View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

Sometimes I picture them. In their covered wagons. Some of them are walking. Others, maybe their children, are sitting on the bench in the wagon, the oxen steered by a young boy. They are tired. They wonder how long they must go before they can settle. They marvel at the endless grasslands. The tall grass undulating in the ever-present wind, like waves on an ocean.

Sometimes, trees are visible on the horizon. They have learned that where there are trees, there is also water nearby. Depending on the area and the time, they think the land is theirs for the taking. Fertile land. Flat land. And they finally stop and start the arduous task of making a home for themselves here. On the endless, living prairie.

I have read accounts of their struggles. With drought and cold. With their neighbors, the original people of the prairie. With moving so far from the familiar. But the familiar was not enough. They came here for a reason. No one leaves their homes for the great unknown without a heart-wrenching reason.

I came here also for a reason. To live on a farm. To raise a family where neighbors knew neighbors. And also for love. Love of a gentle man, but also love of a landscape. The landscape of the wide-open prairie.

Last week, I had a face-time chat with my brother in Oslo. He was with some friends who were curious about how it looked like where I lived. They had been to the U.S., most of my friends and relatives have been here. To New York City and LA or San Francisco. Maybe Florida. But what is in-between the two, most of them don’t know. So I took my phone and showed them the prairie. They were amazed. “So flat” was their comment. And, of course, it is. Especially compared to the land of hills and mountains.

But there are also prairies that are not flat. Our favorite state park is Glacial Lakes, only 21 minutes away. We go there often and prefer to hike on the clearly marked trails on the wide open prairie part of the park. Here, we walk for miles on the sweeping prairie up and down and around hills, finding hidden big and small lakes and ponds but no people. The exercise feels good. And the stillness! It is like we are surrounded by God’s peace.

Living on the prairie and loving this prairie have taught me the ever-changing landscape around me. The prairie grasses change with the season and the weather.  My husband tells me there are seven types of native grasses on the Minnesota prairie, the main types being big bluestem and Indian grass, both of which are tall grasses. A native prairie also has abundant wildflowers. Sometimes, I will look out my window and the prairie will be all purple or blue or purple mixed with yellow. The wind is never still and the swaying of the grasses changes the intensity and hues of the colors. With the November winds and cold, the prairie is golden. Some would call the grass dead, but life is there, just under the soil. Soon, snow will fly across the grass and then suddenly, the wind will stop and big flakes will come fluttering down, covering the whole world with a pristine, white blanket.

If the snow stays and covers the prairie, Grant and I will make ski trails. Every day, we will take a trip on the trails. And the heaviness in our chest and the brokenness in our old bodies caused by so many losses and so much grief will lessen. At least for a while.