In the myriad files of Ed's colored slides is a little wild flower, the Prairie Spiderwort, or Spider Lily as it's often called. Looking at the slide, one would say it is an excellent picture of a pretty blue-violet flower.  Surrounded by native grasses, the Spiderwort seems to cock its pastel head and stretch long stem arms as if poised to dance. This is the picture, nothing more.  In retrospect, it brings back waves of memories. It was the Spiderwort that kept me from boredom the summer of 1937.

          I remember well that depression year in the Nebraska Sandhills of Wheeler County. I was ten then, sunburned and freckled from refusing to wear a straw hat. Ten was the magic age of discovering Zane Grey's exciting books. Betty Zane was my favorite. Besides reading, a favorite pastime was climbing to the highest rafters in our barn to examine sparrow nests under the wide eaves. I also enjoyed catching little tadpoles, lazing in sun-warmed inlets of our small pond near the hog lot.

Dad's Herefords

         Though parts of Wheeler County were more conducive to grassland and prairie hay, Dad focused mostly on the plow. On our farm were fields of corn he laboriously planted with Topsy and Dobbin, his favorite team. There were also purple alfalfa and small grain fields. Along the edge of the fields, horsetail and sunflowers grew tall and thick. Always we were aware of the pungent odor of the hog pens. And the cows. How could I ever forget our Herefords? It was the task of Corinne and me to herd the milk cows daily because of our depleting pasture. George and Stuart were not yet old enough to herd.

         During those years of the thirties, summers were extremely dry. Our pasture south of the farm, was brown, spent, and warted with prairie-dog holes. Each time I rode with Dad in a wagon through the pasture, we saw dozens of prairie dogs sitting bolt upright, whistling and barking. The little rodents were about a foot long, had stubby tails and sharp, digging claws. Cinnamon brown with buffy undersides, these funny little creatures looked like stuffed toys, as they perched on the edge of their homes, chattering about the latest prairie gossip. As we approached, the derisive dogs barked and scolded. Then, with a flip of their tails, they disappeared like a flash into deep burrows . At best they were pests, at worst, a serious danger in pastures, where livestock could step in a hole and break a leg. Fortunately for us, this never happened with either our cows or horses. Often the horses were turned in there to forage, but what little grass there was did not suffice for daily browsing of the cows.

         Every morning after breakfast, Mom packed our lunches in brown paper bags including a quart of lemonade. Morning dew sequinned the grass and rested on spider webs and weeds. Dawn was crisp, but a bright sun touched the eastern horizon. It would be a three mile trek driving the cows along roadside ditches blossoming with wild onion, coneflower, butterfly weed, and pink prairie roses. We headed for the grassy slopes of our east quarter section.
Although grass was lush and plentiful on the quarter section, there was no windmill or water tank for the cows. So Dad reminded us to keep track of the time of day. Periodically Corinne and I were to stand facing north. If our shadows were directly in front of us, it was noon, time to eat lunch. The shadow method also indicated when we were to start for home in the late afternoon. By then the cows would be thirsty.

         My sister accepted our herding task complacently. Usually I complained. It would have been much more fun to stay at home and get lost in an interesting book. Or be colt-free, climbing trees to peer into bird nests holding bright eggs or fuzzy heads with open mouths. Enviously I envisioned city girls roller-skating, bicycling, and swimming. Often there were hot, bitter tears of defiance. "Other kids our age don't have to herd cows! Why do we have to?"
Dad was patient, but firm, and he never gave in to my outbursts. "No good pasture--no milk," he answered. So off Corinne and I trudged. With a stout stick in one hand and lunch bag in the other, we set out with our four-legged charges down the sandy lane.

         Ahead of us the Herefords moved slowly, in single file, often two abreast. They flicked their tails at the flies, and at every opportunity bent red necks to wrap long, rough tongues around tufts of grass growing along the roadside. Corinne and I prodded the cattle with our sticks. Dad had cautioned us not to run them, but neither were we to let the animals dawdle.

         We plodded behind the cows, scuffing our well-worn Mary Janes in the soft sand. Sometimes we took off our shoes and removed the sand to experience that glorious rite of childhood, going barefoot. I liked the feel of warm cow trail dust between my toes and cool, green grass, damp with early morning dew. In the tall, sparse foliage lining the ditches, red-winged blackbirds perched precariously on slender weeds. The grass made swishing sounds against our legs, and the wind-rippled sand yielded to the prints of our feet.

         The price we paid was an occasional sand bur. Worse yet were the needle-like Texas sand burs! I still wince thinking of the sharp prongs embedded in the balls or heels of my feet. The unforgiving sun and warm rays beat down on my auburn, sun-bleached hair and unshaded eyes. A straw hat, I stubbornly refused to wear, was pushed back on my neck. Every morning my mother insisted it might be needed.

         Those hot, summer days were alive with the sound of birdsong. Each day we heard the caressing coo of mourning doves and loud, shrill cry of a killdeer. We saw mostly meadowlarks, trilling their early morning greetings from the tops of fence posts. Corinne and I observed other moving life. Occasionally a saucy, brown sand-adder, gliding through the sandy path, startled us. Or a rooster pheasant flew up from the roadside with his raucous outcry, the sheen of his plumage bright in the morning sun. Once we followed the glissading shadow of a ferruginous hawk, hanging against the azure sky. Sometimes a jack-rabbit leaped up from the weeds filling the nearby ditch, his bony legs barely touching ground. Now and then he stopped to listen, long ears thrust upward like antenna. Occasionally, we came upon a box turtle, edging its body slowly through the warm sand. Ahead of the cattle a movement on the narrow road was only the slow roll of tumbleweed. Freed from the fence line in a shift of wind, it zigzagged across the road only to be stopped by barbed wire.

         We encountered only one person on the long drive each day, our bachelor neighbor, George Dove. We dreaded to walk past his lane because of his black dog Coalie. The scoundrel, lying in wait for us, often crept stealthily through the grass on her belly. Then she jumped out at the cows, causing them to scatter and get out of line. George would come running down the lane after her, his grey handle-bar mustache twitching, arms waving. "Here Coalie, come back Coalie, now go lay down!"

Spiderwort

         Beyond George's place, the sandy road snaked over several hills before we reached our destination. We moved our cattle onto Dad's east quarter section, then settled ourselves on a grassy knoll midst unruly weeds, spidering across the wide open land. From this vantage point we watched our charges in all directions. Generally they were quite docile. But if old Red, the leader, lifted her head, rolled her large brown orbs, and sniffed the air in a certain way, we could be sure she would make straight for the sweet, tempting cornfield beyond the pasture fence. Then others would follow, and we'd have to head them off before they tried to jump over. Miles from parental guidance in these unpopulated dunes, it was totally our responsibility to see that our milk cows did not get into the corn.

         We never just sat, whiling away the hours until time return home. Our senses were sharply honed to nature's daily exposures. Little escaped our ears and eyes. I recall clearly some of the things that amused us. The over-eager dung beetles for instance. We called them tumble bugs. Every day we saw them in blowouts, especially along the cow paths. Busy as ants, these large, black beetles carefully dug out small pieces of cow manure in which to bury their eggs. Slowly they pushed the dung balls with their back legs over and over in the soft sand. Then they climbed on top the balls, but tumbled off in the process of moving forward. Fascinated, we never tired of watching their comical antics. Those bugs were our entertainment of the day.

         Often while sitting quietly, we studied little brown sandswifts skittering through the grass. These tiny animals resembled miniature lizards. Harmless, true to their name, they moved lightning fast. Sometimes I was able to catch the tiny creatures with the white bellies and bright eyes. When I stroked their backs, they would lie along my arm, their sides panting and go to sleep in the bright sun. Savored by hoarding butcher birds and hog-nosed snakes, these little sandswifts rely on watchful eye and a burst of speed to survive.

         One afternoon I brought home a sandswift in my lunch sack and teasingly informed my mother I hadn't eaten my lunch. When she opened the sack to examine its contents, she screamed and dropped it when she saw the harmless creature.

         Heat, sand, lizards, and undulating grass blended into a similarity stretching endlessly before us, as we watched the cows. To break the monotony of herding, we played in a large blow-out not far from where the cattle were grazing. Once it had rained the night before, and we tunneled into the moist, pliable sand. Out of it, we scooped roads and highways, created square pens, and molded tall buildings. This was Omaha. We had never been to Omaha, but our cousin, Randall Bogseth, once visited the stockyards and described them to us. We had only seen pictures of the big city in our geography books at school. How we envied Randall his trip! We often wondered if we would ever visit this metropolis, which seemed so far away.

Shell Leaf Penstemon

Winged Dock

         To keep us from getting the doldrums, my sister and I studied birds and native flowers punctuating the landscape with color. Once a wild gold finch rose high in the air from a purple thistle. Folding his wings, he came down in slants and runs scattering his song over the hills. Pink prairie roses with petals soft as a baby's skin grew along the roadside, their delicate faces turned to the sun. And fragrant wild sweet peas in thick clusters of pale purple. We never failed to pass a clump of sweet peas without picking a bouquet. It is in June too, the shell-leaf penstemon opens its lavender and blue bells. When we squeezed unopened penstemon blossoms between our thumbs and forefingers, they popped like small balloons. Occasionally we sampled wild onions growing sporadically among the tall grasses, or sucked sweet nectar from golden florets of another wild flower. Each plant had its own brief time of flower, fruit and quiescence.

         There is something about June-time splendor of the Nebraska Sandhills that puts one in tune with God. Surrounded by so many aspects of nature and awesome blue skies, I felt as close to our creator on cow herding days as on Sunday when we attended Cedar Valley Presbyterian church.

         One afternoon when the sun was high, we herded the cows west toward home. Along the way, Corinne and I picked Winged Dock, (often named Wild Begonia or Sand Begonia) a Sandhill weed. Then we impaled each yellow-green, pinkish, three-angled fruit on barbed wires of the fence beyond the nearby ditch. Later, we learned Uncle Carl Peterson while driving along, had stopped his car to examine the fence. Curious, he thought a row of butterflies had settled on the barbs. Chagrined when he discovered how he'd been fooled, he guessed immediately who the culprits were. As the day's heat wore on, we extracted sand from our shoes, and inched along, absorbing the beauty of other wild plants.

         A special day, though, stands out in my mind. It was a golden afternoon, shimmering with sunshine, the air perfumed with heady aroma of wild sweet peas. And fairly quiet except for the cadence of birdsong and an occasional raucous crow overhead, scattering his call over the hills. There was also the monotonous drone of flies, buzzing around the cattle. Some of the cows, tired of grazing, were lying down quietly chewing their cuds. Bored, Corinne and I began to amuse ourselves by finding wild flowers and playing pretend games with them. It was then we discovered the versatile Spiderwort, long-stemmed. glabrous flowers with fragile blue petals and elongated grass-like leaves drooping downward.

         With hands outstretched, our minds in a dream, we pretended they were graceful dancers in pastel skirts waving their long arms. Our imaginations conjured up all sorts of fantasies about these dancers in their ephemeral loveliness. When we grew tired of this, we broke off the succulent stalks and pressed an oozing sticky substance onto our cracked patent leather Mary Janes. Presto! It imparted a sheen to the worn surfaces, and we were off in other worlds. We were now fine ladies making ourselves beautiful for Cinderella's ball. Our newest discovery melted away boredom. From then on, the Spiderwort dotting the upper meadows of Dad's quarter section, carried us through many long summer afternoons.

         During our early married years, Ed, a building contractor, constructed a number of sewage treatment plants in small Nebraska towns such as Atkinson, Burwell, Stuart, Randolph, Osmond. (Later he built several in Iowa.) As he traveled to and from these building sites, Ed always carried his camera. Some of his favorite topics to photograph were abandoned farm buildings, unusual sunsets in brilliant and subdued colors, and wild plants such as yucca, their pale, waxy, blossoms resembling tall, thick candles. Ed seemed drawn to the wild flowers in the Sandhill area where I was raised.

         One year he was working on a sewage treatment plant near Spalding.. While in that area, he took many photographs during the spring and summer. On a Saturday evening following completion of the job, Ed began going through his collection of colored slides. "Shirl, can you come here for a few minutes," he asked. "I'd like for you to see my newest pictures".

         Glad for a respite from the unfinished supper dishes, I dried my hands at the kitchen sink. Walking into our darkened living room, I sank into an easy chair. Ed inserted slide after slide into his projector. There were weathered farm houses and barns, fields of white daisies, clumps of yucca, and other photographs he had taken during his weeks away from home. And then, on the screen, it suddenly loomed up before me! The graceful Spiderwort. My husband had captured it perfectly. I had almost forgotten how lovely and sylph-like it was. My attention was at once riveted to the scene before me.

         I sat there thinking how old familiar things have strange ways of returning to us. We never really forget memorable childhood experiences. Dormant, quiescent, they lie hidden away in the closets of our subconscious. But they are there. It takes but a fleeting glance, often a once familiar smell or bit of music to bring them back. There is something exciting and refreshing about re-discovering a forgotten memory.

         In May l970, I completed a three-year non-fiction correspondence course from Famous Writers School in Westport, Connecticut. The following month on Sunday June l4th, The Graceful Spiderwort was published in the magazine section of the Omaha World Herald. I was paid $25.00. Never did I imagine this insignificant little wild flower would become the inspiration for my first published story.

         On the wall in my writing room hangs a framed water color of a Spiderwort. In the painting is the skull of a horned cow, surrounded by weeds and prairie grass. Our daughter painted the picture from a photograph Ed snapped while on a construction job, not far from the area where I grew up. Her inscription in the right hand corner reads--Happy Birthday Mom. Love, Ellen 8/8/80.

         How often we go through what seems at the time a disagreeable experience, only to have it turn into an unforgettable memory. The childhood chore of herding cows I so disliked, has become, in retrospect, one of my most vivid recollections.

© Shirley Baker Jipp -- Blair, Nebraska  2005