Evening Prairie Primrose

The primrose is a delicate pink, sometimes pure white with a yellow center. It is one of my favorite wildflowers. Primrose grows in ditches and along fencelines and pathways where grass is mown and it can get plenty of water. I have seen it fill in a whole ditch so that when the wind blew, it looked like the the ditch was overflowing with foamy pink tissue paper.

The name, of course, is one of the attractions. Evening Prairie Primrose- what a sweet name. There is nothing so mysteriously beautiful as an evening coming on the prairie with choruses of tree frogs and the hoot of owls from the creek beds. The wind beginning to lie still for the night, brings a peaceful calm and the coolness steals in with the fading day. Coyotes howl and yip out in the orchard and a rustle in the garden tells me a rabbit is seeking  his burrow. A cow may bawl at its calf or a horse whinny.


This patch of primrose is young. It will grow and fill so no green shows- just the pink waving in the warm wind, bowing at us as we pass like little girls in pink dresses curtsying at the end of their dance.

Here is a all white primrose.

The primrose is one of the treasures of the prairie.

Don’t Fence Me In

This little donkey stood watching me pass and she seemed to be considering how she might escape her pasture. I don’t know, maybe she felt safe inside and  only wondered where all of us fools were headed when there was security, sunshine and plenty of green grass.

I love to ride through the country and see the fields and meadows, looking for wildflowers and hawks soaring, and watching the world wake up with spring. I pull my van off routinely to get a better look at something. As exciting as the activity in a big city may be, there are life and events of interest to my heart in the country.

I wish I could have seen these fields before there were so many fences.

Even our farm now has fencing everywhere. Mowing and cleaning up the property exposed fences in all stages of demise. Pieces of old barbed wire have had to be cleared from brush hog and mower blade shafts.  We have discovered wire that tree trunks have grown over and incorporated into their bark. Fences around the barn protected chickens for the Howard family. Cows and horses, and turkeys have resided in pens that kept them safe from coyotes, passing vehicles, and hawk talons. Now our own fences guard our pecan orchard, our fruit tress, Brenna’s herd of donkeys and her farm animals, the garden, and our buildings.

In some places, fences had been left standing, but new fences were built close beside them. Brush and trees and briars had grown through and forced apart the wire and posts. Wire has been trampled into the dirt and prairie has grown over it.Gates and new sorts of fencing, like chain link and pipe fences enclose farms now, and yet the barbed wire is still the cheapest and used for cattle pastures.

I try to envision travelers who saw this land when there were few houses, no paved roads, no electric poles or wires, and certainly not much in the way of fencing. How different, how large, how thrilling, how fearful it must have been. When there were no boundaries other than those made naturally by creeks that snaked across the land, by rivers, by the trees that grew along their banks; where the grass grew so tall and unbroken that little children like Laura and her sisters could become lost in it within a few hundred yards of their father.

When I say don’t fence me in, I really mean “unfence” me. Is that relly what I want or is fencing what protects me? Is fencing what I need to feel secure and tamed. Doesn’t a fence keep others out as much as it holds me in? Like the boundaries we moms set for our children, aren’t fences for our ultimate good?

A fence we can see through may have covinced us that there is greener grass on the other side. Yet, there is sweet grass inside too and and open blue sky above. The sky gives us our greatest freedom. And the sky will never be sectioned off by barbed wire.

Don’t Fence Me In

This little donkey stood watching me pass and she seemed to be considering how she might escape her pasture. I don’t know, maybe she felt safe inside and  only wondered where all of us fools were headed when there was security, sunshine and plenty of green grass.

I love to ride through the country and see the fields and meadows, looking for wildflowers and hawks soaring, and watching the world wake up with spring. I pull my van off routinely to get a better look at something. As exciting as the activity in a big city may be, there are life and events of interest to my heart in the country.

I wish I could have seen these fields before there were so many fences.

Even our farm now has fencing everywhere. Mowing and cleaning up the property exposed fences in all stages of demise. Pieces of old barbed wire have had to be cleared from brush hog and mower blade shafts.  We have discovered wire that tree trunks have grown over and incorporated into their bark. Fences around the barn protected chickens for the Howard family. Cows and horses, and turkeys have resided in pens that kept them safe from coyotes, passing vehicles, and hawk talons. Now our own fences guard our pecan orchard, our fruit tress, Brenna’s herd of donkeys and her farm animals, the garden, and our buildings.

In some places, fences had been left standing, but new fences were built close beside them. Brush and trees and briars had grown through and forced apart the wire and posts. Wire has been trampled into the dirt and prairie has grown over it.Gates and new sorts of fencing, like chain link and pipe fences enclose farms now, and yet the barbed wire is still the cheapest and used for cattle pastures.

I try to envision travelers who saw this land when there were few houses, no paved roads, no electric poles or wires, and certainly not much in the way of fencing. How different, how large, how thrilling, how fearful it must have been. When there were no boundaries other than those made naturally by creeks that snaked across the land, by rivers, by the trees that grew along their banks; where the grass grew so tall and unbroken that little children like Laura and her sisters could become lost in it within a few hundred yards of their father.

When I say don’t fence me in, I really mean “unfence” me. Is that relly what I want or is fencing what protects me? Is fencing what I need to feel secure and tamed. Doesn’t a fence keep others out as much as it holds me in? Like the boundaries we moms set for our children, aren’t fences for our ultimate good?

A fence we can see through may have covinced us that there is greener grass on the other side. Yet, there is sweet grass inside too and and open blue sky above. The sky gives us our greatest freedom. And the sky will never be sectioned off by barbed wire.

Dear God,

Thanks for the sounds of today. A hawk is calling as he soars across the orchard. I love to hear the birds, the meadowlarks perched on the barbed wire fence, the hawks wheeling, the chattering of the songbirds, the ka-plink, ka-plink, ka-plunk of the cowbirds (like berries landing in Sal’s mother’s bucket), the cooing of doves, the lonesome night call of a whippoorwill, and the owls stirring up the night air.

So many lovely sounds and mixed with the tree frog choruses and the laughter of children and the whistle of a tea kettle, the hesitant notes of a child learning to play a piano, a far off train whistle, make our world a place of beauty–a wonderland of sound.

We all have favorite sounds, sounds that spell peace, comfort, joy, freedom, and excitement to our ears. I am so glad that you created voices, music, birdsong, and even the sounds of a flowing stream, waves on the shore, wind in the treetops, a baby’s coo and cry.

Help me to be alive to sound, to hear it, to study it, to feel it, to know it. Thanks, God.

Love you,
Elece

Dear God,

Thanks for the sounds of today. A hawk is calling as he soars across the orchard. I love to hear the birds, the meadowlarks perched on the barbed wire fence, the hawks wheeling, the chattering of the songbirds, the ka-plink, ka-plink, ka-plunk of the cowbirds (like berries landing in Sal’s mother’s bucket), the cooing of doves, the lonesome night call of a whippoorwill, and the owls stirring up the night air.

So many lovely sounds and mixed with the tree frog choruses and the laughter of children and the whistle of a tea kettle, the hesitant notes of a child learning to play a piano, a far off train whistle, make our world a place of beauty–a wonderland of sound.

We all have favorite sounds, sounds that spell peace, comfort, joy, freedom, and excitement to our ears. I am so glad that you created voices, music, birdsong, and even the sounds of a flowing stream, waves on the shore, wind in the treetops, a baby’s coo and cry.

Help me to be alive to sound, to hear it, to study it, to feel it, to know it. Thanks, God.

Love you,
Elece

All’s Well


The evening sky was clear and stars began to show even before the sun set. The world was still and faded like an old woolen coat. The were colors, but not bright or harsh ones in the setting sun behind the bare tree’s filigreed silhouettes. The only sounds coming to my ears were the gentle creak of the porch swing’s chain and the rustle of dry leaves as the dog settled into them to sleep under the bedroom window. In the distance, I heard a cow bawling, a few birds calls, and an occasional far away bark of a dog. There was no wind, no tractors rumbling, no sound of traffic passing. All quiet on the home front.

All’s Well


The evening sky was clear and stars began to show even before the sun set. The world was still and faded like an old woolen coat. The were colors, but not bright or harsh ones in the setting sun behind the bare tree’s filigreed silhouettes. The only sounds coming to my ears were the gentle creak of the porch swing’s chain and the rustle of dry leaves as the dog settled into them to sleep under the bedroom window. In the distance, I heard a cow bawling, a few birds calls, and an occasional far away bark of a dog. There was no wind, no tractors rumbling, no sound of traffic passing. All quiet on the home front.