Another Dakota Summer
Posted: Friday, 26 October 2007 |
No one could quite recollect the last rain. Grandpa reckoned it was the worst heat wave in 35 years. He was an old cowboy then. His blue work shirt had worn thin from years of toil.
The creek over yonder ran dry, leaving catfish to fester under a cruel Dakota sun. Only cracked clay remained. Turkey’s roosted on a dying cottonwood tree, like ripe fruit on each stark branch.
Gramps studied the horizon, leaning on the porch banister. The log rail had been smoothed by the hands of our ancestors. No rain clouds, only billows of dust on the lonely prairie.
The cowboy shed his battered hat and closed his tired eyes. No one would suspect the ornery cuss (between muttered curses at the dogs) had been praying for rain.
[Just some prose poerty about the ranch in South Dakota my father grew up on. Memories of my American Grandfather, who died slowly of cancer, inspired the piece. I treasure the memories, but I will never live there again. Shetland is home.]
Comments
Nice writing and pics. You don't need an apostrophe on the end of Turkey though. Sory, I just notice things like that!
apostrophe queen from her and there
Oh dear so do I...maybe we could blame Lynne Truss...this sounds very like friends in Tenn. Two years ago, the creek on their property was rising so fast, they feared for the yard - now they are watering young trees after one of the driest summers ever and many of their vegetables are poor things. But don't worry, Bush, Cheney etc don't believe in Global Warming/Climate Change so that's okay. And they do believe in God. I feel better just thinking about them... I like the 'like ripe fruit on each stark branch' bit...very evocative.
Flying Cat from looking for wild turkeys
Did someone steal an 'e' from the comment above? Sorry, I just notice things like that! :-) I enjoy reading the blogs from 'Shetland: Finally Home'. Keep 'em coming, they're usually interesting.
Jim from Lanarkshire
Yes, it was a typo, so I'm not perfect either. Actually the writing reminded me a bit of The Grapes of Wrath but that was in Oklahoma.
apostrophe queen from full of typos
I assume the turkeys Shetland mentions are: turkey vultures (not the turkey of Thanksgiving or that of Kemal the father of the Turks). I assume they have them in Europe too, but heaven knows what the natives call them. Any real to goodness Butterball turkey roosting on a cottonwood would end up in the oven in a hurry - at least in NM.
mjc from NM,USA
Stop peddling foodporn mjc it's more than a mere cat can stand.
Flying Cat from dribblingalloverthejoint
Turkey vultues: ripe fruit, strange fruit, ugly fruit!! Went up a mesa in the Badlands N.P. many years back with the kids: at eye level there were those ugly monsters cruising around, looking for their equivalent of a Burger King. I don't think my karma would be so bad (I hope not, anyway) that I would be re-incarnated as one of those monsters. Those turkey vultures fill a niche, they are well adapted.
mjc from NM,USA
They were real turkeys. Wild turkeys, with beautiful plumage, unlike the white-feathered livestock turkeys people raise for butterball. At thanksgiving my grandfather would kill two of them to feed the family (except me, vegetarian). That is the only time of year they were ever shot for food though.
Donna from Finally Home
Amazing! The wonders of the Dakotas. What am I doing in NM?! Tatties in the ground, turkeys perching on cottonwood branches like Christmas ornaments: well, that's America for you. I'll be up there in the Dakotas soon looking for a homestead allotment.
mjc from NM,USA
I have a strange fondness for vultures and all kinds of carrion birds. They're a bit like flying d.o.g.s, hoovering up anything edible lying around.
Flying Cat from Crow Nation
Oh well, recycling is what life (and death) is about.
mjc from NM,USA
I live like a hermit in an island paradise, planning my survival of the impending apocalypse.
My mother is a Sheltie and my father is American. As a dual-citizen, I have lived between both cultures. I only use my UK passport these days. I made the Atlandic leap, back to Shetland. This is the only place I ever considered 'home.'
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