My mother use to apologize for leaving me with the task of clearing out her basement.  I would quickly suggest that she help me by bearing witness as I pulled each box down from the shelves, opened it and began the arduous journey determining what was to stay and what was to be thrown away.  Mother would just as quickly back away from my suggestion, obviously preferring that I take that journey alone after she was gone.

And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since she passed over four years ago.  Box by box, whenever I felt strong enough, I’ve been going through the many shelves and piles of things left behind from lives well lived.

Sometimes I find things that I know must have been important, and may still be, but I have no idea about the story behind the items.  But every once in awhile I come across something that is pure treasure. That was the case when, in a box of hankies, photographs and unopened bottles of Avon cologne I found an old autograph book.  As I carefully opened the worn orange cloth cover with the white plastic flowers on the front I was treated to my Great Aunt Pauline’s carefully scribed name, followed by the year, 1895.

I never knew Pauline.  I may have met her, but she died in 1955, three years after I was born, so I have no recollection of her beyond the photographs I’ve seen.  To hold something that she once held was humbling, but to read the carefully written friendship poems inside touched me deeply.  I felt connected to something much greater than I, much longer lasting than my fleeting lifetime.  I can tell by the carefully worn pages that Pauline must have looked through this book of wishes from her cherished friends many times.  Inside were “forget me not’s” and lovely rhymes, such as:

“Live for those that love you,

For those whose hearts are true,

For the heavens that shine above you,

And the good that you may do.” 

Many of the names were familiar to me, having heard of the Surdez’s, the Junod’s, the Bonjour’s and the Jeanerret’s, many who were distant relatives, all through my youth.  Pauline was my grandfather’s older sister.  They, along with their mother and three other siblings came to America from Switzerland in 1888.  I’ve heard the stories and I know my mother always had fond memories of Pauline, but holding her autograph book made her more real to me.

Maybe it’s my age, having just turned 60, but finding this book has somehow deepened my interest in learning more about history.  When you walk through your local historical museum and see your old high school band uniform on display you feel a bit historical, if not hysterical realizing that you are now old enough to have things that were part of your lifetime displayed as though they are artifacts of a bygone era. 

Maybe I’ve now lived long enough to have a history, or to remember history.  When you drive down the main street of your hometown and can remember what businesses were at each location…over the last 50 years, you have some history in you.

And holding something that I know was cherished by a family member who has gone before me makes me want to know more about the people from whom I came.  Aunt Pauline’s autograph book has prompted me to try to learn more of my family’s history, which I now realize is a significant part of my own history.

To hold something once held by a family member over 100 years ago provides a wider and deeper perspective.  Aunt Pauline lived, she had friends she loved and she kept this book to remember them by.

And now I will keep it too.  

A year or so ago, I taught a writing class to folks with Alzheimer’s and dementia. On an exercise writing about travel, one gentleman commented that in England, “they have a hundred religions and only one sauce.” Well, that may have been true once upon a time. A few hundred years ago is when Voltaire first made that comment, though he cited only sixty religions. But still one sauce. Bad, bland food seems to be a pesky detail Brits have a hard time shaking. Even now, upon returning from England and telling friends (who haven’t visited the mighty island) about my trip, they instantly don a face of genuine concern before asking, “How was the food?” then wait with bated breath for me to traumatize them with tales of jellied eel and black pudding. Instead, I tell them about the fabulous vegetable gardens and spread the gospel of pickled onions. Truthfully, I don’t know how horrendous English food might have once been. Maybe pretty bad, considering its global reputation (but let’s take it with a grain of salt, especially when judgement comes from our own country that now values quantity over quality). Hubs assures me that English cuisine has greatly improved over the recent years and I have to say, I’ve not had a bad meal yet.

But regardless of food, one thing I’m certain they do right is booze. And how. But I’m not just talking about beer. With his abundance of fruit from the garden, my father-in-law puts it to good use by making his own rum and wine. Too many currants? Ferment them into vino! Tired of eating damson? Drown it in rum! His concoctions are good, though I have to say it’ll make your eyes cross. If you’re thinking of making fruit wine at home, check out this handy guide: http://www.fruitwinemaker.com/ 

And if you’re here for something stronger, I’ll pass along the easiest recipe ever. Drink the rum, and use the boozy fruit as a topping for ice cream.

Rumtopf 

Ingredients: 

1 lb. fruit (berries, peaches, plums, etc.)

1 heaping cup sugar

rum

Directions: 

• Wash fruit and cut in half.
• Put fruit and sugar in rumtopf. Add enough rum to completely cover the fruit. Mix.
• Close rumtopf and store in a cool, dry place. You can add more fruit/sugar/rum as you like.
• Wait about 6 weeks and voila! Fruit flavored rum, and rum flavored fruit!

Pickles. Dill, spicy, sweet, you name it. Just typing the word makes my mouth pucker a bit. I’m not afraid to say I have long loved pickles. When I was little, I would drink the brine. Straight. And as a grown-up, I love that same brine mixed with a bit of vodka and a pickle spear (simply called a pickle martini or Rabbi). At around age six or seven, some neighborhood friends and I decided it was high time we left home to eke out a living in the woods. Surviving without adults would be difficult and the others determined toilet paper, flashlights, water, and peanut butter sandwiches were a must. What did I bring to our packing meeting? Pickles. I was that kid that contributed absolutely nothing but pickles. Because what else was there?

Needless to say, I was beyond thrilled to be introduced to pickled onions on my first visit to England last summer. According to the National Onion Association, onions actually have a fascinating history. Not only are they one of the earliest cultivated crops, perhaps even a staple in prehistoric diets, the circle-in-circle design of an onion symbolized eternity to the ancient Egyptians and thus became an object of worship and esteemed funeral offering. The Romans, one of the first to travel with their food in containers, carried onions on their journeys to England and Germany. Today, pickled onions are a traditional addition to English fare, my personal favorite being an appearance on a ploughman’s (hunk of crusty bread, butter, pickled onions, Branston pickle, bit of salad, tomato, and super sharp cheddar or Stilton…a simple lunch that can’t be beat!)

Unfortunately, I’ve not been so brilliant with our own onion crop. We planted yellow and white onions as our first garden crops but tragically, failed to thin the rows. The result? Onions with beautiful tops but coming out of the ground very, very small. So right before leaving for last month’s visit to England, I pulled up our tiny onions after realizing they would be perfect for pickling. I let them set for two weeks while I was away and upon my return, already missing family and friends in my second home, I opened the jar and tried my first batch of pickled onions. I’m happy to report they taste just like in England. Crunchy, salty, refreshing.

Other than their irresistible taste, pickled onions are great because they can be done in the refrigerator (no need for a boiling water bath) and not give you botulism. My father-in-law pickles onions and his steps are simple: 1) peel the onions, 2) sprinkle with salt and let sit for 24 hours 3) rinse and place in jar with brine.

…But for my first attempt I didn’t yet have that not-so-secret English recipe, so I used the refrigerator pickle recipe from The Hip Girls’ Guide to Homemaking: 

Pickled Onions 

Ingredients: 

• 1 cup vinegar (I used white, but the Brits I polled recommended malt)
• 1 cup water
• 1 tbsp. salt
• Spices (I added 2 chopped garlic cloves and some peppercorns, but you can add whatever your pickle-loving heart desires!)

1. Wash and cut up your vegetables and pack them into a clean jar. *You don’t need to buy Ball jars, you can just save and reuse salsa jars, pasta sauce jars, etc. You can also opt to blanch your veggies, though I prefer the crunch of raw.

2. Add spices.

3. Combine in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil the vinegar, water, and salt. *Add sugar for sweet pickles.

4. Pour the boiled brine over the vegetables in the jar.

5. Seal your jar and let them sit in fridge for at least one week (the longer you wait, the better they’ll taste) and voila! Pickled onions!

Anyone else pickling vegetables this summer? What’s your favorite method? 

You know what a tractor is: a motorized farm implement capable of pulling, or being fitted with, accessories to accomplish the work of a farm.  But who first called a tractor a tractor, and why?

Marie gave me a desk calendar called Tractor A Day - it was kind of a joke: we laugh that if I keep going with my garden expansion I'll be a farmer before we know it.  But I really like the calendar.  Each day has a photograph of some classic tractor.  I especially like the very old ones.  This one, a 1925 Hart-Parr model 12/25 tractor, particularly fascinated me, especially its engine, so I went looking for more details on-line.  I found this description:

Hart and Parr produced the world's first successful production farm gas traction engine, forerunner of the modern tractor, in the winter of 1900-1901. Their first tractor was the Hart-Parr Gas Traction Machine No. 1.

Hart-Parr tractors were recognized as powerful, long-lasting, fuel-efficient and technically innovative. The Hart-Parr Tractor No. 3, built in 1903, is housed in the Smithsonian Institution Museum in Washington, D.C.

By 1907, a third of all tractors in the world were manufactured in Charles City.

The word "tractor" was, in fact, coined in 1907 to describe the Hart-Parr invention by the Hart-Parr sales manager, W.H. Williams. 

I found the details I sought, and a bonus: I stumbled across the reason we call a tractor a tractor: W.H. Williams created the term "tractor" in 1907 as a short name for their gasoline farm traction engine.  Leave it to the advertising folks to come up with the catchy terms! It seems that Hart-Parr was pretty much a pioneer in the gasoline powered farm implement trade.  I also found this:

Charles W. Hart and Charles H. Parr began their pioneering work on gas engines in the late 1800s while studying mechanical engineering at the University of Wisconsin at Madison. In 1897, the two men formed the Hart-Parr Gasoline Engine Company of Madison. In 1900, they moved their operation to Hart's hometown of Charles City, Iowa, where they found financing to make gas traction engines based on their innovative ideas.

Their efforts led them to erect the first factory in the United States dedicated to the production of gas traction engines. Hart-Parr is also credited with coining the word "tractor" for machines that had previously been called gas traction engines. The firm's first tractor effort, Hart-Parr No.1, was made in 1901."

If you want more details on the Hart-Parr tractor, its arrangement and gearing, check out these Hart-Parr catalog shots.

I should point out, for clarity's sake, that Hart-Parr did not invent the gas traction engine. According to Vintage Farm Tractors by Ralph W. Sanders (ISBN1-55192-031-X) "Credit goes to the Charter Gasoline Engine Company of Sterling, Illinois, for first successfully using gasoline as fuel. Charter's creation of a gasoline fueled engine in 1887 soon led to early gasoline traction engines before the term "tractor" was coined by others. Charter adapted its engine to a Rumley steam-traction-engine chassis, and in 1889 produced six of the machines to become one of the first working gasoline traction engines."  Prior farm traction engines were run by a steam engine and were essentially scaled down locomotives.  Care to watch one in action?

If the video doesn't show up for you [Watch it on YouTube]

Information Sources:

• Tractor-A-Day Calender by Voyager Press
• http://hartparrtractors.tripod.com/
• http://www.About.com
• http://www.YouTube.com
• http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tractor
• http://www.masoncitynet.com/charlescity/story_template.php?audio=03.txt

Yep, it's less than two months until our little pint-sized TV goes black.

Truth be told...I can't wait.

We have been using floppy “rabbit ears” for over 8 years now.

We get the "major" channels and that's it. ABC, CBS, NBC and, although fuzzy, FOX 33.

Those 4 channels are too much already.

Too much advertising, too much sex, too much blood, too much comedic sin.

Sure, I'll miss some shows.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some great shows out there, as Jean Teller, Senior Associate Editor of GRIT points out…NCIS, LOST, etc., but we'll get by.  NETFLIX can take care of that need. 

Who knows, perhaps we will revert back to the days of the Waltons, where everyone sat around the radio and listened at night. It certainly didn't limit John Boy's creativity.

Or the days of Andy of Mayberry, where Andy took his guitar out to the porch after dinner and strummed for Aunt Bee and cousin Barney. Didn't hurt Opie's creativity.

Or up in the furthest reaches of the Alaskan wilderness, listening to "Trapline Chatter" on the battery-powered radio in their tiny cabin. It didn't bother Heimo Korth. Or his wife Edna. It didn't hurt daughter's Rhonda or Krin's creativity.

My sons won't be surprised. They may think they were the only kids who didn't have MTV growing up in the '90s. I called the cable company and actually had to pay to have it pulled from my service many years ago.

My oldest son became a filmmaker, even with the void of MTV.  Imagine that.

I was from the generation where Elvis was photographed from the waist up.

Where the word "pregnant" couldn't be said on the air waves by Lucy and Ricky.

Where Dick Van Dyke and Mary Tyler Moore had separate beds.

No Victoria's Secret commercials. (What is it they sell anyway?)

Like the Amish, we will structure our day around the sun. Go to bed when tired and get up early, actually before the rising sun.

TV won't factor into the equation. We control our lives. TV doesn't control our lives.

If that sounds odd, think about it for a moment. How many times have you watched TV instead of reading to your child, talking to your spouse about their day, taking that walk in the woods, or simply going to bed when tired?

On June 12th, we will be ready to pull the plug. Those 4 little channels won't impact our lives any longer.

It feels good knowing we are going further into the Bush...

Will you?

Until tomorrow ~ God willing,

Woodswoman

It was the perfect day for it. Though temperatures during the preceding week ranged between the below zero mark and the single digits, the thermometer that Sunday afternoon hovered in the mid-twenties. Downright balmy, it seemed. The storm had dumped day-after-day of snow, and it was still coming down. Wind added to the over-all feeling that one just might have been transported back to the winter of 1885. A photo shown during the presentation I was attending confirmed it: The only noticeable difference between the South Haven in the photo during the 1880s, and today was the mode of transportation of the time; horses struggled to make their way through the snow instead of cars.

Mother Nature certainly appeared to have set the stage well for Valerie van Heest’s lecture at the Michigan Maritime Museum. But appearances can be deceiving: the feet of snow already on the ground and still accumulating, the wind and bitter temperatures, and the layer of ice on the channel outside the museum, were nothing compared to what George Sheldon and his fellow crewmates aboard the SS Michigan endured 125 years earlier.

Valerie van Heest is not only an engaging speaker, but is a world class diving champion, shipwreck hunter, and author. She a member of the Women Divers Hall of Fame and co-founded Chicago’s Underwater Archeological Society, the Southwest Michigan Underwater Preserve and Michigan Shipwreck Research Associates. The topic of her presentation at the maritime museum was the wrecks she and her team have discovered on the bottom of Lake Michigan, particularly focusing on the SS Michigan.

The SS Michigan was a 200 foot luxury passenger steamship. One of the grandest on the Great Lakes, it boasted the best of amenities for the vacationing passengers traveling from West Michigan to Wisconsin in the 1880’s. No expense had been spared on the rich wood paneling, oriental rugs, artwork, and the grand staircase with the sky light above. And with five watertight compartments and a double iron hull below, the Michigan was strong as well as stately.

Its strength was the reason it was called into service as a rescue boat in the winter of 1885. The double hull was thought strong enough to break through the ice that had stranded its sister ship, the Oneida, in the worst storm to hit the area in a decade.

The SS Michigan left port on February 9, 1885, never to return. Ironically in a time before ship-to-ship communication, the sister ship broke free at nearly the same time the S.S. Michigan left to rescue her. For forty days the Michigan was stuck in the ice, until finally its hull buckled under the pressure, and it sank to the bottom of the lake. All of the twenty-nine crew aboard though, made it to safety due in large part to the efforts and perseverance of one young man – the ship's porter, George Sheldon.

Stranded, the Michigan had drifted with the ice pack 40 miles from where she started. After about a week, with rations running short, and the storm showing no signs of stopping, the captain picked seventeen of the strongest crew members to attempt a walk to shore. George Sheldon, the youngest aboard, was one of those who trekked across the snow and ice, equipped with only with axes, a small supply of rations, and a compass.

For more than 10 hours in temperatures below minus 10 degrees Fahrenheit, they hiked twelve to fifteen miles to shore, and then trudged even further until they reached a farmhouse. From there, they were sleighed to a train station for the trip back home.

Once they reached Grand Haven where they began their voyage, George wasn't done. He returned to the ship on foot with news, letters from home, food, and even whiskey! Then only 2 days later, carrying a bag packed with letters from the crew, George returned back to shore, and helped organize a rescue. On February 25th, bringing six locals with him, George once again boarded the Michigan with supplies ... but not enough to feed the six extra men, and they were ordered back to shore.

The immense pressure of the ice was too much; on March 19^th the hull began to buckle. A tug boat, The Artic, had been sent as a rescue, and was spotted by the Michigan’s crew nearly four miles in the distance. The tug’s nickname, “The Ice Crusher,” did it little good, and the smaller boat got stranded in the ice also. With its hull breaking apart, the remaining crew aboard the S.S. Michigan made their way across the ice to The Artic. With less than the mile left to walk, the crew watched the SS Michigan sink to its final resting place.

Supplies on The Artic were short too, so on March 23rd the crew of the Michigan headed out once again on the ice. Finally, 40 days after they first left shore, the crew set foot on land.

The tug boat though, was still stranded ... and you guessed it, George made another walk across the ice carrying supplies. Though he was a strong young man – only 21 – the trips took their toll on his health, and he never recovered. He died at the age of twenty-five.

One hundred and twenty years later, Van Heest's team found the wreck of the S.S. Michigan under 275 feet of water, preserved like a time capsule – even George Sheldon’s lanterns were in place much in the way he left them. His story displays the same type of spirit that GRIT is based upon – perseverance, responsibility, and determination – and is told in Van Heest’s 2008 Michigan State History Award winning children’s book, Icebound! The Adventures of Young George Sheldon and the SS Michigan.

She and her team continue to persevere also, striving to bring to light stories like George’s for the families of shipwreck survivors, for those who lost their lives in Lake Michigan, and to preserve Michigan’s maritime history. Currently her team is working with best selling author and founder of the National Underwater Marine Agency, Clive Cussler, in the search for the elusive wreck of Northwest Flight 1205 which went down off the shores of South Haven in 1950.

To learn more about the search for Flight 1205, the worst U.S. aviation disaster of the time, Icebound! The Adventures of Young George Sheldon and the SS Michigan, and other of Van Heest’s discoveries, check out her website.

It might be that I grew up in a seed-producing family, or that I had the privilege of biting into North Dakota grown tomatoes right from the field … still warm from the sun. It might also be that the miracle of drawing food from the earth, using little more than a tiny seed and a bit of effort, captivated me from the very beginning. Perhaps I am genetically predisposed to raise a crop because my ancestors, and theirs, in turn, did just that. In any case, I discovered at a very young age that vegetable gardening is good for the soul.

Many eloquent essays have been written on the healing powers the act of gardening possesses; urban planners in New York City learned that community gardens were not worthless areas of idyllic pastoral tranquility, but the glue that bonded people of different experience, ethnicity and social stratum into an amalgam of healthy urban culture. They learned the lesson the hard way with the DOME garden project on west 84th street. Community gardening, minimizes differences and heals hurts. Community gardening is good for the soul.

During the First World War, the National War Garden Commission was formed in the United States; its mission was to promote gardening, ostensibly as an act of patriotism. The American workforce was engaged in producing materiel; farmers were headed off to active duty by the thousands. Armies needed to be fed, but every bit as important, those left behind needed to be fed … and they needed to know they were doing their part. The War Garden program brought the most likely and unlikely of people together. They collectively took up the cause and planted gardens in unlikely and likely places. The 1918 effort produced more than $500-million in homegrown food.  No doubt War Gardening did much to keep the country marching on, but it also brought people together and helped heal their suffering souls.

During the Great Depression, gardening again became a matter of life for many folks. Unemployed and unappreciated souls found physical and psychological solace in stirring the soil and nurturing their own nourishment from the earth. Early psychologists reported that humans thrived when there was a firm connection between culture and nature … they prescribed gardening as therapy for malaise. Vegetable gardening was good for depression-era souls.

The Second World War helped bring about an end to the Great Depression; the Victory Garden served as a rallying cry for those left at home. Like the War Gardens before them, Victory Gardens produced a phenomenal amount of food. Victory Gardening was good for the soul, and the country, in spite of the fact that it lacked economies of scale.

Today’s economic climate offers an excellent excuse to get gardening once again; it’s already beginning to happen in a somewhat organized fashion. The new program … a grass-roots program at that … is called Freedom Gardening. Freedom Gardens bring the concept of Victory Gardens into the 21st century and take it one paradigm further by suggesting that we grow our own food no matter what the economic climate is. GRIT blogger Paul Gardner turned me on to this movement. I hope he will post a blog about how the concept developed and got off the ground.

In the meantime, grab all the seed catalogs you can. Get all the good information available. And at the very least plant a single-crop garden this year. Take it from me, and millions of others around the globe. Gardening is good for the soul.

I know that plenty of you remember the good old days when GRIT was still a newspaper. Many of you have written, or called to let us know that you were once a GRIT news boy or girl. Some of you even credit your years selling GRIT with some level of your success in business and life in general. Robin Van Auken’s latest book: Sunday GRIT: A Newspaper Legacy pays tribute to GRIT’s founder, Dietrick Lamade, and the incredible journalistic legacy that is GRIT, which is alive and well today.

Sunday GRIT’s 136 pages are packed with details on GRIT’s amazing legacy, starting with the purchase of the struggling newspaper supplement and its evolution into a national periodical with more than a million copies in circulation.

While the story itself is fascinating to me, I was also mesmerized by all the historic photos, advertisements and cartoons that were reproduced in Van Auken’s book. Did you know that one successful marketing campaign for GRIT involved posters that portrayed frog-like caricatures in unlikely poses, along with quirky text that seldom made sense? Or women’s silk stockings were only 69 cents a pair in the 1930s? Did you know that Sylvania unveiled the Blue Dot flashcube in 1966 … to the great delight of amateur photographers around the world? All of this and more is part of GRIT’s rich 126-year-old history … and all of it is chronicled in Sunday GRIT: A Newspaper Legacy.

This book makes a perfect gift for any GRIT fan … you can wrap it in a cool reproduction GRIT bag for the former GRIT carrier on your Christmas list. You can find both the book and the bag at our online store.

I had a wonderfully relaxing experience the other day. I went on a nature walk with a friend of mine. Living in the city, this was a real treat for me – and I didn’t even have to venture far from home!

The Kansas Museum of History is located on the west side of Topeka. The area surrounding the museum was preserved as a natural habitat for Kansas creatures such as white tail deer and wild turkey. Four different trails meander through native grasses and woodlands. Signs along the way tell visitors about the natural and cultural history of the area.

My friend and I decided to take the east and north trails. As we walked and talked, I felt the stress of the previous weeks completely melt away. Feeling like I was far removed from the everyday busyness of life had a calming effect on me.

I felt quite adventurous as we walked along the mulch-covered trail. I heard something rustling in the grass as we walked pass the native grass area. I wondered what it could be. I could only imagine what it must have been like for Native Americans to stalk a deer or turkey in the tall grass. I wondered what the pioneers thought when they first set eyes on this land with its rolling hills and shoulder-high grass waving in the wind.

Once we passed the prairie grass, we entered into a wooded area. The sound of birds and water babbling in a nearby creek could be heard through the trees. We walked along the creek bank and crossed over wooden bridges sheltered by a canopy of trees. Red berries were abundant in this area and I wondered whether or not they were poisonous.

Even though the fall colors had passed, the nature trail was still a sight to behold. It was like having my own little patch of wilderness just a stone’s throw from the noise and activity of city life.

The sun was just starting to set as my friend and I ended our walk and headed back to the museum parking lot. As we stood by my car admiring the sunset, we heard a honking noise. We looked up and saw a gaggle of Canada Geese heading our direction. When they flew overhead, we could see the sun reflected on their underbelly, casting an orange hue on their white feathers.

It was getting dark, but I didn’t want to leave this magical place. Reluctantly, I headed home distracted by the emblazoned evening sky. The sun, reflected on the swirling gray clouds, created a colorful palette of purple and pink. I secretly wished the buildings and telephone lines weren’t in the way so I could take a picture.

I once heard a lady, interviewed on a local news program, say she had been to beautiful locales such as Africa, but she thought the most beautiful sunsets she had ever seen were in Kansas.

There have been a number of times I’ve wanted to move to the mountains, but when I experience Kansas at its best, I never want to leave. This is my home; this is where I was born. I’m proud to be a Kansan in spite of the jokes about Dorothy and Toto. Every time I watch “The Wizard of Oz,” I know in my heart Dorothy was right when she said, “There’s no place like home.”

In the Hallmark Hall of Fame movie “Skylark” (a sequel to “Sarah: Plain and Tall”), Sarah, who was from Maine, couldn’t understand why her husband Jacob wouldn’t give up on his Kansas farm during a terrible drought. A neighbor of Jacob and Sarah’s said, “Your name has to be written on this land to understand.” I know what she meant. My paternal and maternal great-grandparents homesteaded in western Kansas. My grandparents married and raised their families here. My roots are deep in the Kansas soil. My name is written on this land.

At the risk of sounding like a tourism commercial, if you’ve never been to Kansas, I encourage you to come experience the culture, history and all the sights and sounds the Sunflower State has to offer. You won’t be disappointed.

To learn more about the great state of Kansas, visit these Web sites:

State of Kansas Travel and Tourism

State of Kansas

Kansas Museum of History

Visit Topeka, Inc.

I-70 Kansas Main Street America

After my walk on the nature trail, I feel like a different person. My outlook on life is once again on the positive side and I feel better emotionally, physically, mentally and even spiritually. I seem to have more energy for work and the things that need to be done once I get home.

I hope to return for another peaceful walk on the nature trail before winter sets in. I’d like to take the south and west trails next time and visit the little one-room schoolhouse just west of the museum.

Stress can take its toll on all of us. A change in routine or a change of scenery can do wonders. It's an amazing transformation . Do you have a special spot where you like to go to get away from it all?  I’d love to hear about it.

Picture on bridge taken by Marilynn Hiegert