long, long time ago —
In those last remaining years before World War II, had changed our consciousnesses forever, it was an ephemeral still time; a quiet space in which we could dream about the future without the burden of its consequences: ghastly war — genocide and the Atomic bomb. Not knowing of the real future ahead made it easy to dream and be idealistic. And now as my mind wanders back over the years to that oh-so very innocent time — I think of it well.
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Jesse was just fifteen then and getting ready to enter high school, and our baby brother Awful Oliver had just turned three. Awful Oliver doesn’t really have much to do with this story and while I’m not the hero of it, I do play a role. This story is really about my older brother Jesse and some of his friends… and because of him an extraordinary and marvelous thing is beginning to happen on the level grassy plains of the Kansas prairie.
Now I know when people think of Kansas, they think of it as a dull flat place with ferocious Oz-like tornados sweeping across the plains. But Wichita’s not like that, I mean it is pretty flat and all, but a long, long, time ago, way back when the pioneers came and wanted to build their homes there, an ancient tribe of the Wichita Indians told the settlers if they wanted to be safe from tornados, to build their homes between the Big and Little Arkansas rivers, because a tornado would never touch down there— and to this very day— not one ever has.
If you want to really capture the true essence of a person, place, or thing then you must try to perceive its spirit and understand that like the butterfly, how one thing can transform to another. Since I grew up there, I will try to share with you some of its magic because in our small Wichita Vortex, there awaits a boundless world of phenomenon to behold.
I can remember on many a brisk and sunny springtime day, lying on my back in the tall grass as high billowing clouds drifted slowly in deep shadowed contrast, shape-shifting softly across our Ansel Adams sky.
And on some cloudy afternoon in the fall of the year I might just find myself standing silent in the glowing warmth of a gentle autumn mist, smiling softly as it wistful’ed down upon me.
Sometimes after a nap from a sleepy summer’s rain, I would awaken to the heavenly spectacle of a translucent rainbow, arching in shimmering descent to touch a magic pot of gold lying secretly hidden in some waiting child’s backyard.
Then too, on a bright and blustery September time day when the billowing clouds flew high and wild, stirring up a swirling charade of streaming carnival colors that’d go flying head over heels down some ancient red brick street, I’d watch as they’d dance delightfully on their merry way to Elsewhere. So caught up in that dance, and before I knew it, I too would sometimes find myself, wilily, nilly chasing after them and becoming a part of Elsewhen.
Sometimes in late June during the first moments of twilight, Jesse, I and Oliver would go hounding about the yard with cupped hands after tiny luminous lights that mysteriously darted here and there, flickering off and on, through the magical night. We’d capture the “lightning bugs,” as we called them, and place them in a large canning jar with air holes punched in the metal lid so they could breathe. Once inside the jar, we would gaze upon their mystical radiance, mesmerized… Ah but just for a frozen moment in time, only to set them free again. Our Mom could not abide caged beings and said that all people and creatures must be free. And so, with the opening of the jar lid, we’d watch as the sparkling streams of luminous light rushed out into the darkness, creating a now, even more magical night.
If you look closely there are so many wonders to behold. The brightest shades of red and gold enchant the evening skies of a Kansas sunset that is seemingly splashed across the twilight as if by a stroke of a painter’s brush. And as the sun’s light fades to shadow, the reds blend and darken into a deep purple at evening’s tide. It is at the precise moment, of the last flicker of light when the painters brush sweeps swiftly across the canvas that it becomes a sweeping golden sundown graced by the dusk of our twilight, amending it magically into a shimmering trail of stardust, flowing softy through the darkness in a sparkling diamond stream… out and across the universal night.
I think by now you might begin to see what I’m trying to say. So perhaps in our winter, like me, you might stop and consider the snowflakes as they fall softly down upon you casting a spell of the spirits while delightfully transforming the countryside into an enchanted arctic kingdom of reflective wonder. It is then when you stand in this frozen wonderland where the great silver trees are sheathed in a glistening fairyland of ice, that if you listen very closely a magical tinkling of chimes can be heard when the cold wind blows their branches to touch.
Later on when night shade falls, blanketing the city in black, one by one little lamps are lit, fashioning the illusion of invisible cat’s eyes glowing in amber and floating dreamily in the darkness as she moves panther-like through the cold an’ wintry night.
It was then on many of these chilly winter nights that my family and I would sit braced with hot chocolate before a glowing fire in our old Victorian home that my grandfather had built, and there we would weave together tales of mystery and legend. We were a family of storytellers, and for me, Jesse’s yarns were always the best.
From winter to spring our world would transform again from brightly colored tulips poking up through the snow, to vibrant sunny wildflowers in petaled, perfumed bouquets.
Down the street from us on Dellrose where Spike Morgan lived grew a huge majestic cottonwood tree and in the spring when its buds burst open, I’d swear that fairy magic was again afoot, for floating on the air throughout the neighborhood, seemingly blown by sweet small lips, drifted a white, wild, feathery down. Like a distant ghost memory of a winter’s snowstorm, it would thus rise up again in springtime and fly through the air, catching here and there, in painted fences, cedar bushes, my hair, and even the cats and dogs if they sat still long enough.
Like I said, our home stood at the edge of the city and from our backyard you could see as far as forever out and across the fields of willowing grass. Because the wheat grew so high we couldn’t see the airplane factories that lay miles and miles beyond, but on many an evening Jesse and me would sit out back on our porch near twilight time, and watch as rosy puffs of clouds swept lofty and free above the Kansas Plains.
Our home itself was surrounded by an abundance of flowers. Overgrown pink rosebushes climbed high and wild on white trellises that lay lightly against the yellow painted wooden walls. Assortments of wildflowers grew in splendid patches throughout the yards and lots that surrounded us, along with lilacs, tiger lilies, and huge blossomed purple and pink peony bushes. The peonies were the flowers we picked on Memorial Day for the graves of our ancestors. It was a tradition that I dearly loved, to go with our offering of flowers to visit the graveyards and hear the stories of our people that had passed on before. It made me feel a part of something very big. Row upon row of red and gold hollyhocks grew tall at the edge of our vacant lot next to the Easley’s house that bordered our property, and out back grew stretches of wild sun flowers that when all shiny and new held their weighty heads high, till time came by and bowed them down, to drop their seeds in ancient perfection.
Three tall and shapely cedar trees stood before our front porch, guarding it like Swiss sentries. The green slope of our lawn swept down to the curb and was dotted with sunny dandelions that shined like butter if we held them under our chins. On the front curb lay a section of crumbling cement that had been over zealously blown away a few years before, early one morning, on the fourth of July by one of Jesse’s huge cherry bomb firecrackers. Beside the crumbling curb grew a large, leafy elm tree that boasted the trunk circles of seventeen years. Across from it sat another Elm that was my favorite. It had a curving sitting spot that fit my seat perfectly and I knew that later on that summer I’d be sitting between its lofty limbs with legs dangled and barefoot, hour upon hour, contemplating
