No matter how much rain in a given year, browns eventually drive away the greens. Late summer brings a tan hue to the buffalo grass carpet stretched over the pastures. The crops are harvested–all that remains is brownish stalks and stubble. The few trees lose their leaves and the cedars turn a deep, blackish green. The mind begins to forget the color green. (We experienced the same phenomenon living in Las Vegas). This photo of my mother and youngest brother captures so many facets of our High Plains existence.
Weed-filled ditches, defiant power poles, the distant neighbor’s cedar-lined driveway, a dirt-brown road leading over the horizon. Everywhere–brown. There is one significant exception: Hard Red Winter Wheat. Planted in the fall, in select fields, it sprouts and lays a green rug over dark earth. The little plants anchor tenaciously as blizzard winds and winter dry seek to drive the life from everything. They remain ardent, retaining their green, a reminder of spring-time victory yet to come….
