The Balloon Man

This comes to brighten my life; it makes me smile just to read it again and recall reading it to a bright eyed class of grade school children who seemed to find it as whimsical as I did. Thanks ee cummings for writing it and to A for finding it for me. Ah, life is fine.

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman


whistles far and wee


and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring


when the world is puddle-wonderful


the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing


from hop-scotch and jump-rope and


it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed


baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

An Owl to Remember

An uncle has filled me in on the details of a pet owl he had as a youth. I had some encounters with the owl. They are an intriguing bird.

As Told by R: “ I had climbed Liisa Butte looking for crocus, to bring Mom a bouquet. They are a beautiful blue and white flower that blooms only in early spring on the shady side of the mountain. Whenever I had a chance I would bring Mom a bouquet, as she loved flowers.

Anyway, on the way down the butte, here was this baby owl at the bottom of a steep cliff. Unable to reach the nest, my decision was to bring him home. I put him in the gunny sack I always carried, but the horse I was riding, spooked over the squawking owl in the gunny sack and threw us both off. I walked home with the little owl in the sack, so small his eyes were not even open yet. I fed him oatmeal mush at first. When he got hungry he would quack away, tilting his head back and opening his mouth wide; I would drop in the food and water for him. The first time he opened his eyes, I was the first thing he saw. Being used to my voice, he adopted me as his parent.

Mom and I decided to name him Ole. When he got older I would feed him cotton tails and jack rabbits. He would fly out of the creek and to the house when I called him.

All through the summer he was always with me. He rode with me in the hay wagon out to the fields and back. At night he slept in the attic with me. As he got older, I would leave the door open and he would go hunting during the night, but he always came in at daybreak and wake me up from the head of the bed.

Ole was extremely intelligent. He had a habit of flying to the peak of the barn overlooking the feed lot before daybreak. At daylight I would throw out grain on the feeding area for the chickens. When all the chickens were out feeding, Ole would swoop down and scare the life out of them. Feathers flew all over. They quit laying eggs. Dad said, “That’s it, the owl must go.” I was heart broken.

The next morning before daybreak, I climbed up on the barn. Sure enough, there was Ole waiting for his morning sport with the chickens. I tied a rope on his ankle and dropped the other end to the ground. Then going down, I anchored the rope about half way up the side of the barn.

Ole making his swoop hit the end of the line and took a nose-dive into the dirt. I went over and untied the rope, hoping he was alright. He got up, shook the dust off and really told me what he thought. That was the maddest bird you would ever see. He never bothered another chicken. I was able to keep him.

When I went away to high school, Ole also left the ranch to live in the wild. Mom said he would come back several times a week and sit by the kitchen window and quack for me. Mom would go out and try feed him but he would not eat for her. She would pat his stomach and say he was doing fine on his own.

My only hope is that he found a good mate to live out his life with. I truly loved that bird.” Excerpt from "Cave Hills Memories" which is nearly complete.

All Saints Sunday

Our pear tree is a breathtaking burgundy/gold/orange wonder in the back yard. I cannot get enough of photographing it. It is brilliant in the morning sun; and even more glorious in the amber afternoons as the light spectrum starts to take on the rosy red of the slanting rays of evening.

So my world, my sorry little disfunctional existence, is made splendid with beauty.

Once again I am submerged in writing homestead family history. Today I got an incredible letter with the story of a foster uncle trapping snakes with the South Dakota State Snake Trapper. They worked together with and without traps on my grandparents homestead. One spring he writes, that they took 2,000 rattlesnakes from Table Mountain. I didn't know they were taken to an Army camp in Texas, where they used the venom for shell shocked soldiers. Hmmm.

But, I too, walked the Buttes noted for rattlesnakes and crocus; and I too saw the wire cage traps full of wreathing, buzzing rattlesnakes. They gave me nightmares into my adulthood. Once in my early motherhood in the Black Hills I pushed my third baby right over a rattler in his stroller, on my way to the mail box. A person certainly has to watch ones step. Even city garter snakes give me the willies.

It was All Saints Sunday. We gave altar flowers in recognition of our immigrant forefathers who helped establish homestead churches in South Dakota.