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Tag: Kansas

  • The Legend of Chief Kahokee

    In the 1860s, when Kansas was a brand new state, there were nomadic bands of Native Americans scattered across the plains.  One such group was known as the Kahola Tribe, and they roamed sections of Eastern Kansas known as the Flint Hills.  In the late summer, when harvests were plentiful and wild game was abundant, the tribe settled on a big lake, which is known today as Lake Kahola.  

    The Kahola tribe was led by a strong and proud warrior chief named Kahokee.  Native stories say Chief Kahokee was a smart and gentle leader, but the truth got blurred when settlers arrived to set up towns across the Flint Hills.  These settlers regarded Kahokee as a vicious murderer, ready to burn barns and homes with horses and families still inside.  

    The settlers decided it was time to move the Kaholas away from the big lake, so they sent four men on horseback to pay the Chief a small sum in silver and leather to leave.  No one knows for sure what happened to the four men, but one horse made it back to the settlement dragging its rider behind on a noose tied to the saddle horn.  

    And so it was on the evening of a full moon in July the settlers planned an ambush of the Kaholas.  The goal was to capture or kill Chief Kahokee and his warriors, and then force the rest southward toward Indian country.  

    The settlers started on higher ground, and their rifles were far superior to the tribe’s arrows and spears.  It was a massacre, with only a few of the Kahola women and children escaping southward, as planned.  

    Chief Kahokee would not give in. He quietly moved to the flank of the sharp shooters, savagely beheading three men before a bullet slammed into his chest. 

    As the riflemen surrounded Kahokee’s last known location, they heard a splash nearby.  The mighty Chief had made it to open water and was swimming for the middle.  The riflemen opened fire.

    The last anyone saw of Chief Kahokee was his arm raised in the full moon light, slowly sinking beneath the water.  Legend has it that on the full moon in the summertime, you can still hear the cries of the massacred Kahola Tribe. Sometimes, on those same nights, not too far from the bank of the lake, Chief Kahokee raises his arm in the moonlight once more.

  • Mean Old Cat

    The old man staggered out of his house at dawn to view the wreckage.  The tornado had ripped up the fencing and flattened his barn.  Somehow the silo still stood, an ivory tower in the low light.  He couldn’t account for many of the horses or cattle last night in the darkness and rain, but he hadn’t noticed any lifeless bodies amongst the wreckage.  

    ***

    Most city people would say Earl Jones lived a simple life.  He would harvest winter wheat and sow soybeans in the spring, harvest soybeans and sow winter wheat in the fall, and raise cattle all the while.  Entire life cycles happened on the farm each year, year after year.  It wasn’t as simple as they thought, especially in 1999.  

    Mrs. Earl Jones cooked, cleaned, and raised four children for Mr. Earl Jones on his farm since 1970.  But with the encouragement of Oprah and her new-age therapist, Mrs. Jones watched her last child leave for college in August of 1997, and then she took her possessions and left too.  Earl Jones was left with two hundred and twenty head of cattle, eight chickens, four horses, two dogs, and one mean old cat.  

    Earl Jones was a fighter, though, and he didn’t miss a season of sewing, reaping, or slaughtering.  His clothes started to grow too baggy, and he brought noticeably fewer cattle at auction in the fall of 1998.  His friends and hired help slowly began to disappear as the man sank into fits of anger and drunkenness.  

    By the spring of 1999, Earl Jones was simply boarding his horses, no longer riding.  He let his cattle free range through the freshly burned acreage, unencouraged to plant any crops that year.  The chickens stopped laying, and the dogs fled the farm in search of a reliable food source.  The mean old cat stuck by his side, though, easily dodging whatever Earl Jones threw at him in bursts of rage, and was happy to share the milk when the man sought forgiveness in the morning.  

    It was the first week of June in 1999, and Earl Jones was ready to give up on life.  He wasn’t sure how he’d do it yet, but he knew his days were short.  At four o’clock in the afternoon, Earl Jones was finishing his first fifth of whiskey when the skies turned gray.  Then they turned green, a sure sign of hail.  Then the squall came.  

    Some say you could hear Earl Jones cursing God through the thunder and lightning.  He managed to throw open the barn doors as the tornado warning blasted through his AM/FM radio.  Then he went back to his recliner, grabbed another fifth of whiskey, and chuckled as the mean old cat crawled under his chair.  

    ***

    Earl Jones staggered out of his house the next morning, and he realized that God had spared his life.  The horses and cattle were wandering back toward the collapsed barn in search of breakfast.  As the smell of damp hay blew across his face, Earl Jones knew it was time for a new beginning.  He’d sell most of the land and all of the animals, except for the cat.  He’d settle down in town, find a way to be of service anywhere that would take him, and love his life with that mean old cat sitting in his lap.

  • Shadows on the Prairie

    I open my door wide to fill the truck with fresh prairie air.  A steady westerly wind blows across my skin, and I immediately know I’m home.  The rolling Flint Hills stretch out for miles in front of me, green turning to gold in the late summer season.  The rains have been steady this year, and the grasses look elegant against the pale blue sky.  I let out a chuckle when I realize I can see ten times more cattle than I can trees.  

    “What’s so amusing?” she asks.  

    “I forgot how few trees there are,” I reply.  

    She scans the horizon with a disdainful eye.  “That’s why no one lives here,” she says.

    I refuse to let her cut bother me this time and instead close my door.  I walk to the back of the truck and drop the tailgate, swapping Birkenstocks for my trusty Timberland hiking boots.  Pulling the thick red laces tight through the eyelets, I feel a sensation of strength as I wrap the cords around the top lace hooks and tie off a double knot.  

    She’s finally completed her prep work in the mirror and hops down out of the passenger side, gravel crunching under her running shoes.  

    “This is where you want to hike?” she asks.  

    “Yep.  The sights are already beautiful,” I say, giving her a long look up and down.  

    “Which way?” she asks.  

    “Let’s walk north across this hilltop, and then drop down to the creek bed there,” I say.  

    She starts walking without another word.  I want to remind her of rattlesnakes as we approach the first rocky outcropping, but that would only give her ammo to cut the hike short, retreating to the safety of the truck.  

    The grass grows a little longer near the rocks on top of the hill, and it sways peacefully in the breeze.  The cattle have plenty to graze on down below, no need for them to climb the mountain and pick tall grass out of this rocky patch.  

    We begin the decent toward a tree line in the distance, a sure sign of water on the Kansas plains.  My blissful daydreaming is cut short.  

    “This is lame,” she says.  “Nothing but old grass and burning sun.  No wonder you’re so boring.”  

    For a moment, I contemplate turning around and sprinting to the truck, leaving her in a trail of gravel dust.  But she’d find a way home.  Someone would see her hot pink aura on the highpoint of these hills and give her a lift into town.  That’s why I need to keep her moving into the creek bed.  It’ll be much harder for anyone to find her body down in the shadows. 

  • These Ancient Fields

    We bounced down a gravel road too far outside of town to jump out and walk back.  When the road smoothes out, I can hear the old men in the cab carrying a conversation.  Something about a water shed.  But mostly my cousin and I hold tight to the truck bed and keep our eyes squinted against the dust that catches up when we slow.  

    Our grandfather needs help tending to one of his fields, and I presume it’s more corn.  He promises to feed us and take us fishing afterwards.  There is rarely an exchange of money, but usually a hot meal.  Grandpa has six siblings, and they lived through events called dust bowl and depression.  Grandchildren are expected to help work the land with joy in their hearts.

    Working on pasture land feels good.  Pulling steel cables of barbed wire, cutting with metal shears, and towing fallen trees out of the creek.  I feel the raw strength in my developing muscles, shoring up fence line and handling heavy tools.  The sun is always beating down, but you can count on a breeze across the Kansas plains.  

    Working corn fields is a different experience.  The sun still beats down, but the stalks are high, and the fields usually sit low, closer to water.  The breeze doesn’t reach your sun-soaked body.  God made corn stalks tough too.  They need to stand up to the elements and insects, protecting the beautiful sweet corn inside each husk.  Sharp edges will cut right through your soft skin, so long pants and long sleeves are highly encouraged.  A handkerchief around the neck and leather gloves will also save you from lingering pain.  

    We turn off the gravel, settle into a soft dirt trail, and roll to a stop.  I duck and cover in the bed while the dust settles around us.  Grandpa is the first to emerge from the cab.  He chuckles to himself while walking to the tailgate, completely in his element among these ancient fields.  

    “Today, we need to clear a few rows closest to the river,” he says.  

    There’s a sideways glance between cousins.  We’re definitely down in the corn.  Grandpa uses his voice to make clearing a few rows sound simple.  In reality, my cousin and I will be bent over pulling bindweed and thistle from several acres of land.  The old men will walk through the field, speculating on the harvest still months away, and determining what sections of the pasture might need worked over again.  Once satisfied, they’ll retreat to the cab to sip hot coffee and cold water.  

    Grandpa drops the tailgate while we stretch our backs and legs.  I jump down onto the soft brown soil.  It smells familiar and welcoming, like being at home.  We’ll work all morning pulling weeds, cursing occasionally under our breath, but never complaining once to the man who brought us here.  We do it because it’s what we’re expected to do.  We do it because we respect our families who’ve done the same thing for generations before.  We do it because we love the earth and we love the man who brought us out to work these ancient fields.