THE PRAIRIE VIEW FROM PRAIRIE VIEW (Chapter 11)

From our school’s concrete steps, the Kansas Flint Hills prairie stretched—and moved—in all directions. The grass moved, the wild flowers moved, and the wheat fields moved, ebbing and flowing like an ocean. Even the continuous rows of Osage Orange fence posts—to us at least—seemed to be on the march. One after another, up and down the hills in single file, they separated one farmer’s cows from another’s.
Peaceful trees, large and small, lined the roads, and milkweed and buckbrush clogged the fencerows. Plants and grasses sparkled in the brilliant sun beneath the bright blue of God’s great high-canopied sky.
Wintertime snow turned the clods and clumps of grass into miniature white beaver mounds, and drifts built sculptured ledges. These filled in the ditches and furrows as if two giants pulled the landscape smooth from opposite directions.
Winter embraced the now barren trees, stark against the white backdrop, while lonely brown stems of prairie grass poked through the soft blanket in golden-tan contrast to the sun-reflecting snow.
In truth, our eyes saw a peaceful charm. And at Prairie View (School) our ears heard dozens of melodies as well, especially in warmer weather. Crickets, frogs, grasshoppers, and all sorts of birds sent vocal music into the air. Children frolicked, with boys yelling and–for reasons known only to God—girls screaming, as they played tag, or ball, or jostled on the teeter-totter. Visual and audio appeal seemed everywhere.