Little Trip to the Prairie

Twenty years after having read The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder for the first time (and forty years later for my aunt), we both finally got to go on our dream trip through Laura's prairies. It was everything we had hoped it would be. One of the most amazing parts is that now, when I reread those books, I can truly see what Laura was describing. I have collected so many memories over this past week, and it's daunting to think about where to begin blogging. That's why I decided that the best place to start is with the senses. Maybe this will help you imagine what it was like...

See: Prairie grasses up to your waist, blowing in the breeze. From far away, they look soft and pinkish against the horizon and the vibrant blue skies. When you get up close, you realize it would be rather difficult to walk through them -- especially while wearing a full-length dress. The clouds looked like they had been painted there, and it was easy to see where Harvey Dunn got his inspiration.

Taste: A juicy steak, medium well, with no seasonings. This is what the West is known for, and with good reason. A side of potatoes: French fries, American fries, Lyonaise, Baked, Twice baked, (you name it, every restaurant offered it!). A caesar salad. Yum! Thanks to our self-imposed "Prairie Diet" (where we were always too busy to bother eating lunch) we were always ready for a good dinner.

Smell: A sweet summer scent wafting on the breeze, probably coming from the flowers in the prairies. Damp, clean soil in the dugout houses, which were created by stacking pieces of sod like bricks. Timber in the log cabins and claim shanties, all of which were made from freshly-cut trees. Dust in the old houses that Laura lived in -- although I'm sure they never smelled that way when she was taking care of them.

Feel: The constant breeze. I don't think it ever stopped blowing, and you can get visual proof of that by looking at any of my photos. Our hair was always blowing all over the place!

Hear: The wind blowing through the grasses. The creek babbling over tiny stones. Excited voices chattering together about Laura Ingalls Wilder. Pa's fiddle playing songs like "Pop! Goes the Weasel."