Oct. 30,1984

He sat his horse and surveyed the scene before him. The distance seemed endless but after all, he was accustomed to that. He, who was born near the sea, and as a boy had often sat on the rolling green hills and watched the ever rolling breakers come in and spend themselves on the beach below. Sometimes he would just sit there, not knowing that in the distant future he would cross that great expanse of water and after a time of searching he would again in some distant place, look down from a gentle rise, and there spread out before him, he would rest his eyes on another sea. But that sea would be far from the crashing waves and the tides that spent themselves on the shores near his boyhood home. Yes, he had wandered far. The days and nights of loneliness were behind him. Somehow, he knew that the days of wandering were over. He had rode the ships on the great sea and thus fulfilled a boyhood dream. But there was a driving force within. It would not be still and even as he sat on the deck in those brief moments of rest he knew that he must press on to that distant place. Even as he mingled with the crew he knew that he would leave this life of a sailor. The days passed into weeks and the weeks lengthened into years. The longing within him would not be still and one day as they were riding at anchor in the harbor of an Atlantic seaport, he left the ship. Never again would he see the ocean with all its awesome power and beauty but he knew that someday his search would end. Deep within he knew that the sea would always be a part of him. How many seaports, how many cities had he seen? New York City, Boston, Norforlk, the list could go on and on but even the thought of them held no appeal. Then there was that twin ribbon of steel that reached forever westward. Or so it seemed. How many rivers did it cross? How many deserts did it cross? And the mountains. He remembered them with a feeling of awe. How they broke the hearts and the backs of the men who pushed those rails from the east and the west, until they met at that place which is now Ogden, Utah. There, they drove the golden spike and he was there. As he watched there was a feeling of pride within; but he remembered the men who lay in unmarked graves along that road which they had built and there was a sadness within him. It had been said in the work camps along the way that the life of a Chinese worker was of little value. How many of them - some needlessly- had died? He did not know and only wanted to put the thought of it behind him. It seemed only natural that a man who had come to love these high plains would spend some time as an Army scout. After all, he was at home in the saddle and the top of the next hill always beckoned. So as he sat and watched the scene below him it was what he had done many times before. But this was different. Perhaps something within was telling him that it was time to settle down. After all, he was no longer young. True, he was only in his early thirties, but when you start making your own way before you reach your teens you can do a lot of living long before middle age. Those endless days in the saddle and the nights in a bedroll beside a campfire had begun to show. Many a man who rode those endless plains was old long before his time. This he knew and perhaps it was at least part of the reason that he lingered here and watched the scene stretched out before him. What a scene it was. The prairie seemed to go on until it met the sky. The short grass was abundant. Below him was a ribbon of water that seemed to rise from the ground not far from where he sat. It led off to the north for a few miles and in the distance he could see a broad valley that seemed to run from west to east. That valley he thought would probably contain a flowing stream. He made a mental note to ride over there sometime soon and have a look, but right now he felt a peace in a way that he had never felt before. He was content. Somehow he knew he was home.
There, along that stream the tall grass waved in the wind. Grass, tall beautiful grass, it touched his stirrups as he started to ride through it. As he watched it wave in the wind, he could shut his eyes and once again in the far off islands, The Isle of Man, he could see those gentle ground swells roll in, one upon the other and spend themselves on the beach. Here, along this stream, he would build his last campfire. Here he would live out his days in the 'sea of grass.' And so it came to pass, Judy. He settled there and lived for a time. It was his home. He married and my father was born there. That valley to the north ran through the center of what later became known as Valley Township. Through that valley flowed the south fork of the Solomon River. Yes, it was a flowing stream. My father spent his life along that stream. I to, have spent most of mine along it. But, time will not stand still and conditions change. Grandfather saw the farmer begin to turn his beloved grass beneath the plow. My father once told me that as the grass began to disappear, something died within him. His beautiful, endless, sea of grass was no more. And such is life, what we know and cherish passes away and if we are old we do not want to change; so we die. He lived to see the prairie turn into fields of wheat and in 1916 he too passed from the scene. I did not know him. He died before my time, but as I look back I have long felt a close kinship with him. Our lives have been parallel in many ways. You see I too have seen the 'sea of grass.' As boy I herded cattle on it for days on end. I too have seen the Solomon when it was a flowing stream. Many is the time when the windmill refused to supply enough water for the stock, it was my job to saddle a horse and drive the cattle and horses to water at the Solomon River. I was born on Sand Creek which flowed into the Solomon about a half mile from where it flowed. It did not flow through our place. And of course you know that I have lived now for more than thirty years on the banks of that watercourse. You of course spent your childhood there. Just as Grandfather sailed the sea, so have I. I was an engineer. That meant that I worked below deck. Many a night I would go topside when the moon was full. When the sea was calm - if you could ever call it calm -1 never tired of watching the groundswells. They always reminded me of home and the tall grass and the wheat fields waving in the wind. Now the water is gone from the river. Sometimes when I look at the dry riverbed I feel like I have lost an old friend. Maybe I too am getting old. This is fictional of course but historically it is true. It came down from Dad.