These Mexican Bird of Paradise speak for themselves.
These Mexican Bird of Paradise speak for themselves.
Caprock Canyons State Park, at the southern end of Palo Duro Canyon, requires about 1 1/2 hours to drive from my house. Yesterday, we met the Panhandle Native Plant Society there to investigate flowers and grasses.
When we first arrived, it seemed blue might break through the cloud cover, but it did not.
The park ranger took us to several different sites to identify different flower and grass species. The above is an area which in the early 90s was a cotton field and has been restored with native vegetation.
We drove to another area which remained “wild”–never cultivated.
Then we drove to a picnic area overlooking the lake. Close to there we found the poppy below.
After lunch, we parted with the rest of the group and drove to the end of the road. Martina had hoped to see bison–the state bison herd roams there. At this point we had seen none. As I drove along, a bison bull was strolling down the road. Martina took this photo from the side window. He was only a couple of meters from the car.
We stopped and took a few more photos where the road ends. I have hiked from this point in the past, but not yesterday.
After leaving the park, we headed to Silverton, Texas, to visit a coffee shop there which was recently featured in a Texas magazine as the place to go.
I loved the murals and sculptures. The owner is a sculptor and also a raptor trainer. The shop features coffee, desserts, unique clothing, and art.
On the way back we stopped at the Palo Duro Canyon overlook/picnic area on highway 207.
If you are in the Amarillo or Canyon, Texas, area, I highly recommend this day trip.
All these spring showers result in lots of flowers–wild flowers and iris.
Several weeks ago, the tail of my favorite horse, Miracle, disappeared. When she died from colic after giving birth several years ago, one young lady at the vets took hairs from her tail, made a braid, and gave it to me. Since then, it had hung in the hallway next to Dad’s spurs and a photo of the family farm above Dad’s parade saddle. Suddenly, it disappeared. Where could it have gone? No one had recently been to the house except Martina, my Italian exchange student, and me. My daughter and grandson had stopped by, but no one else. Nothing else had disappeared. It was a mystery like the time I found a handful of dry dog food under the saddle. I never solved that one and had given up on solving this one. I had even considered looking for something else to hang in its place.
On my birthday yesterday, the principal walked to my room with a bouquet of flowers and a package. The bouquet was from my grandson. I opened the package. Much to my astonishment, there was Miracle’s tail, the top of the braid carefully and colorfully wrapped, a thin copper wire winding through it, and and then wrapped around the bottom. My daughter had managed to take it without my seeing her do so, took it home, and had wrapped it so it would not come apart. When I originally told her about it, she and my grandson commented how strange it was and made note of the dog food incident as if some mystery lurked in that particular place in my house.
My grandson had picked out each individual flower. He obviously knows my favorite color is orange.
Then to top off the day my son also sent flowers. It dropped 50 degrees from yesterday afternoon to late last night, the wind shrieks, clouds loom dark and ominous. It is a good day for bright flowers.
dramatic weather changes
one day cold, next one almost hot
late blooms, gayfeather, groundswell,
native grasses blowing in the wind
owls hooting, robins on the patio
praying mantis, walking sticks
working on their last hunts,
other insects singing night songs
In spite of only one inch of rain since last autumn, many flowers persist: sundrops, black foot daisies, chocolate flowers, wine cups, primrose, desert (Mexican) birds of paradise, red yucca, salvia, catmint, native grasses, milkweed. I took these photos after feeding the horses this morning.
While I was growing up, my mom grew peonies by the side of the vegetable garden. Red, pink, white, huge spectacular blooms that always arrived around this time of year just in time for Memorial Day. We would pick many, put them in mason jars and take them to my father’s and her family’s cemetery plots. She has created a metal apparatus to hold them so the wind would not blow them over. We took water to fill the jars. We did this every Memorial Day always.
No one lives close any more. There is no one left to take flowers there.
My mother’s family members are buried in the Mound City, Missouri Cemetery.
My mother’s parents’ gravestone. She was Nellie Narcissus Kaiser before she married rather late for back then–in her late twenties. I never knew my grandfather. He was so much older than she that even though he lived to be 80, he died long before I was born. My great-grandfather Kaiser was born in Switzerland and brought here as a child.
The gravestone of my mother’s grandmother. I know she lived with my grandmother and grandfather a lot of the time from family photos, but I also know that she died in San Diego. No one ever told me how she got there or why.
The gravestone of Aunt Julia, Mother’s sister. She never married, loved fancy antiques and china. I frequently use some of what she left me. She came to see me rather often and we visited antique stores when she visited. To say she was an independent woman is an understatement.
My parents’ gravestone is on the right and Dad’s parents’ on the left–in the cemetery in Fillmore, Missouri. My grandfather, Pleasant Lightle, had walked from Illinois to Missouri as a child according to family stories. My parents met dancing. I always smile when I see the peonies planted at their graves.
This is the gravestone of my great-grandfather, Dad’s mother’s father, who came to the US from Switzerland when he was 18. According to my dad, he did not want to be conscripted into the Swiss army because at that time Swiss soldiers were being hired out as mercenaries. His mother stood on the roof of their house waving until she could see him no longer. They never saw each other again. I grew up on the land he homesteaded in Andrew County, Missouri. Andrew County is filled with descendants of immigrants who came from Switzerland.
The old carriage house near the house where Dad spent the first ten years or so of his 90 years. It is all that is left standing.
The house where Dad lived the last 80 years of his life and where I grew up.
When I was a child, the building in the foreground was used at various times as a farrowing house, once for Rhode Island Red chickens, and to store various farm supplies. When I went to visit Dad after Mom died and we were at the cemetery on Memorial Day, a man came up to Dad and asked if he was Doyle Lightle. They started chatting and I learned that when Dad first built it during Prohibition times, he held dances there. The sheriff would send deputies to watch and make sure no one was drinking. I had lived there and visited there for decades and had never heard this story.
I took this photo standing on the levee next to the Missouri River looking toward the Rulo, Nebraska bridge. This is the land my mother’s family owned. On some Sundays as a treat, we would cross the bridge to a restaurant on the Nebraska side. It was famous for its fried catfish and carp.
This is country with lots of water and trees. This picture was taken near Squaw Creek National Wildlife Refuge. Several times in my life, I have seen flooding from the bluffs on the Missouri side all the way to the bluffs on the Kansas and Nebraska side of the river. When I was a child, my uncle and aunt lived on the river farm until a flood reached half way up the second story of their house. They gave up and moved to town.
When I was a child, there were trees like this in lots of places on Mom’s family’s farm. About this time of year we would hunt for morels and often pick a bushel basket full. Mom dipped them in egg and cornmeal, then fried them. We practically lived on them for week or two. I was shocked as an adult to go into a fancy market and discover that dried morels were 95 dollars a pound.
After sitting in the airport in Iguazu for four hours because the plane was delayed over and over, we finally arrived in Cordoba around midnight and rushed to La Finca, the family place out in the country, for dinner. Yes, dinner. Gaston’s family, including his 92 year old grandfather, uncles, cousins, aunts, everyone had actually stayed up and waited to meet us. I could hardly believe it.
I know Argentinians are the biggest consumers of beef in the world. We did not have beef; we had leg of lamb grilled over the special grill his father and uncles had built–a separate house just for grilling and eating. It was a warm night and we ate outside. It is a family ritual for everyone to congregate on weekends, but especially Sunday afternoons at La Finca to eat and socialize. Gaston and I went there both Saturday and Sunday.
It was the end of summer (Southern Hemisphere in March). The crop in the distance beyond the trees is potatoes. Gaston’s grandfather, who is 92 now, bought this land, planted the trees, created this peaceful get away in the country. Gaston’s uncle and aunt now live there with their college age children.
The building in the background houses the grill–chimney on the left–and the dining area I mentioned earlier. We ate inside once around the table that must sit at least twenty. The rest of the time they hauled the tables outside and we ate under the trees.
Gaston’s grandfather and I standing before the trees he planted decades ago.
The same trees upclose. Yes, those are very sharp protuberances sticking out all over the tree. You see these trees in cities too, but there they have cut off all the sharp pieces so people cannot get hurt on them. I could just imagine what would happen if a person pushed another person against one of these.
The drive from the main road to La Finca. Sunday afternoon Gaston’s mom and I strolled up and down this drive while Gaston with his dad and uncle and a cousin installed a drip line to water the bushes on each side. Like here, they are suffering a drought. They did not want years of work to die.
The original house where Gaston’s uncle and his family live is on the left. I loved it here and felt very privileged to spend a weekend with the family doing whatever they do on weekends. On Saturday, the men all went to help someone move while I sat with Gaston’s aunt, her friend, some cousins. We chit chatted, drank mate, took naps, ate pear tart and other desserts, and whiled away an afternoon.
Occasionally the peace was disturbed by the raucous chatter of parakeets. The huge nest in this tree is shared by many parakeets. They do not build individual nests. When they get going, they are really loud.
Just as in New Mexico in the US, water comes through acequias. The drive goes over this little bridge in the foreground.
Near this acequia the family grows lemon trees, vegetables, flowers, and other delectables for family use.
It was so lovely and peaceful here, I did not want to leave.
Gaston’s aunt and mother love succulents and flowers. This is only a tiny portion of the plant collection growing everywhere around Gaston’s aunt and uncle’s house. His aunt is very proud of her plant collection. Many of her plants were familiar. Some even have the same names in English and Spanish probably due to their Latin origins.
Barbara Lewis Duke, pretty petite, blue-eyed and blond, my mother, one fearless, controlling woman. Long after Mother’s death, Dad said, “Barbara was afraid of absolutely no one and nothing.” They married late: 34 and 38. He adored her unconditionally. She filled my life with horses, music, love, cornfields, hay rides, books, ambition. Whatever she felt she had missed, I was going to possess: piano lessons, a college education. Her father, who died long before I was born, loved fancy, fast horses. So did she. During my preschool, croupy years, she quieted my hysterical night coughing with stories of run aways horses pulling her in a wagon. With less than one hundred pounds and lots of determination, she stopped them, a tiny Barbie Doll flying across the Missouri River Bottom, strong, willful, free.
Note: this poem is in my book “On the Rim of Wonder” and was also recently published in “Inside and Out”, a collection of writings by women. It is available on Amazon and published by the Story Circle Network.
Addendum: My mother loved horses and flowers. When I look at the flowers around my house I think of my mother. And, yes, I have horses. The following photos are dedicated to my mother’s memory.
My mother’s mother and father.
In spite of less than 3/4 inch rain since last fall and minimal watering from the 400 foot deep well, iris bloom everywhere–even in unamended caliche, a glorious reminder of nature’s resilience.
When I thinned these a couple of years ago, I had so many that I stuck them everywhere, even here at the end of the driveway. I have watered them only once.
A friend gave me just one. I planted it by the barn among others of the color in the first photo. In spite of the drought they multiplied a lot this past year. Probably all the rain from last summer helped before it quit raining.
I planted these a couple of years ago in front of the barn. I watered them a few times this spring but none during the winter. This particular iris reblooms in the fall and multiplies so fast it is difficult to keep up with separating it.
Possibly because of their location by the retaining wall near the barn facing west, these are always the first to bloom. I did water them a couple of times this spring. Insects have found them.
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