Roots

Last weekend I returned to my genesis. I know they say you can never go home but then 'they' must not have grown up in Western Nebraska. Though I've been home many times before, this trip seemed magical from the start. This year's abundant rainfall bathed the canyons and the prairies with varied hues of greens. A spectacular transformation from the traditional tawny tones of late July. The world felt alive and I was honored to be amongst it.

Returning to my roots, I helped my family reap the bountiful rewards of wheat harvest. Well, actually, my participation was limited to documenting the event with my Nikon D90. I’d forgotten how hot and exhausting Western Nebraska’s harvest sun can be.

Through the lens of my camera, my childhood appeared. Sights I’d long forgotten and perhaps never truly appreciated, overwhelmed me with pride and sentiment as I captured frame after frame. I love my camera. It was my Christmas gift from my husband - his attempt to bring me into the digital era. In fact, my Nikon D90 is so wonderful that I returned my Minolta to my mother. Which was like giving up an old friend since my mother had given me the Minolta my freshman year of high school. So many memories. Yet, my Nikon and it’s technology is far superior and I knew it was time for the Minolta to find another owner - one who’d use it and appreciated it.

My past came full circle when I visited my Grandmother. She deemed me responsible enough to pass on some of the family heirlooms. The first being a quilt that my grandfather’s mother had made. As I ran my fingers across the simplistic pattern, I was rooted in family history - to know that my great great grandmother had lived - had touched - had created this beautiful quilt. Then my grandmother gave me my ancestor’s ceramic bowl. Grandma told me how the bowl had come from Pennsylvania to Genoa Nebraska by covered wagon and that when the pioneers where forced to throw items aside to lighten the load - my relative refused to give up her decorative bowl. I guess I come by my stubbornness honestly. As with the quilt, the bowl is simple. A mark on its bottom reads ‘Homer Laughlin’ made in USA and I plan to research deeper into the bowl’s history and the Burkholder’s of Pennsylvania. As for now, I am satisfied with the harmony of my life.