Our Turn at this Earth: Leaving Goodland


My Kansas hometown was straightforwardly named for what surrounded it: good land. I grew up on some of that good, if somewhat hillier than prime, land, about fifteen miles beyond town as the crow flew, through sunny skies over sunlit plains, up toward the Colorado and Nebraska borders.

My father always assumed that one, if not both, of his two boys would eventually become farmers like him. They’d been trained in the occupation, driving endless tractor rounds throughout their teen years. They considered this pure drudgery. I, on the other hand, thought it would be fun to drive tractors. But in those days only boys became farmers. My father hoped that I would do the next best thing, and marry a farmer.

He encouraged me to get a teaching or nursing degree, just to “fall back on,” as he said, since he assumed that my husband would be the provider. I had no interest in these occupations, the only ones he considered suitable for a girl. When I was eight, the Russians had fired the first volley in what had become a fervent space race. At night on the farm, we would watch their satellite, Sputnik, track across the sky, threatening to colonize the galaxy before we’d even gotten off the ground. In that climate of national paranoia, I vowed to become a nuclear physicist, the most prestigious “male” occupation I could imagine.

By the time I graduated from high school, though, with many of my male classmates heading off to fight in Vietnam, I had lost interest in winning the Cold War. I wanted to help end all war. Perhaps I would become a diplomat. Or maybe I’d be a journalist.

While I resented the limitations my father put on my abilities and worth, I failed to question the most limiting perception of all—that a girl’s main goal in life was to find a good husband. To heck with the space race. The only race I’d ever been in, as it turned out, had been the race to find a husband. When, during my second semester in college, a city boy proposed, I felt like I’d reached the finish line without even having to complete the first lap. His parents were wealthy, meaning I would never have to worry about making my own way in life, or so I thought.

So much for my father’s well-laid plans. To his bafflement, he watched each of his kids, in turn, reject the life he’d imagined for us. It is a story as old as the hills, or in our case, as old as the plains. Livelier places, greater prestige, and greater ease to be had elsewhere prove irresistible to farm kids and kids from small rural towns. But could part of this problem derive from attitudes embedded in rural culture itself?

When I was sixteen, my father traded that good land I’d grown up on for some other even better land and built a new house in town. When I asked him why he hadn’t built on the new farm, he said it wouldn’t have been fair to ask my mother to make that sacrifice. When had farm life become a sacrifice in our minds, and not a privilege?


Our Turn at this Earth: The Slow Migration

They Came to Stay—that is the title of three big history volumes recording the stories of the first settlers of Sherman County, Kansas. I grew up basking in the pride of that phrase. Proof of my own family’s long past in Sherman County could be seen in the crumbled remains of the sod house where my mother’s older siblings had been born. In 1919 my grandfather built the big, broad, two-story farmhouse we lived in. Clearly, he believed that his family would stay on that land for generations to come. Why else go to all that effort?

Yet when I was sixteen my parents announced they’d traded our farm for land elsewhere in the county and that they would be building a new house in town. I couldn’t have been more thrilled. Forget the horse who had been my first love since grade school. Forget our dozen yard cats and all three dogs, and the chickens, ducks, rabbits, pigs and cows. Forget my father’s thousand ewes. No longer would I stand watch with him on the farmhouse balcony, hoping that clouds gathering in the west would roll toward us and bring rain. No longer would grand wheat fields and pale green buffalo grass pastures stretch before me each time I looked out my bedroom window or stepped out the door. I didn’t care. I’d always envied my town friends who got to hang out with one another after school. Now I would be a town girl too.

Only years later would I begin to understand how disorienting that move to town had been. Far back into my family’s European past, all my ancestors had ever done was farm. If anyone asked, we would have said we still farmed, but really only Dad did. Each morning, he would gather his iced tea jug and lunch pail and head out to the new farm while the rest of us went about our town lives.

None of us ever remarked on what a sudden and severe change we’d undergone or seemed worried that, in leaving the farm behind, we’d also left ourselves. Today I look upon that move to town as the first step in a progression that made it possible, four decades later, after my father had died, for us to entertain, then act on,­­­­ a thought that had once been unthinkable.

A few years after the sale, a neighbor farmer, having watched so many families like ours disappear, shook his head in bewilderment. “It was all nothing but a slow migration,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I thought we came to stay.”

We had that conversation at my mother’s funeral in the church she’d attended her entire life.

Economic or social forces generally drive migrations. The food supply diminishes or a neighboring tribe or nation invades. What forces were at work that caused many High Plains families like mine to abandon our way of life? What do you think? Please write to me in care of this station or at my Web site and share your ideas.

Our Turn at This Earth: Plains Icons


Every few years, I obey the compulsion, as instinctive as a migratory bird’s, to return to the home nest. Last time I visited the northwest Kansas farm I grew up on, I parked my car by the pole that used to bring electricity to our house. The electricity it brought now kept a pivot sprinkler clocking through the ghost of the farmstead my mother’s family had settled in 1906. As usual, I walked down the rows of ankle-high corn, searching for artifacts I might recognize. Once I found a piece of the bowl my mother used to mix cakes in and a piece of blue glass from a vase in which she placed flowers from her garden.

But on this visit I discovered an even more telling artifact. In a clump of tall weeds near the pit silo where we used to burn our trash and throw our junk, I happened on the head of our old windmill. Almost every Plains home has at least one sculpture of a windmill woven from wheat or a painting of a windmill silhouetted by a spectacular sunset—to the point that these Plains icons have become Plains clichés. Yet it’s only fitting that we memorialize them.

Walter Prescott Webb, author of the first comprehensive history of the Great Plains, wrote that windmills were “…to the drought-stricken people like floating spars to the survivors of a wrecked ship.” He pointed out that, in order to survive, early settlers—most of whom came from moister climates in Europe or states to the east—had to adapt to the dry and treeless place. Lacking wood, they learned to build with sod. Tormented by the wind at first, they soon came to recognize it as a resource offering them the means to pump groundwater.

The windmill whose remains I now stood beside had creaked and clanged all throughout my childhood. Over the course of an afternoon, its shadow would progress across the farmyard and up the front of our big barn. How strange it felt to tower over what had once towered over me. Not only strange, but unsettling: Today, there were no creaks and clangs, only the pulsating, distant roar of the big truck engine that pumped water for the pivot sprinkler. The windmill had pumped at the rate of about five gallons a minute. The irrigation engine was probably drawing about 800 gallons in that same wink of time.

I never knew my maternal grandfather, but his frugal values and acceptance of plains realities were passed down to me nonetheless. My mother often told me that whenever she filled the tin cup that hung from the windmill, he made her drink it all. “Water is precious,” she recalled him saying. “You don’t just pour it on the ground.” If he had lived long enough to witness water gushing from the earth onto his fields, what would he have thought? Would he have imagined endless bounty or eventual ruin? Would he have foreseen green crops all the way to the horizon, or would he have seen red?


Our Turn at this Earth: Introduction

“Our Turn at this Earth” airs every Thursday evening
at 6:44 pm CT on KANZ (High Plains Public Radio).


“I grew up on the mild-green, short-tufted buffalo grass prairies of northwestern Kansas.” That is the first sentence in my first book, One Degree West. Not all people define themselves by their childhood past, but still today, if asked to explain who I am, I would begin there—on that western Kansas farm, under a broad sky on the dry sunlit plains, in a family who never had to question who we were, because we were directly connected to the source of our identity. Today, all that is left to prove my family once existed in that place are bits of broken china scattered over the ground in a circle of irrigated corn. Yet it never ceases to amaze me that I’m as closely identified with that farm as if we’d never left it.

There are, of course, many other things I could say about myself. I’m a writer. I love swimming in cold, clear wilderness lakes. I love camping in remote, rugged western places. I’m a mother and grandmother. Nothing relaxes me more than digging in my garden. But all of these things about me derive from that Kansas past. When I write, I write about the High Plains. Water draws me to it because I grew up in that dry place, where the water our lives depended on lay deep underground, unseen. The wilderness draws me because we had enough pastureland for me to imagine the prairie rolling as it once did, untilled all the way to the circular horizon. I parent and grandparent much the way my parents did, according to the values I learned from growing up in that grandly beautiful but also harsh and demanding place. I garden because my parents did and because, psychically, I’m still rooted in the soil of home I visualize my family having sprouted out of that soil like the giant locust tree whose seed pods I used to reach over our house’s second story balcony rail to pluck. My parents, older brothers and I were one with the place.

The title for this series, “Our Turn at this Earth,” comes from Pearl S. Buck’s classic, The Good Earth, about another farm family, in pre-World War I China. As subject to folly as humans anywhere, they focused on the fulfillment of their desires and on storing up financial wealth rather than on the true source of meaning in their lives—the land that gave them a livelihood and the water that gave them life. “Some time, in some age,” Buck wrote, “bodies of men and women had been buried there, houses had stood there, had fallen, and gone back into the earth. So would also their house, some time, return into the earth, their bodies also. Each had his turn at this earth.” I will be talking in this series about how the earth shaped my family, how we shaped it, and about the moral struggles that all plainspeople face during their turn at this earth.

We Intended to Stay

I’m indebted to Ivy Anderson for this fine interview she did with me. Ivy not only asked the perfect questions, but edited the long interview down to a succinct expression of my core insights about the water that made it possible for my family to settle and thrive on the High Plains.

Testing the Waters of the Ogallala-fed Republican River, October 2013.

Testing the Waters of the Ogallala-fed Republican River, October 2013.

This is just an excerpt from a longer piece she wrote, beautifully incorporating her own experiences living on a Sicilian farm, where there was no tap water or well. The full piece, “That Which We Depend On,” can be read online, in the March/April issue of Water Efficiency Magazine, published by Forester Media.

The romance and heartbreak implied in the title of The Ogallala Road transcend the realm of interpersonal drama. Instead, Bair weaves a number of her personal romances together into a sort of tapestry that centers around her love of water. Raised by farmers in western Kansas, Bair is born and bred on water from the underlying Ogallala aquifer, the largest underground source in the United States. Water has always seemed an abundant thing, sparkling as it spouts from her family’s wind-powered pump and appearing in “magical” streams and pools around their farm property. But after spending some time living in the Mojave desert, where she has to haul her cooking and drinking water from a source 2 miles away from her home, Bair develops a deep appreciation for water as something deserving of reverence and protection. She moves back to Kansas with a new baby in tow and finds that over the course of her life, her family’s dryland wheat farm has become more and more dependent upon pump irrigation, chemical pesticides and herbicides, massive machinery, and government subsidies. Bair leaves Kansas again to pursue her career in writing, but is eventually drawn back by responsibility to her family, a love of the land, and a new romantic interest. Her family must make a series of difficult decisions about the farm, and as Bair struggles to redefine her identity in the world of modern farming, she is drawn to studying the Ogallala. The story is introspective, romantic, historical, and political, also offering a narrative about self-discovery through a connection with nature. I recently spoke with Bair, and we discussed some of the ideas brought up in her book: our interdependence with nature, environmentalism on the Great Plains, and the definition of home in our quickly changing world.

IA: What was your original inspiration for writing this memoir?
JB: Guilt over the aquifer was my original inspiration. At first, it was very difficult to figure out how I was going to interweave all of these threads. I knew I needed to tell a personal story, and I think over time there was no real division between my story and the story of the water. It was all very integrated for me. That water made it possible for us to live there; it gave us a life in that place; it gave us an income, eventually. Meanwhile I had become this water nut, living out in the Mojave desert, going swimming in a stock tank. I love nothing more than diving into a cold lake on a hot summer day, so I think there’s a sort of allegiance there to water. It’s all very personal to me.

IA: It comes across in the book that you have somewhat enlightening experiences when you are interacting with water in its pure form. Can you elaborate?
JB: Well, I find it beautiful to look at, first of all. I find it inviting, irresistible. Once you dive into a large body of clear, icy water you discover how exhilarating it is. The body adapts relatively quickly, and you fall into a sort of ecstatic state. And, when you get out of the water, your skin just tingles, and you feel alive in a way you’ve never felt before. All of the troubles you’ve had have been driven out of your mind by the shock, basically. Endorphins kick in. It puts you in a heightened state.

IA: The difference with a thing like an aquifer, though, is that you can’t dive into it. It is hidden; it’s not a visually beautiful thing you can identify or dive into. How did your obsession with the Ogallala begin?
JB: The obsession began when I was back in Kansas in my mid-30s and working with my father; this would have been the 1980s, and we were flood irrigating then. I had been living in the Mojave desert prior to that. When I was living in the Mojave, I had become super appreciative of water because I had to haul my own water from a neighbor’s windmill supply and make it last a long time. Back in Kansas, just seeing all of that water coming out of the ground in our semi-arid climate in western Kansas and hearing those irrigation engines running all day long, each of them pumping anywhere from 600–1,000 gallons a minute. I started doing the water reports and realized that we were pumping on average 200 million gallons of water each year, which troubled my conscience. I had developed an environmental ethic while living in the desert; I was surrounded by wilderness—and I liked the idea of preserving the beauty and the resources that we have. I knew that we were wasting the one resource that had made life there possible since Paleolithic times for humans, and for millions of years before that for nonhumans.

IA: Do you think that the hidden nature of aquifers makes them more vulnerable to abuse?
JB: Absolutely. Also, the Ogallala falls in that western part of the central states where environmentalism is not an ethic that is very widely shared. There’s also a sparse population where there are fewer people to care about it. So farmers have been given free reign over the water for a long time, and though they may not have free reign now, they are still allowed way more water than can be legitimized, and they are primarily using it on crops, like corn, soybeans, alfalfa, and cotton. None of these crops belong in that region. They do not do well as dryland crops, but they do grow well elsewhere without the aid of irrigation. If we’re talking about water efficiency, it doesn’t make much sense to spend the nation’s largest aquifer on crops that cannot be naturally sustained in that region.

IA: Isn’t it also a system that has always required government aid to make it viable, either by enticing homesteaders out to turn wild buffalo grasslands into farms, and then enacting subsidies to turn dryland farms into irrigated corn factories?

JB: The historian Prescott Webb defined dryland agriculture as the science of farming where rainfall is deficient. When I was growing up in the 1950s we had become proficient at that. We had experienced the dust bowl as a major setback in the 1930s, due partially to the sort of farming practices we had used, and so different methods were adapted. But by the time I was born, we were good at dryland farming, and we were prosperous. And, many of our neighbors were prosperous. It is a myth that you need Ogallala water for agriculture to survive on the Great Plains. We were surviving quite well, and since then many more drought-tolerant plants have been developed. There’s just one problem: We now have climate change, so the droughts are probably going to last longer, and the heat will be more severe, causing even more evaporation. So crops that grew there traditionally without the aid of irrigation will now need some help.
That is what the United Nation’s International Panel on Climate Change is telling us. Their latest report is telling us that we need to preserve our aquifers, because they offer some of the few ways that we can offset the impacts of climate change. When we challenge farmers to change their practices, they often say that they need to feed the world, but it seems tragically inefficient for us to feed the world by processing corn through livestock. Most of the corn grown in this region goes to feeding livestock, cattle primarily. Much of the land in the plains are grasslands that are so marginal that they often should not be farmed in the first place, but this land is perfect for bovines. Bovines are the ones that evolved on this land, the buffalo, and so it makes no sense to use all of this water to grow corn to feed cows. And then, another 40% of the corn being grown is going to the production of ethanol. You can’t say that you’re feeding the world if that’s where your crop is going. And there are very few scientists these days that will defend the use of biofuel, as it requires just about as much fossil fuel, gallon for gallon, as it does to produce ethanol. So none of this seems like a very efficient way to spend our water.

IA: It is odd to me that people from the rural countryside of America, people who live their lives intimately connected to nature are less likely to identify as environmentalists than people who live in dense urban areas.
JB: It is strange, isn’t it? I suppose when you grow up in the Plains you have a family history of a difficult existence. Your grandparents broke that land with horses and plows, and so any new machine—anything that makes the work less labor intensive—is considered progress. And I think we also inherited our grandparents’ notion that the world is limitless; I mean, the place looks limitless when you’re out there: the idea that the grass goes on forever, the water goes on forever, and we are so small and insignificant that it would be impossible to destroy it.
But of course, everyone is realizing now that is not the case. I think there is a lot of despair out there because of what is happening, what is changing. It is not as beautiful as it once was, and there is certainly a lot of despair over what is happening to the water. Everyone knows that the water won’t last forever, and that measures need to be taken to protect it. What is going to happen to the poor farmers when the aquifer is gone? A whole ecosystem is being destroyed. Farmers everywhere will tell you how they used to skate, fish, or swim in the surface water, and they just can’t do it anymore.

IA: You do, at one point in the book, interview some organic farmers in the Plains. Do you see evidence of a developing environmental ethic in the area?
JB: I think it is developing. I think the facts are forcing consciousness to develop about the drawdown of the aquifer, the fear. There are more organic farmers appearing, one of whom I interview in the book. He claimed not to have a strong philosophy driving his decision to go organic, but that he realized there was a greater price premium on organic crops. I do think perhaps he may have had more of a philosophy than he was willing to let on, but it can be tough discussing these ideas out there.
Blissed Out

IA: Part of your development of your environmental ethic stemmed from leaving your home and from gaining perspective through travel, through cutting your ties from tradition and farming. Through leaving you learned to love the land, but you also lost the privilege of learning how to run a farm and being able to pass down that knowledge and that love for that place to your children. This is one of the great tensions in the book: how does one define home? The same trajectory of technological advancement that changed the farm and is destroying the aquifer also allowed you the choice to leave the farm and go to school—to develop a different perspective than that you were raised with.
JB: A major theme in the book is home. On the one hand, a lot of us built these big houses—these big two-story houses with nice refinements, beveled and leaded glass, nice woodwork, and bay windows. Every building on the farmstead was large, and if you looked at this from an aerial view, you would see that whoever had built these houses intended to stay there. And I know that my father wanted me and my brothers to stay in that area and marry farm people, becoming farmers ourselves. But we were getting a mixed message, too, because our father wanted us to do well in school, and though he believed that being a farmer was the only way of life, he also wanted his sons to become doctors. And I mention this in the book, but it’s very different from the Hopi [an indigenous, agricultural tribe centered in Arizona, southern Utah, and Colorado], because what they tend to value very consciously in their culture is staying in place, staying rooted in the place where they have been for 600 years, and maintaining the life forms around them and the life-giving substances—the soil, the water—so they could continue living there for thousands of years. We just didn’t have that environmental ethic, or a spiritual belief that we were synonymous with our land. We didn’t feel that, which made it possible for us to move despite the fact that we had built these giant houses.

IA: You tell a story in the book about a Hopi myth that states that there have been three different cycles of humans, each of which killed themselves off by overstepping ecological limits.
JB: Yes, and what I love about this is how they feel a sense of gratitude for living in the desert because the aridity does not allow them to overstep their limits. They cannot forget and mess up again. They can see this so clearly. They still have the same sort of struggles we have, young people who would rather move away, live elsewhere, and leave the culture, but the fundamental ethic there is to accept what is, which I think is probably the fundamental spiritual ethic that allows for peace in the world and the peaceful cohabitation with all of nature. We never accepted the High Plains; we wanted to change them, and that to me is too bad, because early settlers figured out techniques to live on this land. To reference that same historian, Prescott Webb, he discusses in his book, The Great Plains, how the first settlers adapted: There was no wood, so they built with sod. There was no water so they developed windmills to pump it. But I think they forgot to plan for the long haul. They were just trying to figure out how to live there for now. They weren’t thinking about a thousand years of descendants that would want to live there. They thought about the West as the land of possibility; well, we’ve taken that land, and we’ve mined away all the possibility.

IA: And undermined our own ability to stay there.
JB: And what we’re really doing is undermining our own identity as Americans when we do that.

Author’s Bio: Ivy Anderson writes on topics related to water.

Missouri River Aqueduct Proposal is Greed-Driven Insanity

When insanity is driven by greed it suddenly turns to “reason.” That’s what’s been happening as Kansas corn farmers’ latest brainstorm, to build an aqueduct transporting Missouri River water 360 miles across Kansas, has been gaining momentum.Screen Shot 2015-01-19 at 11.13.10 AM According to a just-released U.S. Army Corps of Engineers draft report, the aqueduct would take 20 years to build and cost $18 billion. And then there would be “significantly higher” habitat restoration costs, according to John Grothause, chief of the water planning section for the corps’ Kansas City district. (How one restores marshlands along a flood plain is anyone’s guess.) Kansas Senate Natural Resources Committee Chairman Larry Powell estimated that the cost to irrigate a hundred acres of corn with aqueduct water would be $90,000. He dared to suggest it might not make a lot of sense to keep feeding corn to cows at that cost. (In my opinion it never made sense: grass-fed beef is healthier for humans. It makes even less sense to turn it into ethanol, which does virtually nothing for the environment.) But who is likely to bear the brunt of the cost? Not farmers, as Powell suggested, but taxpayers is my guess.

When Words Won’t Come

My friend Rosemary Carstens asked me how I kick-start my writing day. I don’t know why she needed to ask me, as Rosemary is one of the most prolific writers and editors I know. Check out The Feast, her online magazine, where she features books, movies, and food. She wound up quoting from my response in a blog she wrote for the American Society of Journalists and Authors. Answering her question put me in mind of that famous E. M. Forster quote: “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?” I found that I wasn’t fully conscious of my own writing process, and I surprised myself enough that I was moved to share my full response here.

       Passing Through an Impasse: What I Do When the Words Won’t Come

I hate to admit this, but I’m pretty boring when it comes to kick-starting my day. I don’t have any tricks up my sleeve for that. I get up at about 6:30, do some yoga, eat some breakfast—always the same downward dog and steel-cut oats—then sit down at my computer. I try not to get hung up answering email, and just start to work where I left off the day before. I’ve always believed in the process. No tricks. Just be present and do the work. If I’m stumped by a problem passage, I often open a new file and interview myself, and that is part of the process too. The first question I ask is usually “What are you really trying to say here?” As I do my best to answer, I remind myself, “No one is going to see this. You don’t have to impress anyone.” Interviewing myself and recording the answers removes the pressure and makes me less self-conscious. I also usually ask myself what images come to mind pertaining to the work at hand, then ask why those images? Often, the answers become part of the actual text.

When I went to find a picture of me at my desk, my true secret popped out: It helps to have two cats for company!

When I went to find a picture of me at my desk, my true secret popped out: It helps to have two cats for company!

This is not to say I don’t get completely stymied at times. I often do, but I haven’t developed a conscious method of dealing at times like those. I’m almost afraid to talk about this, for fear I’ll come to depend on a method, which will then be part of the routine and therefore unlikely to yield answers. When I’m stuck, I unwittingly throw myself onto the breast of the universe. I get out of the chair out of pure frustration and, by way of avoidance, might choose to take a walk, which, now that I think about it, has helped many times. Being outdoors and more in my body puts me in a different mode and I sometimes find myself rushing back to the house to scribble down ideas. On the rare occasions when I go back to work in the evening after getting a little tipsy on wine, I’ve written some great stuff that I couldn’t have produced sober. (But I’ve stopped short of becoming a drunk, no matter how tempting, in order to benefit my art.) Many times, my subconscious saves me just as I’m dropping off to sleep or even as I dream. I make myself get up and write the thought or dream down. And sometimes a deadline forces me to get real in a way I’ve been avoiding. I’ve produced some of my best writing at the very last minute.

The same thing can happen during a bath. I’ve been known to take one during the middle of the afternoon. Going to water, for me, is like going to Mama, and when she hands me a line or bit of wisdom, I have to get out of the tub before I wish to in order to write it down. Going to Kansas, where I’m from, is also like going to Mama or Papa. Although my real parents are long gone, returning home awakens my deepest attachments, concerns, and interests. As I go east on I-70 and hit the grasslands around Limon, Colorado, my spirit soars. I am in my element, and I begin thinking the thoughts that matter most to me—thoughts about home.

Throughout, I’ve been talking about the drafting process. When it is time to revise or edit, one thing I have definitely noticed, and often, is that I do my best work late at night when I’m tired and therefore unimpressed by my more flowery prose, which is to say, my attempts to impress the reader without really saying anything new.

Genesis of The Ogalalla Road

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It all began with water. Not the water under Kansas, where I was born, but in the Sierra Nevada Mountains when I was twenty-six and recently divorced. That is when I took my first, life-changing, mind-shattering, body-awakening dive into a delectably clear mountain lake. It had been a long, hot climb. My crazy boyfriend had gone running down to the lake ahead of me, dropping his clothes as he ran. He splashed and cavorted as if having the greatest time of his life. But I was not so sure. I lay down on a boulder and trailed my fingers through the water. 

Glendo July 2004 008

The high-altitude sun presses my back as with a dry iron, while below me, riffles slap rock. Glare refracts off the water, dappling my arm and flashing hypnotically on my retinas.” That’s how I described this pivotal moment in my new book, The Ogallala Road, A Memoir of Love and Reckoning. 

Once I finally gathered the courage and dove in, I would never be the same: “It only takes a half minute or so and I’m willingly giving myself to the water and it is giving itself to me.” Soon after that first dive, the boyfriend faded into history, but the lakes came into the eternal present of my life. In all of my western travels and in all of the western places I’ve lived, I’ve been a promiscuous lake lover, dropping into each at the slightest wink of sunlight on water.

By the time I found myself back in Kansas in my thirty-fifth year, stuck due to my own poor choice in a husband, who had vanished soon after he returned me, pregnant and chagrined, to my parents’ doorstep, I had become an inveterate lake swimmer. The thought of a summer without a lake nearby bothered me so much that I attempted to swim in my father’s tail-water pit—a bulldozed hole in the ground that collected runoff from his surrounding flood-irrigated fields. This was an unsatisfactory experience, to say the least.

It became my job during those years back home to get up early each morning, plunk my baby son in his car seat, and drive one of the farm pickups out to my father’s corn and soybean fields, where I would walk along the irrigation pipes, knocking open the pipe gates and changing the sets. The water would pour out with such force that when I sliced my hand through it, I had to brace myself lest it threw my arm back and dislocated my shoulder. That’s how much water we were pouring onto our fields—one-thousand gallons per minute out of five wells twenty-four hours a day throughout much of the summer. Two-hundred million gallons per growing season. And we were just one of several thousand High Plains farmers. I knew the water wouldn’t last forever, I knew it was wrong, and I knew I was betraying my first love. The giver of life and joy. Water.

Seminoe 2004 015

Aquifer Plays Critical Role in Pulling Farmers Through Drought

In this WBUR 90.9 FM story by Harvest Public Media reporter Luke Runyon, farmers explain why the current High Plains drought has not caused nearly as much havoc as the 1930s drought, although this drought is actually worse. Modern farming methods are to thank, and of course, the Ogallala Aquifer. But the aquifer is dwindling and won’t save farmers for long, unless changes are made to federal farm and ethanol policies. Those policies encourage farmers to grow corn, the thirstiest crop of all. And guess who we feed it to: Not humans, but cars and cows.

Judge Advises Texans to Learn From Their Past

Here’s a very intelligent and informative guest editorial in the Austin American-Statesman by Paul Pape – Bastrop County Judge advising that Texans learn from their past depleting the Ogallala Aquifer and not make the same mistake again. Other aquifers are now being mined and even sold off to cities: In this case to Austin in a 3 billion dollar water supply project that will enrich the corporate water developer, Blue Water Systems, and impoverish the ecosystem and future inhabitants of @Burleson County, where the water will be pumped.