Life is Not a Spectator Sport

Years ago I wrote a short story entitled "Spectator Sport" that was published in a small magazine whose name I have long since forgotten.  The story was about a young family struggling to make ends meet, who had finally scraped together enough to do some Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve.  It was snowing heavily when they stopped in at a small cafe to warm themselves.

Sitting at the counter nursing a cold cup of coffee was an old man, a regular at the cafe.  He had a long white beard and wore faded coveralls over a flannel shirt. A baseball cap covered his bald head and it was apparent that he had not washed in several days.  He liked to sit at the far end of the counter where he had a clear view of everyone who entered, but close enough that he could eavesdrop on their conversations without having to engage himself.

The cafe was crowded on this night and the little family could only find space at the counter near the old man.  The youngest of the children was a small girl of about five years old with big brown eyes that took in everything with a sense of awe and wonder.  This was her first real recollection of Christmas and she was fascinated by the all the lights, sounds and colors of the season.

She stared in wonder at the old man seated next to them and finally he smiled back at her.  In youthful innocence, she turned to her mother and asked, "Is that Santa Clause's brother? "Well, if it is," she said quietly, "we mustn't disturb him."  She gave the old man an apologetic look, but the little girl continued to stare.

The old man seldom interacted with anyone at the cafe.  He preferred to live on the edges of other people's lives by listening and watching their interactions with each other. But this time he couldn't resist the temptation to participate in the wonder of the season with a small girl.

"I really am Santa's brother, you know," he said to her conspiratorially.  "But this is such a busy time for him, that I seldom get to see him!"

"That must be really lonely for you," the girl answered.

The old man reflected on this for a few moments, "You're only lonely if you allow yourself to be," he said finally. "Santa's family is made up of all the children in the world, so since we're brothers, they are my family too!"

The old man and the little girl chatted together for several moments while the older child and her parents nodded and smiled in encouragement.  She wanted to know about his house and his pets and if he knew any of the elves personally.  The old man soon warmed to the story and answered her questions with sincerity and authority.

When the family gathered their things to leave, he reached in his pocket and found a shiny half dollar he didn't know he had.  He handed the coin to the little girl, "Santa told me you would be stopping by," he said. "And he asked me to give this to you."

The little girl's eyes widened in wonder," He knew I was coming?" she asked taking the coin in her mittened hand. She paused for a moment and then gave the old man a big hug.  "I don't have a present for him, but can you give him this hug for me?"

The old man smiled, "Of course! And I'll tell him it comes especially from you."

The little girl waved gaily as she left with her parents.  When the old man turned back to the counter, he found that his coffee cup had been filled and there was a warm cinnamon roll next to his cup.  He looked up in surprise, but there was no one else around. The cafe had emptied out and the wait staff had retreated to the kitchen to clean up for closing time.  The silence in the cafe was broken only by the sound of carols coming from the radio and the soft tinkle of bells.

During this holiday season, let us never forget the magic of Christmas and the wonder of the season!

Best Wishes for a Joyous New Year! -Wanda DeHaven Pyle

A Thanksgiving Prayer

As Chaplain of the United States Senate in 1947, Peter Marshall had an extraordinary talent for prayer. To him the morning prayer was not just the opening part of the services, but the most precious moments an individual spends with the Lord. When he clasped his hands together, the prayers seemed to flow from the depths of his soul. Dr. Marshall did not write down his prayers, but there were those in his congregation who did. In 1954, his daughter, Catherine Marshall, published the edited prayers in a volume entitled simply, The Prayers of Peter Marshall.

These prayers have sustained and lifted me through difficult times in my life. They have humbled me and reminded me to be more patient, more understanding, and forgiving to one another. In one of his last prayers before his death, he uttered the words, "We are standing on the threshold of time."  These words are as true today as they were in 1948.

As the searing tongues of misunderstanding and hatred leap out at us from the far corners of the world, it is far to easy to put our own self-interest and pride before all else and become complacent. Dr. Marshall's great concern was for the plain homespun virtues of honesty, integrity, and goodness of the individual. He saw clearly that we can never achieve nationally what we are unwilling to accede to individually.  Over and over he kept calling us back to these basic realities.

As we approach this holiday season, let us look forward with a true sense of gratitude for all the mercy and blessings in our lives. May we get on with the job of creating not only a nation but a world in which all men shall have the right to seek happiness. Let's make this season a time of rededication, when we shall think not of how much we can eat or what gifts we want, but of how thankful we are for what we have.

Seesaw Relationships

In a previous blog ("Dreamers vs. Realists: Magic or Toxic", 5/24/13) I reflected on the magnetic draw between dreamers and realists. Since completing my novel I have come to believe that that we are all seeking a balance in our relationships.  We are initially attracted to those who fill a void in our personalities so that our lives can achieve equilibrium that we believe will bring us happiness.

Relationships can be likened to a child’s seesaw in that they are balanced as long as the weight at both ends is equally distributed. Sometimes one end might be up, sometimes the opposite end might be up, but in order for it to work at all, there has to be equal weight on each end.  In relationships we are magnetized to each other because we see in the other person something that we need to achieve the balance. We strive to meet someone’s need and fulfill our own need at the same time.  This is true of friendships, work situations, and partnerships of all kinds.

In our attempt at balance, we often attract others that are on the same continuum as we are.  If someone is aggressive, he may attract someone who is meek.  In fact the meekness may bring out the aggression in that person.  To achieve balance, one needs to learn to set boundaries and the other to respect boundaries. Holding on to resentments only causes them to build until, finally, the relationship breaks.

In the case of dreamers and realists, the balance is often achieved when both parties move toward the center or the extreme together. However, if one party begins to move toward the center and the other does not, the balance is thrown off and the relationship begins to tilt to one side resulting in disharmony and disillusionment.

When relationships are in full bloom, there is energy about it.  There is enthusiasm and communication as each party learns what the relationship has to teach them. Then sometimes, for no apparent reason, all the energy goes out of the relationship.  There is no enthusiasm for the job, the people at the job, a particular friend, or partner.  This seems to indicate that we may have learned all we can from that relationship, and it may be time to move on to another one of life’s lessons.

In Windborne, the three women who are the central focus of the novel are also seeking this balance in their relationships. When the relationships end, they must reflect on what really makes them happy and what doesn’t.  They must learn to apply the lessons they learned from their relationships and pay attention to any red flags that come up in the future.

They must learn not to be afraid to be alone for a while if that’s what life has in store.  In spending time alone, they are actually giving themselves the opportunity to get to know themselves as individuals and to incorporate and integrate the experiences they have had into their new sense of self. They must learn that one of the most important relationships they will ever have is the one they have with themselves.

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The Legend of the Stone House

The farmhouse where I grew up was built of native limestone quarried right on the property.  The walls were two foot thick and the glass in the windows was clouded and wavy.  High up in the eaves of the house were holes just big enough to sight a rifle barrel so the home's original owners could fend off Indian raids. Limestone was the building material of choice because the stone lay close to the surface and was easy to quarry.  It was also soft enough to shape into building blocks when it was first unearthed, but it dried as hard as cement after being exposed to the air.  The cornerstone on our house was crudely carved with the words "The summer of 1857 was dry."

Although the house had been added onto over the years, the footprint of the original stone house remained. There were two rooms downstairs and one large room upstairs that my sister and I shared. The shadow of a fireplace, long since cemented in, remained in the kitchen where the original settlers must have cooked and warmed the house.  We had running water and electricity, but never got around to installing a bathroom so we used the outhouse until it blew over in a storm.  After that, we simply squatted in the bushes.

Although I often lay awake at night listening to the sound of rats scurrying across the attic floor above me, I was never afraid of the house. It was an impenetrable fortress against the storms that had buffeted it for over a century.  No it wasn't the house that made me uneasy, it was the legend around it.

The house was once part of an early settlement called Neosho City, founded by a group of religious zealots from the East who bought the land on speculation and offered the lots to anyone willing to follow the charter rules they set out.  The settlement was to be a "city of no sin" and the inhabitants were to follow a strictly vegetarian diet.  They were to eat nothing they couldn't grow themselves and they were not to use any medications to cure or prevent illnesses.  Death was simply God's will and they were not to interfere.  The women were to tend the fields while the men attended religious meetings and prayed for God's blessings upon the community. This, they believed, would ensure their prosperity. But Mother Nature didn't get the message.  A few summers into the settlement a severe drought ruined the crops and left the settlement to suffer through one of the hardest winters on record with no food.  Starvation and sickness descended upon them and the aged and the children were the first to feel the effects. 

The settlement was built on an octagonal plat with the church and cemetery situated in the center and plots of one hundred and sixty acres spanning out from the center like the spokes on a wheel. The remnants of a livery stable still stood on the far edge of the property, but a small cemetery overgrown with brambles and weeds remained within sight of the stone house. The cemetery was filled with ornate limestone headstones carved in the shape of cradles and cribs bearing the names of children, most under the age of two.  The sayings carried the grief of the parents from the past into the afterworld with their children..."beloved son...infant child...precious gift..."

The settlement disappeared after that winter and nothing remained except the old livery stable, the stone house and the little cemetery.  And sometimes at night, when the wind howled through the chinks in the stone house, I thought I could hear children crying.

Spit and Whittle Benches

"Spit and Whittle" benches were a time-honored forum for old-timers to pass the idle hours of the day and exchange gossip.  The topics ranged from the appropriate length of women's hemlines to heated discussions on the politics of the day. The "Spit and Whittle" bench in my hometown was situated in front of the only pool hall and beer joint in town.  Local farmers would come into town on Saturday night and play dominoes in the pool hall while their wives shopped and visited with other farm wives. But during the late afternoon hours the bench in front of the pool hall was frequented by old men with time on their hands and an abundance of opinions for anyone who had the time to listen.

Along with the "party line" phone,  the "Spit and Whittle" bench was the social media of the day. People did not hesitate to voice their opinions and engage in heated discussions with anyone within earshot. Nothing was ever settled here, but there was a satisfaction in being heard.  No judgement was passed down and your opinions and views were often forgotten as soon as your spot on the bench was vacated.

Your spot on the bench was often determined by age and prestige in the community.  Newcomers to the bench often stood or leaned against a post to engage in the conversation.  If they were lucky enough to get a spot on the bench, they were also the first to give it up if a more senior member of the group arrived.

To ignore the group on the bench was to invite their criticism.  It left you ripe for their gossip and labeled you as an outsider. These were the elders of the community and they demanded your respect! If you didn't stop to speak, you must at least nod in acknowledgement of their presence.

Unlike the anonymity provided through today's social media, everyone knew the source of the gossip and it was usually easy to separate the fact from the fiction. As small towns disappear and the old-timers pass away, the bench in front of the pool hall is often empty.  It remains as a sad reminder of the times when conversations were open and honest and no one really cared who eavesdropped.

New Release from Wanda DeHaven Pyle

Author Reveals the Hidden Power of Women in Support of the American Dream

Wanda DeHaven Pyle’s new novel chronicles three generations who must overcome unexpected obstacles in pursuit of the Dream.

Kansas’ tallgrass prairie provides a vivid setting for Windborne, a new novel by Wanda DeHaven Pyle. The author draws heavily on her childhood experiences growing up in the Flint Hills to chronicle a story of three generations of women who triumph over heartache, poverty, and abuse to pursue the dream of a better life. Skillfully creating compassionate characters with a range of emotions, Windborne is a novel unique in style and scope.  Set against a historical backdrop of major economic and cultural changes of the past century, it is an elegantly timeless tale about the nature of love, loss and awakening.

Pioneer women followed their men into the rolling Flint Hills of Kansas in search of the dream, but when Virginia Findlay gives up her career as a one-room school teacher in rural Kansas to marry her sweetheart, she is unaware of the chain of events she sets in motion for the three generations of women who follow in her footsteps. The Flint Hills promised bountiful wildlife and fertile valleys, but for Virginia, Helen and Leah it was an empty promise. Dreams often withered and died from starvation or the harshness and unpredictability of the climate.   Like the pioneer women who came before them, they are independent and courageous women who set aside their own dreams to nurture and support others. Eventually, each woman must recognize her hidden strength and power and find the courage to be true to herself. Through their example, these women guide each succeeding generation through life and provide a blueprint for making the important decisions that help them find happiness in life.

“Once I began this work, it took on a life of its own and I found myself completely captivated by relationships and the motivations of the characters. I believe there are lessons to be learned here that will be of great interest to other mothers and daughters!”- Wanda DeHaven Pyle

Wanda DeHaven Pyle grew up in the Flint Hills of Kansas and her recollections of life on the tallgrass prairie have influenced her writing. She retired from the field of education in 2012 with over thirty-seven years as both a teacher and administrator. Throughout her career she mentored and inspired women in educational leadership and she continues to motivate and encourage women to reach their full potential.

The book is currently available at Amazon.com and Kindle. You may also register for the free book give away on Goodreads.com.  Be sure to rate the book and post your reviews.  I would love to hear your thoughts!

Amazon  Goodreads

Roots and Wings

All across the country the landscape is dotted with abandoned farmsteads and buildings whose walls are filled with stories of heartache and happiness.  On a recent trip back through the Kansas Flint Hills to take photographs for the cover of my book, I was once again transported through time as we captured images of the past.  We photographed abandoned hotels and schools with their roofs open and gaping toward the sky and trees poking through the windows seeking the world outside. We peeked through the windows of abandoned schoolhouses to see blackboards still lining the front wall and a pot-bellied stove still standing guard in the center of the room. It seemed that at any moment the teacher would appear in the doorway to call the children in from recess.  One could almost hear the children’s laughter from the swing set that creaked sadly in the Kansas wind.  The cattle grazing on the hills and the tall prairie grass bent low against the wind lent a timeless quality to the surroundings.  There had been wind and cattle grazing here for centuries.

We were enveloped in a silence so vast that one dared not speak above a whisper. Only the sound of the wind through the prairie grass and the gentle lowing of the cattle prevailed. Clusters of trees followed the creeks and rivers as they meandered through the lowlands. They were protected from the wind here and the comforting sound of rustling leaves softened the harshness of the surroundings.  But on the open range a lone tree struggled to stay upright against the constant wind.

Stacked stone fences lined the roadways, laid by hand over a century ago to mark the boundaries of one’s land against encroachment. Ancient barbed wire fences strung between stone fence posts built when the railroad age ended the era of the open range, kept the herds separate.  It was as if the ghosts of the past were still there...watching and protecting what they had devoted their lives to creating.

Most of the early pioneers to the area used whatever materials were available to them to create their dwellings.  The most basic structure was the dugout.  It was usually dug into a dirt bank with a sod roof. Sod houses required little expenditure because they were built from native grasses and their roots held the dirt together to form building blocks for the house. Very few of these dwellings exist today, because they were subject to water damage and infestation by vermin and were only used as temporary housing.

When settlers to Kansas found that the area was destitute of timber, they turned to a layer of limestone rock close to the surface that they soon found could be used for fencing as well as building. Besides being durable and fire resistant, limestone had several other advantages.  It could be obtained easily with the proper tools and techniques and it was uniform in thickness.  When freshly quarried, it was soft enough to shape with simple tools and hardened after being exposed to air.

Since the lowlands were prone to flooding, many schools and homes were built on the crest of a hill where the endless horizon provided a clear view of approaching storms and marauders. Although this location provided little protection from the wind and weather, it provided an unobstructed view of the Kansas sunset.  As the sun sank below the horizon, it set the entire sky ablaze in shades of bright orange and red against the golden backdrop of the prairie grass.

Gazing out at the abandoned farmhouses, one feels a sense of melancholy co-mingled with joy.  If the building had a voice, it would say, “Don’t mourn for me.  I have had a good life.   While it’s true that I have seen sadness and withered hopes, I have also watched children grow to adulthood and seen dreams realized.  I am here now only as a reminder of the sacrifices made to create this life for you. Embrace me and move on, but don’t forget me. I am the roots; you are the wings."

      

Stone Schoolhouse: Flint Hills National Preserve

District 22 Schoolhouse, c.1890

       

Stone Farmhouse: Flint Hills National Preserve

Snokomo Schoolhouse c. 1882

Bushong School, c. 1918

          

Volland Hotel