Roots Run Deep

The Kansas prairie is alive with the wind. That may be my first memory of Kansas. A strong wind and golden grasses bending in a coordinated dance of land and sky. When the first settlers laid claim to land, they brought with them the idea of water witches who would find the underground water beneath the loam and silt with the use of a forked weeping willow branch. The branch would dip down as it sensed ground water. If there was no water, the settlers had failed before they began. If there was water, and they dug long enough to find the intricate root systems of the native prairie grasses, there was hope. There is a certain amount of accomplishment in thriving in a vast, uncultivated environment. The dandelion grows and multiplies while the orchid withers and fades in the fluctuating climate of hot, humid summers and cold, barren winters.

I was born in Kansas and can still smell the memory of hops growing in the sun from the farmland close to my childhood home. My father has always been a teacher, pointing out the red berries that keep small birds warm in winter and the deer trails paved for young fawns to follow their mothers to the clear, cool creekbed. My childhood was spent always looking down for interesting pebbles and feathers on nature walks with the quiet sighting of deer, rabbits, and hawks circling above. As a child, I could refer to an ‘Osage Orange’ or the ‘Cow Skin Creek’ as if I was referring to an old friend. They were old friends in their way.

When the world shut down and sickness spread to our region, these places became our long-forgotten friends again. I introduced my children to owl pellets, meadowlarks, and deer tracks in the quietness of the Kansas wetlands. We found where the water had carved out tree roots through Flat Rock Creek and the places where settlers had once stopped on their long journeys to New Mexico and California. For many, the Kansas creeks and rivers were a rest stop. For us, they were a sanctuary from the uncertainty of the world.

I open the news and see a world broken. Industry and consumerism struggling to find the path forward. I look outside and see a robin forming her nest, continuing her age-old process of bringing new hatchlings to sweetly greet a new spring sunrise. On days where the uncertainty feels too great in the human world, I repeat to my children that we are dandelions and not orchids. We can grow anywhere and root to find water wherever we land. We will always find the good when we focus not on the force of the wind but instead on the bending of the grasses and how they always bring themselves up to the sun again.

One cloudy and wet morning, I set down on a nature trail with my five-year-old son who is now the one looking down in search of interesting pebbles and sticks. It is winter, and all is quiet. Our rubber boots crunch and squish in the cold, watery mud. My father parks his car, wearing his warmest coat, and joins us on our weekly two-mile hike. He keeps track of the miles he walks each week to help reduce his blood pressure and prepare his body for the upcoming task he must face of in-person teaching during a pandemic. A big grin spreads on his face as he joins my son and I. My son runs to his grandfather, holding out his hand excitedly as they walk in large, cartoon steps in their shared goofiness. I watch as my father bends down and quietly points to a thick, fleshy orange root system protruding from a creek bed. We marvel at how this Maclura pomifera tree can grow on the edge of an abyss and thrive. We have much to learn from our Kansas roots and a new generation to teach.