand. 

But it is rare there is a quick and easy recovery from The Stupid.

This was certainly the case with the dog tie-out and my mower blades.  Over the course of several days of working on it every spare minute I had the patience to do so, I was able to get most of the cable unwrapped from around the blades.  But parts of the last three feet or so were seriously wedged into the casing of the blade mounting and would not budge, no matter how much I tugged, wrestled, twisted, cursed, whined, hoped, prayed, or, despite my determination not to, cried.  

After exhausting all of those approaches, I finally called my neighbor, Ron, who had helped me free my car from a snow filled ditch my first winter back on the farm. 

Lesson:  Believing that if you back up fast enough you can drive through a drift as high as your car window can mean leaving your car in said drift until spring or until a kind neighbor drives by with a chain to pull you out.

As Ron was gathering up his chain, and I was profusely expressing my gratitude and appreciation, that winter day he told me that if I ever needed help to call him.  “Really.  Anything.  Just call,” he said as he got back in his truck.  As I dialed his phone number, I was hoping he had meant that.  Fortunately he had and Ron showed up quickly, with appropriate tools, and had the last pieces of cable loosened in no time.

I had considered calling Ron sooner, but I come from a long line of stubborn people and was certain I could get myself out of this without anyone’s help.  I was strong and independent.  I could do it.  At least that’s what I thought until another moral of this story surfaced. 

Lesson:  On the other side of the “stubborn” coin is “humility.” 

It was humbling to have to call Ron to ask for help, but his readiness to do so and his assurance that “we all make mistakes” really took any negative bite out of it.  In fact, Ron hung around for awhile and we had a nice chat before he headed back home.  I appreciated that this had turned into an opportunity to get to know him a little better.

People often comment about how isolated I am out here, or how they could never live in a small community “because everyone knows everyone’s business.  And to an extent that’s true, but it can also be necessary.  We are isolated when we live in the country, and indeed there is often the feeling that people know a lot about each other’s business.  But those two things are connected.  Because we live rather secluded from each other it’s good to know what’s going on with those around us.   As we drive by we look at each other’s houses and property but that really isn’t because we’re nosey.  But rather we’re making sure everything and everyone is okay.  If we see smoke coming from some place other than a chimney or burn pile, we stop.  If it appears someone is having trouble, we pull in and offer assistance.  And if there’s a strange car in the driveway we slow down and make sure whomever it belongs to knows they have been noticed and a note of their presence has been made. 

Lesson:  We may be isolated, but we aren’t insular, and we take the axiom “we look out for each other” seriously. 

That’s why the most important thing I learned from this last run-in with The Stupid ended up making me feel much smarter. 

Lesson:  It may be difficult for us to ask for help, but we can all use a little of it now and then.   

And when you do need it, it sure is comforting to know you have good neighbors who will show up and free your mower blades — and you from The Stupid.

Posted in Lessons from the Land | 3 Comments

Here’s how naive I am…

Posted on May 2, 2011 by Lou Ann Thomas

I thought that the news that Osama bin Laden had been killed by United States forces would bring the country together — for just a moment.  I didn’t expect a complete breakthrough or hiatus from the nit picking and name calling, but I thought it might be an opportunity for us to heal some of the divisiveness that has taken hold of this country.  I thought we might feel inclined to stand together, to feel united, to feel once again like a brother-and-sisterhood, much like we had when we watched in collective horror as the Twin Towers in New York, the Pentagon in Washington and Flight 93 in Pennsylvania were used as weapons of death and destruction, compliments of bin Laden. 

But, alas, that does not appear to be the case.  First thing this morning I began to read and hear not celebratory postings, not even many “job well done” but rather more of the same — accusations of not giving credit where credit may have been due, verbal attacks being slung back and forth between those who still see themselves as separate and divided, usually down some kind of political lines. 

It sickens me.  We are ripping this country apart at flimsy seams we have created ourselves.  Even in the face of completing a task that has eluded us for over 10 years we cannot muster the compassion to put our silly arguments and fault finding aside long enough to simply be Americans.  No, we have to keep picking at the wounds we ourselves have inflicted.  One side must feel superior by making the other inferior.  We equate intelligence with arrogance if we don’t like what we hear.  We hide our prejudices behind thinly veiled accusations and we hear enough gibberish over and over to begin to believe it, even if evidence to the contrary is staring us in the face. 

I am never a fan of killing, but not even I am naïve enough to believe that bin Laden would ever be taken alive.  There was no dead or alive option in the hunt for him.  So when news came that he had been killed, I struggled with my own feelings about reverence for all life and acceptance of this particular death.

What tipped the scales for me was the belief that the families of those who lost loved ones in the attacks on September 11, 2001 might feel as though some justice had been served by bin Laden’s death.  If that’s the case, then they certainly deserve that moment.  What I am now struggling even more with, though, is the inability of so many to be able to set down their differences and to stand together, to remember how it felt when we were able to do that after that day when the black smoke rose in three locations in this country and we lost thousands of our citizens.  At that moment we knew that together we could heal; together we would move forward and together we would do our best to protect each other – no matter what it took.

What happened to that American Spirit?  What is happening to us that we can’t rise above political pettiness and our differences, perceived or real, to rally as a unified whole?

A part of me wonders if we simply don’t need a bin Laden any longer.  After all, we are now doing to ourselves what no terrorist mastermind could ever even dream of achieving.  We are destroying our ability to be “one nation”, to be a people who can stand shoulder to shoulder in tragedy, as well as celebration.

If I am so naïve as to believe that we might still have that in us, then so be it.  I would prefer to be naïve than to be so jaded or so prejudiced that I refuse to accept that we might find that unifying spirit again.  I just hope we can find it without tragedy being our trigger.

Posted in As I see it | 3 Comments

Unplugging for a low-tech, high wonder day

Posted on February 18, 2011 by Lou Ann Thomas

Last Sunday I unplugged.  I didn’t check my email, update my status on Facebook, or post a single tweet.   I didn’t turn on the computer or even answer the phone.  It was a day of silence and low-tech living.

Before the sun was completely up I set my intention to simply allow the day to unfold naturally.  I wondered if I would feel uncomfortably disconnected without a computer, smart phone, social media and all the technological tools with which I spend most of my time.  

But my goal was to be conscious of and pay attention to whatever was going on around me, and soon I felt myself settling more deeply into the day and myself.  As I sat and just allowed myself to be, feeling the perfection of the day, it felt as though I was sinking into my core.  There’s a Zen koan that asks “what was your face before your parents were born?” and allowing myself to move deeply into that part of me that always is, has always been and will always be, I felt I was beginning to understand the question, if not the answer.

Of course, without spending time in front of a computer screen, or constantly checking email on my phone, or habitually scanning the various social networking sites, I was awake, aware and more conscious of everything that was happening around me.  Every time I strayed and began worrying about some upcoming deadline, to-do tasks still undone, or wondering what was happening in the cyber world in my absence, something inside would gently bring me back to my intention of allowing myself to feel whatever this day held for me.  Often that reminding came from my heart which was asking questions like, “Where are you now?  What can you hear?  What can you see?  How are you feeling?”  Sometimes it was my bladder asking, “Do you have to pee?”  And being a middle aged woman, I usually did.

But by allowing my heart to lead I started really seeing things that might have otherwise gone unnoticed.  A raccoon ran across the road and into the shed, where I had noticed his tracks but had yet to spot him.  As I looked out my north windows four deer trekked up over the hill presumably to their daytime hiding places.  That was followed by a large flock of geese flying above the valley looking for feeding grounds.  

As soon as the day warmed enough I walked up along the edge of my pond which was still ice-covered in the center, but along the edges the ice was giving way to liquid and I could see the tracks of various birds and animals that had shown up before me for a drink.  As I walked up the hill I noticed four red-tailed hawks enjoying some time riding thermals in the bright blue sky above me and heard a woodpecker in the woods tap-tap-tapping.  I felt keenly aware of every sound and sight and felt tuned and tapped in myself. 

But the most amazing part of my day occurred while I was sitting on one of the large red granite boulders that dot my pasture.  I had stopped for a break and to sink even more deeply into the heartbeat of the day.  The rock was warmed by the sunshine and I felt, without a doubt, completely in the right place at the right time.  Little did I know just how right it would be.  As I opened my eyes after my brief meditation, I looked up just as an eagle flew directly overhead.  An eagle! 

What a sight!  What a day!  And what a gift to disconnect from technology and feel so incredibly connected to everything else, including myself.  It was such a surprisingly good day that I’m hoping to treat myself to a day of Connected Disconnection every week!

Posted in Uncategorized | 10 Comments

Go for the chocolate, but enjoy the rest

Posted on January 4, 2011 by Lou Ann Thomas

When I first sent out requests for favorite places in Kansas, my friend Kelley was one of the first to respond.  Kelley knows me well and knew if she mentioned chocolate she would get my attention.  And she did when she told me a “must go” place for the sweet confection was in her hometown of Emporia.

“The Sweet Granada is the best place around for chocolate,” was all she needed to say.  I immediately checked my calendar for an opening to make a road trip to Emporia.  And what a wonderful trip it was. 

It had been years since I drove highway 99 from Wamego to Emporia and I quickly remembered its dips and rises as I wound along this narrow, two-lane highway.  From Alma to Eskridge this road is particularly scenic, and is in fact part of the state’s Native Stone Scenic Byway.  It not only passes through some of the most beautiful parts of the Flint Hills, but features many miles of historic stone fences.  The only down side is that the road winds so much and is so hilly that only passengers can thoroughly enjoy all the views.  But even solo it is a gorgeous drive that will force you to slow down and enjoy the journey.

Once in Emporia I was focused on trying some chocolate, but I found so much more than that along the main drag of Commercial Street.   It had also been a number of years since I had been in Emporia and things had really changed – for the better.  During my last visit it was difficult to find a place to eat along Commercial Street, but that is certainly not the case today.  There are any number of sandwich shops, pizza places, local eateries and diners, and of course, The Sweet Granada, from which to choose now.  Emporia appears to be a city in renaissance mode and it is looking and feeling alive and vibrant.

Part of that rebirth may be due to the beautiful renovation of the Granada Theatre, nicely sandwiched between The Sweet Granada and the Granada Coffee Company.  The theatre, on the National Register of Historic Places, first opened on October 3, 1929 and was designed by Boller Brothers, nationally known theatre designers with offices in Kansas City and Los Angeles.  The original cost of the theater was $350,000 and it seated 1,400, making it one of the largest theatres in Kansas at the time.

But, like with many grand old theatres, the 1960’s and 70’s were difficult decades and the theatre fell into disrepair, closing its doors in 1982.  In 1994, with the theatre facing demolition, a group of businessmen and concerned citizens came together to save the Spanish Colonial Revival inspired theatre.  A three-year capital-campaign, completed in December 2003, raised $2.6 million for renovation and restoration of the interior of the theatre and today it stands, beautifully restored, as a multi-purpose facility for the arts, businesses and community.

The restoration was painstaking with all the colors, tiles and moldings as close to an original match as possible.  Even the ceiling was hand stenciled by local artists to its previous grandeur.  It has truly been returned to its 1929 elegance and is now home to movies, live theater and special events.

One door south of the theatre was the reason I was in Emporia in the first place — The Sweet Granada, which was opened in November 2004 by mother and daughter team, Toni Bowling and Kim Redeker.  The specialty sweet shop features some signature treats, such as the Martha Washington, a soft centered maraschino cherry candy with coconut and walnuts, hand-dipped in dark chocolate.  For coffee lovers another specialty is the Hamilton with Espresso ganache and caramel inside white chocolate topped with almonds.

I highly recommend the Pop-Choc, fresh popcorn drizzled with milk and white chocolate.  In fact, I suggest you get several bags of this because one will simply not be enough.  Feel free to tell yourself you’re buying them as gifts, but don’t be dismayed when you can’t help but eat them all yourself!  Oh, and they tell me they will ship any of their products anywhere!

On the north side of the Granada Theatre is the Granada Coffee Company, voted Best Coffee of the Flint Hills from 2004 through 2010.  You can’t argue with that and in addition to specialty coffee and tea drinks, the shop features muffins and light lunch fare, along with comfy chairs and sofas that welcome a long linger over friendly conversation.

Another fun stop along this block of Commercial Street is the new home of the Emporia Arts Council.  The council has as its mission to Educate, Advocate and Celebrate the arts, and the new facility houses a gallery as well as classroom and performance spaces dedicated to doing just that.  The gallery features Emporia and other Kansas artists’ works.  The art, all for sale, features blown glass, sculpture, pottery, photography, paintings, jewelry and a variety of other media.  This is a great place to find unique original art at great prices.

So, from traveling along one of the state’s finest scenic byways to chocolate, coffee, a beautifully restored historical theatre and original art by some of Kansas’s best artisans, I have to say, this was one Granada day!

 Featured places:

            The Granada Theatre, 807 Commercial St., http://www.egtks.com

            The Sweet Granada, 805 Commercial St., http://www.sweetgranada.com

            Granada Coffee Company, 809 Commercial St., http://www.granadacoffee.com

            Emporia Arts Council, 815 Commercial St., http://www.emporiaksarts.org

            Highway 99, from Wamego to Emporia.  Part of Kansas Native Stone Scenic Byway from Alma to Eskridge. http://www.ksbyways.org

Posted in The Best of Kansas | 2 Comments

Have a little awe for the holidays

Posted on December 1, 2010 by Lou Ann Thomas

It was one of those moments.  You know the kind.  One of those times when you feel completely present and as though you are in the right place at the right time.

I had just gathered up an arm load of freshly cut firewood when I heard the sound of geese flying over.  This time of year the sound of geese is heard frequently around here.  I live near Jeffrey Energy Center’s cooling pond, a man-made lake and the deepest in the state, which helps cool the warm water coming from the electric generation plant.  Because of this steady influx of warm water the lake remains unfrozen and becomes the winter home of thousands of Canada geese and other migratory fowl. 

The geese make a daily pilgrimage from the lake into the river valley where they feed on leftover grain in the fields.  It’s an awesome sight to see the sky full of geese and watch as they circle then land in numbers large enough that the fields turn completely white.

On this day the flock flying over was small in number, only about 40 geese, but they were flying low and traveled right over my head.  That’s when I felt “the moment”.  I stopped with arms full of wood and looked up watching the birds fly over so close that I could see the individual colors of their feathers.  Time seemed to stand still and I felt like the most fortunate person on this planet to be witnessing this particular convergence of events.  In that moment I felt like a bookmark holding space for those who don’t have the opportunity to experience nature on a daily basis or are too busy to notice the wonders going on around them wherever they are.

It’s so easy to focus on what we need to do next, hurrying on to the next thing on our list, the next appointment, the next phone call that we forget to notice the wonder and the delights that are always surrounding us.  Oh sure we get to cross things off our to-do list and may even feel proudly productive at the end of the day, but what might we have missed in the process?  One thing I believe we miss is the opportunity to feel awe.  What if the Universe is always providing us with moments that would take our breath away and provide unforgettable feelings of connection, but we were too busy and hurrying too fast to even notice?  And that word – awe.  When is the last time you experienced that feeling of overwhelming reverence for something?  Yet, awe may be the most powerful feeling we can have.  Awe somehow intersects joy, mystery and insight and we are humbled as a result. 

University of California, Berkeley psychology professor, Dacher Keltner, found that when people experienced feelings of awe they were three times more likely to describe themselves as part of something larger.  Keltner believes cultivating awe is a way to unlock the truest sense of life’s purpose. 

This time of year we’re often too busy rushing along with our heads down, our jaws set, looking to the next thing to even make note of our own reflection — which likely appears as though we have been shot out of a wind tunnel.  We believe we have too much to do to even think about what amazing sights, sounds or awesome experiences might be unfolding all around us.

Anytime of year it feels humbling to stand in awe of something, but this time of year it might be especially helpful to stop, stand still, and breathe, just being for awhile.  We are, after all, human beings not human doings.  Is it any less worthwhile to be a bookmark, holding a place, marking a special moment than it is to complete everything on our list?  Are we any less valuable if we take the time to simply witness and appreciate the sharing of a smile, the warmth of the sun on our faces, or the flight of a flock of birds overhead? 

Yes, these moments of wonder may make us feel small in comparison to the amazing natural world, or the limitlessness of a starlit sky, or the vastness of the ocean but at the same time they can allow us the opportunity to also feel connected to all that is – even that which is larger and greater than us. 

If life is in the details, then every moment holds the opportunity for wonder, insight and, yes, awe.

Posted in As I see it | 6 Comments

Am I happy?

Posted on September 29, 2010 by Lou Ann Thomas

     People have been asking me lately if I’m happy living back on the farm. It has been about a year since I moved here so that’s also a question I’ve been asking myself, and in that asking I’ve made some interesting discoveries.

     First of all, I now have a new perspective and definition of happiness. Over the last several years I’ve learned that being happy is a choice. It’s not dependent upon other people, circumstances, or anything outside of me. I have the power to choose to be happy. Simple? Maybe, but not necessarily easy — at least not in the beginning. There were a lot of old patterns and beliefs that needed to be broken down and sifted through. There still are those times when I think I might be happier “if…” But if I can’t simply BE happy, there is no person, condition or situation that can occur outside of that that could possibly “make” me happy, at least not in any lasting way. It has taken effort for me to create and tend my happiness, but the work is beginning to pay off and I find that I am now happy way more than I’m not, no matter what’s going on around me.

     So, in that sense, my happiness isn’t determined by where I live. I now have the capacity to be happy anywhere. That said, I admit, after some serious pondering, I am indeed happy living on this farm. In fact, I’m rather amazed at how happy I am here. I never imagined I could move back to my childhood home and find such peace, comfort and joy. Honestly, I was quite anxious about making the move. This was my parents’ house. Not mine. My houses were in Lawrence, Ottawa, Chicago, Kansas City, California and a few other locations. This is where I grew up, but this wasn’t my house anymore. And yet I have always been able to get up in the middle of the night and walk from one end of this house to the other without stubbing any toes or running into any obstacles. I know this place. And it knows me. So even if this weren’t my house, it is and has always been my home. No matter where I lived or wandered, I always came back to this house, this farm.

     I feel truly grateful to have that – to have a place in the world in which I feel deeply rooted and which has always felt like home. But moving back into the house I moved out of over 40 years ago when I was 17, often feels like living with an entire family of ghosts. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I often bump into myself as a child around here. I walk by the old brooder house in the backyard and remember the summer my mother helped me clean it up, paint it and turn it into my playhouse. I hear the wind moving through the pine trees below the road and remember planting them when we were all only saplings. Even now, as I write this, I’m sitting at my desk looking out the same windows I dreamed out of when this was my bedroom and I was just learning to both dream and write.

     And since my mother designed and my father built this house, everything about it is about them. I am constantly running into their ghosts here. At first it was unsettling and I would feel deeply sad, missing them. I still miss them, but it’s getting easier being here, living among the memories and dancing with the ghosts. With time, I seem to be learning to appreciate the past without it bogging down my present or adding a drab color to my future.

     But am I happy here? Well, recently while sitting on my deck at the end of the day I watched a red-bellied woodpecker tapping on the top of a pole in my backyard. We were less than 15 feet apart and he could have cared less about his proximity to me. He stayed there, tapping away, non-deterred, for over 15 minutes. He was so close I was able to look into his eyes. How often do we get to do that? It was one of “those moments” when you feel your heart open and you are fully present and connected.

     I have been having a lot of those moments lately. Almost every day I find myself stopping whatever I am doing to consciously witness the sunrise or sunset. There’s no big philosophical reason for this. I’m not marking the beginning or end of the day for any significance other than each sunrise and sunset is often more spectacular than the one before. It is simply awe inspiring to watch the sun rise or dip below the horizon creating splashes of golden light across the fertile valley, or pink and purple streaks across a sky that I never have to look up to see.

     So, am I happy here? Why in the world wouldn’t I be? In fact, I’m probably the happiest I’ve ever been. And, yes, I plan to stay here.

     After all, where else would I go? I’m home.

Posted in Transitions | 10 Comments

Tell me where to go

Posted on September 2, 2010 by Lou Ann Thomas

            A local paper included an insert of “The Best of the Flint Hills” this week.  I was so excited to see what establishments had received the most votes.  Where was the best ice cream sundae?  Who had the best coffee?  I was planning trips to visit the chosen places before I even opened the insert.

            But I was soon disappointed.  I couldn’t believe what I found once I did look through the paper.  Category after category listed chain stores and national franchises.  Best fries?  McDonalds.  Best burgers?  Burger King.  There was hardly a single locally-owned, mom and pop business listed anywhere!  This has to be the result of evil ballot box stuffing, the fact that people passing through the area on the interstate were the only ones voting, or the return of dangling chads.

            There are some great places in this area, and every area of Kansas.  The Whiting Café has some of the best pie anywhere.  You not only want to lick the plate it came on, but if you can stop yourself from doing so they should give you a prize.  The soda fountain in Parker’s Pharmacy, in Oskaloosa, makes homemade sundaes and hand-squeezed lemonades that will take you back to childhood in one sip.  Local Burger, in Lawrence, serves sweet potato fries that will make you want to get two orders, just so you’ll have one to eat while they’re making the second one. 

            Since something is seriously wrong with any list that doesn’t give rightful due to our home-grown, locally-owned establishments and businesses, I’ve decided to begin my own search for the best; not just the best of the Flint Hills, but the Best of Kansas.   But I need your help.  Send me your ideas for the best of….anything — from burgers to bourbon, from sushi to shakes.  Where do you go for the best slice of pizza or pie?  What’s your favorite coffee shop or bakery?  The best bar and grill? Where’s your favorite picnic spot?  Where’s the best place to grab those picnic supplies?  Where is your favorite spot to watch the sunset?  What is your choice of first date spots?  Places for the most romantic evening?  There is no limit to our categories, and the only stipulation is that the places need to be locally owned and within the borders of Kansas. 

             So go ahead, tell me where to go.  You can give me your “bests” here in the comment section of this blog, through my email, on Facebook, or however you choose.  I’ll compile a list of all of your favorites and if I haven’t been there, I’ll go.  Then I’ll write about the trip and my experiences, either here in my blog, in my newspaper column, or in a book. 

             Tell me.  Where IS the best of Kansas?

Posted in The Best of Kansas | 17 Comments

The day the cows left home

Posted on August 17, 2010 by Lou Ann Thomas

            Moving back to the farm and being more involved in the day-to-day operations of a farm/ranch operation has been quite an education.  I’ve learned how to watch the commodity markets and place open orders for the crops.  I’ve learned what happens when the rain comes in huge buckets full and washes out a good portion of the year’s soybeans.  I’ve learned how to replace the starter on my riding lawn mower and how to get a cranky chain saw running again.  And I’ve learned what it feels like the day all the steers are loaded into semis and taken to the sale barn.

            That last lesson had an unexpected effect on me.  This morning the guys showed up around 6:30 a.m. to start herding the cattle down into the lot to wait their turn through the loading chute and onto the trucks.  Watching it unfold was much more emotional for me than I ever anticipated it being.  Of course, I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for animals, even cows.  I remember as a little girl getting up early, way before the sun was up, and going out to milk May, our Jersey milk cow.  Dad would lift me up on May’s back and I’d ride her into the barn where she would munch on hay while Dad milked her.  When he was done we’d walk the full bucket of milk back to the house where my mother would use a hand separator to divide the milk from the cream.  I can still taste the rich sweetness of that fresh milk.

            Dad raised cattle for awhile when I was growing up, but there were some tough years with low prices and eventually he stopped and focused completely on farming.  Occasionally, Mom, who was the bookkeeper for a local feedlot, would buy a few of the puny young calves that the feedlot owner didn’t want.  The first year Mom did this I helped her feed the calves who quickly grew into full fledged steers.  Mom named them Enny, Meany, Minny and Mo, which was a mistake, because when it came time to sell them it was like selling a member of the family; a distant relative for sure, but still one with whom you were familiar and valued.  The next year, Mom bought a few more calves, but this time she named them Color TV, Sewing Machine, New Carpet and a few other items on her wish list.  It made selling them a little easier, but it still left a sting in our hearts.

            Watching the unsuspecting cattle being brought down out of the pasture this morning I couldn’t help but feel a little bit of that sting again.  Over the last few months I’ve gotten use to seeing them around.  They were a friendly herd, probably made more so by the guys feeding them pellets from their four-wheelers.  Whenever I went into the pasture they assumed I too would be feeding them so they followed me everywhere.  Friends from the city delighted in having up close and personal interaction with the cattle.  Well, until the steers wanted to get a little too close, then my friends would run back to my ATV with their voices registering at least an octave higher than usual.  The cattle got so use to our being around that when friends would ask to stop so they could take pictures, I swear the steers lined up for the perfect group shot.

            This herd was so social that they turned into a nuisance.  The evening my friend Robin and I went up on top of the hill to watch the sunset and have a picnic, the cows followed us and made such a pest of themselves, circling us and coming in so close to see if perchance we had cow pellets in our picnic basket, that we abandoned our plan and retreated to the deck for the sunset eats.  Often I would have to outrun them to the gate in order to get out of the pasture before they did. 

            So this morning when it was time for them to go, I actually felt sad.  I quietly thanked them for their sacrifice and hoped they had enjoyed their time in these lush hills.  I guess if I were a cow, I’d like to spend my last few months in such a peaceful and picturesque place.  I have a tendency to anthropomorphize animals, but I swear there were times I noticed them stopping to watch a particularly spectacular sunset, or looking out over the river valley with the same light of appreciation in their eyes that I knew was in my own.

            I tried to calm my emotions this morning by believing the steers would be adopted, like a lost pet, and would find another good family, but I grew up on this farm and know that their fate was not going to an idyllic setting with kids to play with and long days spent chewing their cud.  No, these steers are destined to be someone’s dinner.  But, if you eat meat, I can’t imagine a better animal for it to come from than one of these steers that was grass fed, treated and cared for well, and spent its days wandering the beautiful Flint Hills prairie.

            That said, I am seriously considering becoming a vegetarian.  I just don’t feel right about eating my friends.

Posted in Nature | 16 Comments