Homecoming

10/28/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Homecoming

            This is the season of Fall Festivals, church bazaars, craft shows, and homecoming celebrations, featuring fun, fellowship, and comfort food like Grandma used to make. Many small towns have instituted annual events that focus on what we do best out here; old fashioned pastimes like sack races, skillet tosses, corn mazes, hay rides, and such. Local actors, artists and musicians of all ages have a chance to show off their skills, and fund raisers for community projects fit into the mix as well. When you feed folks and get them laughing, the wallet is more apt to open.

            There seems to be more emphasis on agriculture at these gatherings too, and that’s a good thing. The railroads were a huge factor in settling this part of our state, but none of these villages would exist today without farmers and ranchers. My other favorite part is when the activities take place on Main Street. Rural folks coming in to town for fun need to remember that without local merchants their gas bills would be a lot higher, and that when they decide to head off to a larger cities to get a price break, the so called better deal won’t be made on a first name basis, or sealed with a handshake.

            I haven’t missed many of the Old West Days celebrations in Valentine. That loyalty may be somewhat based on the fact that I met my husband at the first one, but after 24 years it’s become almost a family reunion to visit with folks that we see only at that time of year. I’ve stepped off stage in recent years, in order to roam and gather handshakes and hugs as old friends roll into town, but every year I notice more ‘old’ in Old West Days. A number of the folks we started out with have ridden over the hill, and others are pushing walkers, or using a cane, so we pin our hopes on newcomers and young blood to keep the traditions true. 

Of course these activities couldn’t happen without a lot of volunteers whose home town pride propels them through weeks of exhaustion, and sometimes frustration, so wise committees will rotate members to avoid burnout.

Having served on the Old West board during the early days, I recall how generously the Main Street businesses supported our efforts, and of course they still do. We couldn’t have done it without the backing of the Nebraska Humanities Council either.

It was kind of an uphill road, because many hairy-legged old Sandhillers reared back and growled, “POETRY????” But their wives dragged them to a performance or two, and now you can’t beat them away with a stick. In the Cowboy Poetry world, Valentine’s gathering has established a reputation as the place to be.

Valentine’s High School facility is state of the art, and their administration has welcomed the annual disruption as only fitting for an entity with “Rural” as part of its title. It’s the only possible venue for the kind of crowds that attend, so aren’t we lucky? Yet, I wonder if it’s time to take some of this downtown. Apparently, this year the list of poets and musicians grew, requiring expanded sessions. I’m not sure how much downtown benefitted though, because frankly, it was hard to tear myself away from the performances to get any errands done, and I always have errands when I go to Valentine.

Remember, Main Street brought us to the dance. Bruce and I have attended similar gatherings where a few downtown businesses set aside a small area for daytime performances. Music has a way of drawing people in to listen, and they might decide to shop. (I do, and I’m not a shopper!) Eating establishments offer “Sing for your supper,” where they feed musicians free in exchange for an hour of entertaining their customers. We sure tend to eat supper at those places—that is if we can get in the door.

I’ve no idea if there is any interest in pursuing these notions, but it might be a solution to offering more sessions without expanding the already long day.

(Yeah, I stole the ideas from festivals and celebrations in towns all over the Hi-Line of Nebraska and other parts of the West, so no credit or blame accepted. And no, Jerry, I don’t want to be on the board again, but thanks for asking. It’s your own fault, you know. The deal has gotten so popular that I have my hands full preparing for out of town guests that come to enjoy your efforts.)

Anyway, thanks for another good time. Congratulations to all the communities that work so hard to provide the rest of us such fun. Now, the rest of you, go shop at home, and while you’re at it, say thanks to the volunteers. They’re easy to find: they’ll be behind the teller window, at the checkout counter, at the sale barn pens, or serving your meal.

The Hideout

10/21/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

The Hideout

            One of my granddaughters lives in a tree. It’s a mid-sized flowering crab next to the bunkhouse with foliage not thick enough to hide in very well. Whenever she’s missing we know where to look, and sometimes when no one has missed her yet a comment comes out of the blue and causes us to look up and locate a bare foot dangling among the branches. I don’t know about you, but I like to have at least a clue about the location of someone with whom I’m conversing.

            About that bare foot—this is the child who runs across a driveway covered with six inches of snow to have breakfast at Grandma’s, never bothering with shoes. So why would she put on shoes to climb a tree?

            The youngster has her tree house well planned, although there’s not a board or nail in sight. A certain branch is the living room, over here is kitchen, and the flat limb that stretches out more or less horizontally is the bedroom of course. Sometimes she invites a brother in, but they’ve sort of given up tree climbing in favor of rooftops and football, so generally her companions, if any, are stuffed animals, books, and sometimes a blanket or balloon.

            The kid reminds me of me. Once upon a time, longer ago than I’m going to tell, an ash tree of about that same height grew at the edge of the yard where this grandchild and her family now live, and I took up residence in it’s branches for several summers. With foliage dense, I could, and did, hide in there sometimes, when my mother called for me. That tree also had areas designated as rooms, but it was too tight quarters to take toys and such up with me. I didn’t play much with toys anyway, and my dog and horse wouldn’t fit, so I kept a stash of treasures there, tied in an old scarf. I don’t recall what all; probably some pretty rocks and leaves, a favorite marble, a whistle, and a few cottonwood twigs broken at the star joint. A snakeskin, I remember for sure; a fancy button, and a yellow feather.

            I had a fort in the woodpile, a hideout in the grain bin in the hayloft, and another on top of the chicken house. Those were shared with playmates and visiting cousins, but I never invited anyone else to my tree. When neighbors came to visit of an evening, we kids walked the meadow, sat in the hayloft hanging our feet out the door and sang to the moon, or took turns walking the top rail of the corral fence. But I never took them to the hilltop where I went most summer evenings, as a teenager, to watch the sunset.

I’m sad for youngsters who have a television set and computer in their rooms, along with every imaginable toy and gadget. Parents ought not to deprive young folks of a chance to pretend. It’s always more fun making it up as you go along than having things planned out for you. That’s why a toddler discards the new toy and plays with the box it came in.

Back in the old days, neighbor kids and I ventured to a blowout, or junk pile, where we gathered scraps of this and that and created play houses for ourselves, arranged communities, and roads; a whole world, just as we wanted it to be. We gave ourselves different names, and pretended to work at various occupations, but what we really were doing was practicing for adulthood.

Do kids nowadays play house, school, store, cowboy, and policeman? Have we filled their heads with superheroes and fantasy characters, while discouraging any tendency to copy realistic roles in their play? In classroom settings, they are encouraged to work in groups; a useful skill, but where is the opportunity to develop imagination, creativity, and self-direction?

Perhaps the world would be a saner and safer place if, as kids, we all had a tree where no one else was allowed. Even a nook behind the couch would do; a hole under the porch, clearing in the grove, a blowout, or back yard swing. So if you missed out back then, find a way to make it happen now. We need to know ourselves in a way that only comes with prolonged solitude. Hiding out, you might say, in preparation to branch out later on.

Pay Attention

10/14/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Pay Attention

            Writers and artists are busybodies; it’s how we gather stories or find images worth recording for the enjoyment of others. Quiet observation reveals deeper layers of meaning than Facebook (the modern version of a party phone line, where folks put forth what they are willing to have known, or speculation about acquaintances and controversies) so we writers eavesdrop on conversations and watch people, while waiting in line, rather than getting out our phones. When there aren’t people around to watch, we look out the window.

            Taffy cat spent her summer ignoring the taunts of barn swallows. Stepping lightly across the early mornings, she poked around the garden and then perched on a corner post in the yard to observe the meadow. Some days she spent half an hour there, focused on who knows what; moving so little that a visitor might have thought her a ceramic yard decoration.

            I spent part of most early mornings taking Taffy lessons; attempting to focus on what lay in front of me, rather than letting the birds of busyness light in my hair. Once upon a time, that quiet hour would have found me making a to-do list, which by evening became a tool to destroy serenity by noting things that remained undone. There’s something to be said for lists when properly implemented, and there are still days when the only way to quiet the committee in my head is by insisting they abide by Robert’s Rules of Order. But for obsessive people like me, the list is mostly an excuse to outrun my headlights; in other words, a distraction.

            Taffy rule # 1: Brook no distractions. For other rules, see rule # 1.

            For a cat to take her eyes off a prospective meal means going hungry. Well, perhaps not. We try to keep the feeder full, but sometimes we go away for overnight, even days at a time. Still, paying attention is vital to her survival. The eagle pair sweeps over the valley almost daily, and this morning a coyote trotted out of the swamp and crossed within yards of her perch. Last week, the coyotes cleaned out the last of our melons. The remnants of their midnight feast lay a few feet from the deck—gone the next night. And Taffy lives primarily on the deck. She also lives in her skin, so to speak; always cognizant of the moment. Unless it affects her directly, she’s not much concerned with doings of neighbors.

            We are surrounded by voices that urge us to prepare for the possible. “What if? Don’t be caught in a financial crash,” and, “The best time-saving tool ever—order now!” Everything seems predicated on the future, and slowpokes deserve whatever leftovers they can gather up. In addition, we are beset by news of what others are up to; our neighbors, politicians, and world leaders.

            Taffy doesn’t perch on the post much lately. She’s living under the grill cover, with her new family, but pretty soon she’ll bring them out to introduce them to us and a wider world. Early on, she’ll teach them to pay attention, like she’s been teaching me for the past few months. If she had the ability to speak in sentences she’d probably wonder why I make those lists, fret about whether it will rain, or what someone said to me last week.

While the recent lunar eclipse was in progress, family members called, reminding us to watch. As we sat on the deck paying close attention to something that had nothing to do with the efforts of humans, all the clutter and chatter disappeared from my head, and I recalled the saying, “Just stay in your shoes.” Taffy doesn’t wear shoes, but we do. Life goes better when we try to stay in them.

           

Change What You Can

10/7/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Change What You Can

            The windows were full of cobwebs and smudges so I washed them, inside and out, in August. Too early, but I didn’t realize that, because window washing is one of those “I’ll get around to it,” deals at my house. Generally, it happens about now, when I have to battle the wasps for territorial rights or wear a jacket.

It was a joy, looking out at the world clearly, not to mention having no guilt and “Should do that” to deal with. Nice while it lasted; which wasn’t very long. Once again, the corners of the inside windows and corners in every room are webby, there are moth stains on the outside glass, and screens shimmer with a coating of silk.

We divide our time between an ancient house and one that is “only” 60 years old, so it’s inevitable that we’ll share space with a few invaders. The Daddy Long Legs are gone, thanks to bug bombs in basement and crawl space, but we still have spiders, most of which are almost too tiny to notice. This time of year the little critters are busy preparing for the winter. If you get outdoors on one of our warm Indian-Summer afternoons, and look into the light, you can see the evidence. A sheen of gauze covers field and flowers, connecting a hay bale with the corral fence and windmill. Sitting down in the porch chair, you hop up and brush some sticky off your jeans and arms.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but the person in my shoes often feels pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. That’s not a bad thing, except when we use it as an excuse to remain on the sidelines of all the chaos in our world. “What’s the use of getting into the fray?” we ask. “One person out here in the boonies doesn’t have much to offer, and anyhow, the votes are all in the metropolitan areas.”

But here are the spiders again, to prove otherwise. They accomplish what they are created for, when it’s time to do that, with little regard for the weather or any other circumstance. And it’s amazing what they manage to change, even overnight.

No matter where we live, a lot needs changing, and most of it is right under our noses. IT may be dirty windows, a child needing encouragement, a lonely neighbor, or a policy proposal which is beneficial to those in power, but detrimental to the community as a whole.

I’m not sure when I’ll tackle the windows again, or what other element demands my interaction next. But this much is true for all of us. Nothing changes if nothing changes, and we all have the ability to change something, starting with ourselves.

Celebration

9/16/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Celebration

            “I got tired of going to funerals and seeing all the people we never take time to visit,” my neighbor said. “We should get together while we’re well and happy, and celebrate what’s good. So this isn’t really a birthday party so much as a chance to value the people who share our lives.”

            With a horseshoe competition going on in front of the barn and a volley-ball game on the lawn, it was evident that the good times aren’t all in the past. My son had brought the team and was offering wagon rides, kids were practicing their roping skills, and we old timers were content to catch up on news and recall the ancestors that married us to this community.

            With the food put aside, and tables dismantled, my family members played and sang old country music, and there was dancing in the haymow where I played as a child. That century old barn was built to last, and likely those present were too, though some of my playmates have gone on ahead.

I still know most of the places in that haymow where you can see through the boards to the stalls below, and to watch for uneven spots that might trip up a careless dancer. Just for old time’s sake, I descended the sturdy steps, wandered into the tack room, and took note of the stall where I tied my horse on summer afternoons after riding over to visit, back when we took time to do that.

I think people are hungry for old fashioned fellowship, and perhaps we’re remembering to make some of our own fun, rather than settling in front of the TV, playing video games, or being spectators while our kids entertain us with sports events. How will young folks ever learn the value of community connections if it’s not modeled for them? This summer, I’ve attended pot lucks and a couple of birthday celebrations where people’s faces were relaxed and joyful. You don’t see that at a football game.

On the other hand, a crowd isn’t required to make a celebration. Due to unfortunate circumstances and choices, an acquaintance lost literally everything but the clothes on her back. She was left no options other than asking for help and following directions. Now she has a home, a good job, her kids, a car, and even her cat back. “We had a Thanksgiving dinner in July,” she said. I made a turkey; everything you’d have for Thanksgiving, and my children and I celebrated and gave thanks.”

One family has a private celebration at the end of haying season. The table is set with crystal and flowers, and the young people dress to the nines. Their dad presents them with checks for summer wages, but more importantly, they are commended and thanked individually for the ways they have improved, and things they learned. “We want our kids to know that celebration doesn’t require a houseful of company, or an official holiday,” their mom said.

I grew up with winter card parties and summer fishing trips and picnics. Gradually, that has gone away, mostly for lack of effort. It’s a lot of work to put on a barn dance. To organize a reunion, or pot luck and street games at the old hall, in what’s now mostly a ghost town. At a recent gathering, a friend who is my kids’ age said I was missed the Seneca Reunion. He reported there was a good crowd, and that a local lady has committed to keeping it going. “I just wish more young folks would come,” Dan said. It made me wonder if maybe they don’t come because no one took them to that kind of gatherings as children. We need to fix that.

Half a dozen years ago, Bruce and I put on a shop dance, and neighbors have asked every year since, when we’re going to do it again. Then other neighbors took that on for a couple of seasons. In the days of community card parties, each family took a turn hosting, but lately people aren’t as eager to step up for things of that nature.

Gee, did I just box myself in, here? That would mean cleaning out everything we’ve put in that shop since it was built… my husband would never go for that. Well, it’ll soon be too cold, so I’ve got all winter to come up with another option.