Synaptic

The assignment for Nature Writing and Environmental Literature was to write an essay about a sense of place, including attention to both natural and cultural history and connections to the course readings. I was most impressed by Holly’s imaginative reconstruction of her ancestral past, her ability to weave narrative threads throughout the essays, and her use of metaphors as both explanatory and self-reflective devices in this essay. It has some of the most stunning imagery I’ve seen in essays for this course.

– Joshua Dolezal

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Escaping the mid-August heat, I sit to rest under the shade of a great pin oak tree in my back yard, gazing across the field. This year, the field abounds with the leafy clover look alike, alfalfa. Plum, violet, and lilac polka dot blooms accent the emerald sea when the plant is in full bloom. Now, however, the alfalfa has been cut, and the air is filled with the fragrance of late summer, sweet and grassy. My grandfather has already cut it three times this year, and the large round bales guard the edge of the field like sentries. He will cut it once more, maybe twice before autumn comes. This resilient forage legume, depending on the harvest schedule, can be cut at a high nutritional value up to five times in its growing season. The cut plant is then left to dry – later to be raked and wound into small rectangular bales or large round bales. Alfalfa is resistant to drought, having an extremely deep root system that can sometimes dig down to more than fifteen feet (“Alfalfa”). My family’s roots also dig deep into this land, this agricultural wonder called Iowa. Generations of hard workers, dreamers, and innovators, all eventually leading to me, Holly Anne McKinney. My ancestors’ stories are embedded into my own history, shaping it but not defining it completely. What I choose to do with their memories is up to me, and their knowledge, combined with my own, helps me discover where I belong in this land.

In order to get to the land, my ancestors first had to sail across the Atlantic. Six generations ago, paternal lineage fled away from the agrarian disaster known as the Great Famine. This was a tumultuous time of starvation, disease, and emigration in Ireland’s history due to the potato blight ravaging crops island wide. It can almost be thought of as a plant genocide, since the effects were partly brought on because of the monoculture of the crop. The Hess family, my predecessors, brought into this way of life just like millions of people across Ireland. Like those millions, they evacuated. I often wonder of the Hess family’s journey to America as I venture out into the field, crunching through the thick alfalfa stalks. The wind ripples across the foliage, and it turns to ocean waves. I close my eyes and am transported back about 175 years, astride the ocean bound vessel. Scanning the rolling water and inhaling some of the salty spray, I ponder what the future has in store since my livelihood has just been pillaged. What would I do if everything I had known and worked for was stripped away? The Hesses may have failed in Ireland, but that gave my hard working ancestors a chance to begin a whole new legacy. The trek to a new land brought about new opportunities, a chance to start over. I lean over the railing and extend my hand to the water, but as I draw it back I am only left with a fistful of alfalfa leaves.

The dehydrated leaves crumble in my hand, signaling that my grandfather will be baling this cutting soon. Grandpa Kenny is from my maternal side, also characterized by farmers. His work reflects his parents before him, my great grandparents Lyle and Helen. Grandpa Lyle epitomized the farm. His slightly bent, shuffled walk marked a life of hard work and service to his country during World War II. His rough, knobby knuckles nursed sick calves back to health, fixed various machinery, and played with his three children, eight grandchildren, and assortment of great grandchildren. From his farm co-op ball cap, overalls crusted with dirt and tractor grease, down to his Velcro tennis shoes, I could never picture Grandpa Lyle any other place than the farm, his home. I was forced to see Grandma Helen outside of her household, since much of her later life was spent in the sterile nursing home. She always seemed out of place and restless there, but some of her happier moments were spent outside when we would wheel her out on the home’s veranda to talk. Grandma Helen would cry when we would leave her, breaking our hearts. She had to be taken away from her home, and now we were leaving her too. Visits to the farm after Grandma Helen had to be moved always seemed incomplete. Afternoons spent inside the dim, creaking farmhouse sitting on the worn sofa without her were lacking without her gentle presence. Grandpa Lyle remained an optimist though, and did his best to remain happy on the farm. He always carried on extremely educating and thought provoking conversation. Grandpa contained seemingly endless knowledge and continually sought to learn. He taught me many lessons, both intentionally and through subtle instances.

Grandpa Lyle loved barn swallows. The red and blue striped tin barn was their domain, branded by their plaster hotels made of mud and feces. Their unique infrastructure was indicated by large piles of excrement below. In other words, this minute bird was capable of a big mess. To most, this common little cobalt bird was a nuisance, but they are essential for the control of insects. They were as much a part of the farm as Grandpa. I cannot think of a time where I did not risk being dive bombed or angrily chattered at as I neared the barn. One instance, my brother and I were luring kittens out of their hiding places with the tease of a long switch of grass. It took time, but the expert animal tamers we were eventually got the best of the curious cats. We played with the kittens for some time, all the while being scolded by irritated swallow parents. Fed up with the constant enraged drone, my brother and I decided to take a broomstick and crush the birds’ construction. We then fed the baby swallows to the kittens. When my mother came out and saw what we had done, we received a harsh scolding. The shame of destroying something so innocent, so loved by my grandfather still lingers in my memory. Every creature had a place on that farm, no matter how bothersome they seemed.

I am grateful that my great grandpa’s tolerance passed down to his son. There were many times that a certain little creature, me, would pester him during his farming duties. He let me tag along to feed the cows, measure out grain to feed the chickens, and reach into nests to collect eggs. Venturing into the haze of feathers while breathing in scratched up dust and manure always proved to be a guessing game. Would there be a hen on the nest, beak poised and ready to strike? Although I enjoyed time spent in the henhouse, I preferred a quieter activity. Perhaps my favorite time spent with Grandpa Kenny during my childhood was the hours I kept him company in the cab of his tractor. I have since outgrown the small space I used to fill, but I can still sense the calm, rhythmic motion of the tractor and the grinding, white, mechanical noise the equipment produced while bumping across the fields. Farming, although it is full of unknowns and risks, has moments of such serenity that many people seek for in this world. David Masumoto, nontraditional peach farmer and author, describes it best when he says, “Farming provides many opportunities for contemplation, escapes from the tedious physical pace. I do my best thinking while shoveling weeds or driving a tractor” (Masumoto 17).

I am not a farmer, and I do not live on a farm. Somewhere along the family lines, the desire to pursue agriculture dissipated. Nonetheless, growing up in rural Warren County Iowa has become a defining part of my life (Warren and Madison County to be specific, since I live about a mile away from the county line). My home sits on a fourteen acre plot of land, with about six of those being designated to crops, five for timber, and three for the house and yard. I have inhabited this particular piece of terrain for all of my nineteen years on this planet, and it has provided me with all the ingredients for a healthy life – plenty of sunshine, food, and natural beauty all around. Three towering Douglas firs line the drive, the fourth’s only remnant is the wide, flat stump. The old tree was damaged during an ice storm several years ago, and a windstorm from last year dealt the tree its final blow, ripping the tree in half. I have become accustomed to the green giant’s absence, with the stump as my only reminder. The tree’s memory is carried with me, as well as all the recollections of times I ventured high into its sticky branches. From its viewpoint, I have a wide angle view of the entire yard. My mother’s elaborate and eclectic gardens, filled with grasses, hosta, coneflowers, among many others are just pinpricks of color.

To the north of my vantage point, I can just make out a shimmering outline of a native wetland. Past our property just over a mile is the Jensen Marsh of Madison County, where I spend countless hours. The wildlife area is almost 200 acres and is cut in half by the abandoned railroad tracks. In the late spring and early summer when the water is high, I invade the waterfowl’s habitat and launch my kayak, pushing aside jewelweed, goldenrod, fowl bluegrass, and woodnettle. The Canadian geese and ducks herd around me as I paddle across the nearly mile long body of water. Like the painted and snapping turtles, I enjoy the feeling of the sun’s rays from atop the shallow body. My kayak glides through the liquid like one of the northern water snakes that inhabit this area. I often come alone, finding solace in this wild place. It is one of the most naturally diverse places in the county, still containing tall grass prairie as well as upland timber, and is used for recreational bird watching and hiking as well as hunting. By the end of the summer, my recreational use is expired. The marsh in mid-August is now filled with moss and reeks of bird waste, since it is their natural latrine.

I am curious to see if my time in Iowa is also coming to a close. This land has offered me so much in my upbringing – it is closely tied to countless memories with my family. They have worked this soil in order to make a living and provide for their loved ones. They sought out Iowa as a home, as comfort in the face of being uprooted and having to start a new life. I have been sown into this earth like alfalfa seeds and have been cut and dispersed into the community. McKinney is a well-known name throughout my hometown. With just over seven hundred people, it is hard to ignore the large McKinney clan. Their neighborly attitude has embedded itself into me, and I am always kept busy with community service projects such as raking leaves, volunteering through my church, or helping during the annual summer festival, Old Settlers. I love this little rural town, but there comes a point where I want to be on the boat with the Clarks, setting off on a new adventure. I have tasted all that this place has to offer, and there will come a time in the next several years that I will need to be reseeded.

No matter where I end up, part of me will always be an Iowan. My easy going Midwestern attitude will be carried with me wherever I reside. The gravel and dirt road threads that tie together quilt patches of corn and soybeans will always be a security blanket to me. Unpredictable southern Iowa weather has taught me to be flexible and able to adapt at a moment’s notice. I think of an instance from my childhood that later taught me to be aware and ready for what life has to offer. I share the same feelings as John Price’s grandfather. This non-fiction nature author explains this state of mind in his Iowa based narrative, Man Killed by Pheasant and Other Kinships, “I can see the signs of the migrant spirit…Grandpa was always restless.” Although Iowa is a great place to have been raised in, it is becoming less appealing to a discontented young adult.

There were other animals on Grandpa Lyle’s farm that we disrupted, as well. Ones that still flew and contributed to the elimination of the insect population, who also symbolized their presence with piles of guano. Bats. The barn provided many rafters for the night dwellers to reside, but we discovered one day that the bats had chosen a slightly different place to hang during their daily off hours. The sliding barn door was gaping open, and my mother went to close it before we left the farm for home. She was having some difficulties as the door seemed to be stuck. Not one to give up, my mother gave the door a great pull and yanked it shut. Mysterious brown blobs began raining down from the frame. Bats. Upon closer inspection, there were slight indentations from where the wheel rolled over the backs of each small mammal’s back. I do not want to be like those stunned bats, becoming so comfortable and sleepy that life rolls over me, which it tends to do in this sleepy, detached Iowa town.

There is the true conflict I have. My love for the beautiful rural setting, which is all I know, and the craving for something new. Iowa has given me my roots through both the landscape and my family history. The Hesses chose to reside in Iowa for some reason, and I have caught glimpses of it during my short legacy. The tight knit family farming community, the days mixed with hard work and play, the postcard scenes of a blood red sun sinking low over a cornfield on a summer’s evening. I see those Iowa values reflecting back at me from the gently curving lines of the fallen hay in the field. The memories and beliefs passed down from generation to generation are mine now to keep. They will follow me to wherever I land. I keep that in mind as I grab a dried alfalfa stalk, crush some of the fragile leaves, and let the wind carry them off of my palm into the air.

Works Cited

“Alfalfa.” Encyclopedia Britannica, n.d. Web. 5 December 2014. <http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/14595/alfalfa>.

Masumoto, David. Epitaph for a Peach; Four Seasons on My Family Farm. New York, NY: HarperCollins Publishers, 1995. Print.

Price, John T. Man Killed by Pheasant and Other Kinships. Iowa City, Iowa: University of Iowa Press.