Thanks for stopping by to visit. I was thinking about something the other day . . . .

When I was about six or seven years old, our next-door neighbors invited me to spend the weekend with them on a little farm they owned near Florida, Missouri.

It wasn’t a working farm in the sense I imagined farms to be. Someone else did the farming, and they simply shared the harvest. And by city-boy standards, it was primitive, like a trip back to the wild west of my imagination.

A well for water and no indoor plumbing. There was a chamber pot for doing necessary overnight business behind a pulled back curtain in what used to be a closet because outside there could be roaming bobcats, coyotes, and foxes. They didn’t mention bears and wolves, but my imagination soon caught up to include them, too.

But for me, though, and how it all turned out, it all might as well have been Yellowstone National Park.

I had no idea one ordinary summer Saturday was about to introduce me to a whole new world and life

After a hearty, outdoors, he-man country breakfast of Kellogg’s Sugar Frosted Flakes and Orange Juice, we began Saturday morning at the fishing pond. Our bait consisted of pieces of hot dog borrowed from the lunch provisions. And not looking forward to the prospect of digging in the dirt for worms, that seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

As it turned out, it also seemed perfectly reasonable to the fish. They couldn’t get enough of them! Eventually we ran out of hot dogs. Undeterred, we kept casting anyway. To our complete astonishment, the fish continued biting the hooks, apparently convinced there must still be a little hot dog perfume and mini bits lingering behind.

At six years old, I naturally concluded this was how fishing worked. Put a sliver of hot dog on the hook, cast it out, reel in a fish, release the fish back to be caught again later, reload another bit of hot dog, and repeat. Around five years later, one of my uncles taught me how to tie and make my own flies and fishing lures, and how to go about fly fishing properly.

But, back to hot dog fishing. While waiting for another bite on my line, I noticed dragonflies. Not one or two. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. They darted back and forth over the pond like tiny helicopters. I don’t remember how many fish we caught that afternoon. I do remember watching dragonflies.

Later we drove over to the Salt River. If familiar with the area, this was many years before Mark Twain Lake covered that valley.

At that time, the river wandered quietly through the countryside, with shallow water along the rocky edge. We walked down to the edge of the river through a gently sloping access point, the river to our left and  a high, eroded cut bank to our right. There was no escape except to either go back or keep going forward following my friend, his little sister, and father leading the way. Not wanting to get lost, I dutifully followed.

At point, my friend’s father pointed out a Cottonmouth swimming in the river, a few yards from the bank. The first snake I had ever seen swimming, it was close enough for me.

Proceeding along then, we  carefully tiptoed along the wet rocks as we walked in file along the riverbank. Everyone except me. The “carefully” part, I mean. I somehow found the slippery rock. The one everyone before me had avoided. One moment I was exploring like a seasoned outdoorsman, pretending I was Daniel Boone.

The next moment, my feet decided it was time to go airborne and . . . .

Splash!

Not enough water to carry anyone away. Just enough to soak one rather embarrassed little kid from head to toe in muddy river water.

Certain I had completely ruined the day and finally reaching a “get me out of here place,” I headed straight back toward the car.

But somewhere along the way I turned around and realized nobody was following me.

No one.

My friend’s father had quietly held my friend and his sister back. When they all finally made it back to the car after what seemed forever, no one ever said a word about it. Me either.

Looking back now, I think he understood something about children. Sometimes the kindest thing an adult can do is quietly give a child a few minutes to recover his dignity.

By the time everyone caught up I had mostly drip-dried. Mostly. Bottoms take longer.

After a lunch featuring the remaining hot dogs my friend’s mother had insisted stay in the cooler earlier, the outdoors adventure resumed.

After lunch, under very close supervision, my friend and I got to take turns chopping down a small wild plum tree that was growing up through a split rail fence where it had no business being. It was a plum tree and not a cherry, but swinging the hatchet made me wonder if this was possibly how George Washington got his start.

Walking around their farm property exploring more confidently on dry land later, a Red-tailed Hawk circled high overhead. I can still remember the sunlight shining through its red tail, turning it almost translucent against the blue sky and making the brilliant, reddish-orange color of his tail glow brightly from below.

Then came that unforgettable cry drifting down from above as it continued circling overhead. I had never heard anything quite like it. I stood there looking up until my neck hurt.

Later a crow dropped a feather as he passed over us. I tracked it down in the tall grass and thought it was treasure.

Walking along into the next field a few minutes later I spied a hawk feather sticking up and out of the grasses. That one may as well have been gold. I stuck them both proudly in my cap.

Across an open, long meadow to the left side of their home stood an old barn. Above the barn, over, and through the meadow flew barn swallows. I had never seen birds fly like that.

They Twisted.

They Turned.

They Dived.

They Raced through the air like tiny fighter planes.

And frequently changed direction so quickly while doing their aerial maneuvers and acrobatics they seemed hardly to touch the air at all.

I continued sitting there watching them in the late afternoon as dinner was being prepared, losing total track of time.

As daylight softened, the barn swallows gradually disappeared.

Almost without noticing, they were replaced by something else . . . . Fireflies. Thousands of them. The entire meadow and woodlines seemed to begin sparkling.

Then after dinner, just as darkness settled in . . . . the bats came out of the barn. I had seen bats before in our South St. Louis neighborhood. One or two on a given night. But never dozens of them. It was as though the evening had quietly changed shifts.

But among all of the memories from that weekend, there is one I will never forget.

For you see,  all around the fishing pond earlier in the day grew tall cattails. From somewhere among them to the right of me came a sound I had never heard before.

“Konk-la-reee!” “Konk-la-reee!”

I looked about until I finally found the source . . . . a blackbird with vivid bright red and yellow patches on his shoulders. He was perched proudly atop a cattail. That was the first Red-winged Blackbird I had ever seen.

And, although I certainly didn’t know it then . . . .  I suspect that was the moment I fell in love with one of my favorite birds for the rest of my life. I love them and always have.

Even today, whenever I hear that familiar call drifting across a marsh or pond, I’m six years old and using hot dogs for bait again.

Looking back . . . .

I don’t remember how many fish we caught.

I don’t remember how muddy my shoes were or what my mother said about the muddy clothes when I got back home.

I don’t know or remember how many miles we walked that summer Saturday.

I don’t even remember how long the drive out and back to the country was.

But I do remember . . . .

Bluegill feeding on hot dogs.

Deer tracks along the riverbank.

Dragonflies.

Barn swallows.

Fireflies.

Bats.

Raccoons in our flashlight beams walking through the nearby meadow that night.

A Red-tailed Hawk circling high overhead.

Feathers found walking through a field.

Red-winged Blackbirds calling from the cattails as though they had been waiting all morning for me to arrive.

I thought I was spending a weekend on a little Missouri farm.

Instead . . . .

I accidentally discovered the outdoors.

And looking back now, I suppose that was Mother Nature’s way of introducing herself to a curious little city boy.

Till next time then —

Jim (and Red!)

P.S. from Little Red Bear 🐻

I asked Chewy if he’d ever met a Red-winged Blackbird.

He smiled around his blade of grass.

Then he tipped his little straw hat toward the cattails and said,

“If you listen first . . . . they’ll usually introduce themselves.”

—  Red 🐾

Images have been created for this piece with the assistance of AI . . .  lovingly prepared and styled for Honey Hill Country and the world of Little Red Bear.