The Barn was buzzing with excitement last week.  We were honored to be hosts to Conrad Weaver of Conjo Studios, producer of the documentary, “The Great American Wheat Harvest”.  Meeting at the Barn with him from Billings, Montana, were Melody Dobson and Jody Lamp of Baseline Communications.  To get the marketing campaign for the documentary jump started  Teresa Scanlan, 2011 Miss America, was also here to tape a PSA for the film, before she boarded a plane for the Middle East to visit with America’s troops. ”The Great American Wheat Harvest” tells the agricultural story of America’s wheat producers and the combine crews that travel the plains of the Midwest from Texas to the Canadian border.  Their annual cross country trek is a saga which captivated Conrad Weaver’s imagination and thus the impetus to create the film.  The documentary will tell the saga of America’s harvest crews, who cut deep furrows through 10 states, not only with the wide swaths that their combines and harvest machinery have scupltured the prairies with, but also the personal drama of deep human relationships, arduous work, tragedies and joys and celebrations.  It is an American story that all Americans need to know.  After having seen the fim, you will definitely have a deeper appreciation for the loaf of bread that you lift from the grocery store shelf and load into your shopping cart.  And you will have a deeper respect for American agriculture!

One quiet morning, when we had no guests and were enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee on the balcony ourselves,  the phone rang.  A husky voice with a deep southern drawl asked if we had any rooms available for that night.  I told them yes, we did, and he said he would like to book three rooms.  When asked where he was calling from and what time they would be arriving he replied, ”We’re in Raleigh, North Carolina right now, and we will be there about 3:00.

“You’re in Raleigh, and you’ll be here at 3:00? Today?”

“Well, yes Mam,” was the reply,” we’ll fly the corporate jet in.”

Minds racing to fill  in all of the questions about the night’s visitors, we had conjured up all kinds of scenarios.  Were our guests government diplomats coming to the Barn for a top secret meeting?  Were they movie producers scoping out the valley for a movie set?  Perhaps business tycoons investing billions into land development? The FBI harboring a high stakes terrorist in a witness protection program?

By the end of the morning we had exhausted our imaginations with all of the possibilities.  We were anxiously watching the dirt road, anticipating that with their arrival the mystery would be solved.  Why would three men from Raleigh be flying a corporate jet in, to stay at the Barn?  Even Molly, our Australian Blue Shepherd, seemed to be caught up in the anticipation, as she too was keeping a close watch on the road.

Looking out the kitchen window, at 2:30, I saw a dark brown Dodge truck turn off the highway and barrel down the dirt road,  creating a contrail of dust.  I was sure these weren’t our guests, as most guests drive slowly down the dirt road taking in their new surroundings and getting their bearings.  But this truck drove like it knew where it was going, and like it was late getting there.  Turn into the yard it did, with engine roaring and gravel flying.  The silence of a quiet, country afternoon was shattered. My already active imagination was alert to every detail that would lead me to the answer of  who are guests were and what was their reason for being here.

Instantaneously all four doors of the crew cab flew open, and I saw three sets of  army combat boots hit the ground. My!  We’re being invaded! I thought to myself. We hadn’t heard any news for several days.  Were aliens invading?  Terrorists attacking?  Even Mollie was silent, no friendly barking greeted these guests!  I was afraid to ask them what their mission was, afraid to hear the earth shattering news.

Three men hurtled friendly hellos at us and speedily began unloading their gear.  Their gear consisted of camouflage duffle bags, rifle bags, and green metal ammo boxes.  Carrying all of this gear up to the Barn were three men all dressed in matching camouflage shirts, tucked into camouflage field pants, tucked into camouflage boots.  Their camouflage vest pockets were bulging with shells and compasses and knives and flashlights.  Each had a set of camouflage field glasses hanging around his neck and camouflage canteens strung on  camouflage belts.  The tallest, who had a stubbly two day’s growth of beard,  and a short stubby cigar smoldering at the corner of his mouth, appeared to be the leader, even though few words were exchanged.

This battalion was well armed and well suited for any battle.  Not having heard of any newly declared wars or front lines  drawn in Western Nebraska, the next possible explanation had to be hunting, but hunting season was over.  Perhaps they had a special permit for elk or Big Horn sheep, or maybe even mountain lion or coyote? When my curiosity was bursting, and I could hold it no longer I asked, “What are you hunting?”  The driver of the truck, who was also the pilot, pulled his aviator sun glasses off.   Steadfast, serious, intense eyes met mine, and he answered in a heavy, slow, Southern drawl, “We’re after prairie dawgs!”

Prairie dog hunt!  Our guests had flown in their corporate jet all the way from North Carolina, totally outfitted themselves for “hunting”, to spend a day hunting prairie dogs in Western Nebraska!

That answer took us quite a bit of time to absorb.  Prairie dog hunt!  After I recovered and I felt my strength return and my knees quit shaking, I welcomed them in. Well at least we weren’t being attacked by aliens!

The guests politely entered the Barn,  after arranging rifles and duffels in a neat row on the front porch. The man with the cigar smothered it, and left it outside in the dirt.  All four even took precious minutes unlacing their heavy boots and removing them before they entered ( although they looked brand new clean).  Unfolding their maps, which were already marked with their planned route, they smoothed them out on the dining room table to study one last time before they began the hunting expedition.

It appeared that our comfortable bed and breakfast had been turned into headquarters for an army field expedition.  I guess, in fact it was!

I’m not sure that as Western Nebraskans we will want to promote prairie dawg hunting as one of the top tourist attractions in the state.

We always enjoy sharing our stories and Western and Native American art with our guests, and we usually learn a great deal in return, because many  share our interest. As we have learned, many of our guests, especially from Germany, are very well read and experts in Western history.  Because of their passion, they are more knowledgeable about the West than some who live here.  This was the case with our 2 guests from Mulheim Germany.

Brigeta and Gretchen had traveled to the Barn on route to the Pine Ridge Reservation.  Gretchen was not a stranger to the reservation, as she had been there several times visiting friends, whom she had met in the beginning as business associates.  Gretchen was a translator, and she had translated many books about the Lakota culture into the German language.  The love of the Native American culture is very strong in Germany, and Gretchen was not only a translator, but she also helped to coordinate and host Native American workshops and conferences, where the people of Germany could learn and experience Native American traditions and beliefs.  Her friends on the reservation had reciprocally visited her in Germany to help with some of these conferences.  On this trip Gretchen was serving as tour guide to her friend Brigeta, as it was Brigeta’s first trip to the United States.

When Brigeta entered the Barn she was in awe, with it being the first American home she had ever been in, and this was just the first stop for them of a journey that she had been anticipating for years.  She too, was one of the German people, who was captivated by the Native American traditions and culture, and she had been saving her money for 6 years to accompany Gretchen to the West.  Brigeta was an artist and her art was a testimony of her  respect and passion for the Lakota culture.  She shyly admitted that the ideas for her art work came to her through her dreams.  Even she did not understand the deep connection that she had.  Her dark skin, long black hair, and high cheek bones even made her appear more Native American than German.

Gretchen told us that Brigeta had made a pair of string puppets that were going to be a gift to the children,  when they visited the schools on the reservation.    So of course, our next request was to see them.  Brigeta silently left the room and returned holding a long, narrow cardboard box.  Her fingers carefully unwrapped the string, lifted the lid, and pulled back the white tissue paper.  There inside were the 2 dolls.  Lifting them  tenderly out of the box,  she proudly handed them to me. I had never seen dolls as beautiful and exquisite as these.  They had shiny, long, black braids, that she admitted were made from her own hair.  Beautifully sculptured, painted faces had been crafted by her husband.   They were works of art, with dark skin and eyes, high cheekbones and aquiline noses.  Soft, white, fringed, doeskin dresses were intricately beaded in a traditional  Lakota pattern of greens and reds and black.  The beadwork was designed in rows on the bodice and flowed down the sleeves.  The skirts of the dresses were circled with more beadwork in a geometric pattern.  Doe skin moccasins covered the tiny feet, and they too were completely beaded.  So perfect were these dolls, that as I held them I expected to feel them rise from my hands with a spirit of their own.  I didn’t want to put them back into the box.

Owning a bed and breakfast we are always reminded of how small the world really is, as  people are connected closely by experiences and backgrounds.  But the manifestation of this artwork that possessed such a strong intrinsic understanding of Native American culture created by a woman in Germany was profound.  These two visitors from Germany had nurtured such a deep love for a culture that it had transpired time and place.

The next morning, after breakfast Brigeta and Gretchen were anxious to visit the Monument.  They had seen art work on our wall by Kevin Burkey of tipi camps at the base of the Monument; they wanted go to that spot.  When we arrived they couldn’t wait until their feet touched the ground and they were able to walk through a sea of prairie grass, just like the pictures they had only seen in books.  They took pictures of the yucca and the cactus.

They stood and just let the breeze blow through their hair and felt the sun on their faces.  There wasn’t much conversation, as they were absorbing the experience to it’s fullest. We followed the path that took us to the top of the Monument in silence, stopping often to take more pictures of the landscape, the prairie flowers, and the sharp contrast of the Bluff against an azure sky.  Arriving on top and walking the path through the cedars and pines they were captivated by the silhouettes of Chimney and Court House Rock to the east, and the faint shadow of Laramie Peak to the west. The wide expanse of prairie, endless blue sky, wind in the pines, and just the quiet solitude were rare treasures to experience for these two travelers from Germany.

Looking forward to a busy summer season and already taking reservations through September from places as far away as Germany and Australia, we reminisce about the friends we met last summer and their individual reasons for coming to Western Nebraska.  Each traveler has their own unique reason for traveling here.

Last year seemed to be  the year for pursuing the “bucket list”.  I know we will have some visitors who are in Nebraska for one reason, that is to complete their quest to have visited every one of the 50 states.  Some make the challenge more intriguing by adding an additional requirement.  Such as the Adeles, who were searching out and visiting the highest point of elevation in each state.  The Ratliff’s bucket list was to visit every state capital, and they were just returning from Lincoln and on their way to Cheyenne and Denver.  The Johnsons, from Indiana, were visiting the landmark that appears on the back of each state’s quarter, and so they visited Chimney Rock. Every traveler was committed to their own individual quests and had great stories to share about their experiences and what they had learned in their travels, so the conversation around the breakfast table is always animated and energized.

We often have guests from Eastern Nebraska, who have never been to Western Nebraska and are visiting for the first time. We had guests from a farm near Fairbury, who traveled all the way to the panhandle, because they had never been that far west before.  When they arrived at the Barn, they were amazed to see “the mountains”.  We explained that these bluffs were just that, bluffs,  but they insisted that they were mountains and continued to be amazed.  It was this same couple who when we referred them to a restaurant for dinner in Scottsbluff, cut us off in mid sentence and emphatically stated that they had no desire to drive into the “big city”.  They were much happier getting directions to a restaurant in Mitchell, even though it meant driving  further.  So when they pulled out of the driveway the next morning they were very satisfied travelers having just experienced the “mountains” and the “big city”!

Our guests this morning got to enjoy their morning cup of coffee in the warm spring sun on the patio.  Thank goodness they weren’t in a hurry!  The patio was flooded with a warm, lucsious March sun.  Scotts Bluff is even starting to show some hint of green, and the pasture across the road is already being flooded with water from the sprinkler system, showing off a deep, Irish green just in time for St. Pats Day.  Needless to say the calves and their mothers look very content.  Tractors are predominate on the highway, bicycles, motorcycles…..Wow!

Waiting for a beautiful snow this winter has been a lesson in patience.  Nothing can surpass watching white, fluffy snowflakes blanket the hills in a coverlet of white.  With March approaching, the chance of that blessing of snow seemed quite remote, so I had pushed the longing to the back of my mind and was beginning to anticipate subtle signs of spring.

We welcomed guests from Texas to the Barn, two sets of grandparents, and Larry and Gretchen, their son Caleb, 12, and cousin Joshua, 8.  The eight family members were just returning from a quick trip to Kansas. Their trip home was a driving marathon, and they were all travel weary, being on the down side of their fun – filled trip.  All seemed to drag themselves up the sidewalk and into the barn.  It was already dark, and the wind was still blowing hard.  It was a black, cold landscape and everyone’s mood was being colored by it.  Upstairs the warm beds and a good night’s sleep were to be the only escape for these travel weary visitors.  They were all definitely to the point where “home is the best place of all”.

That is until they opened their eyes to the landscape outside their windows the next morning.  Western Nebraska had received a light snow.  Light snow?  Joshua and Caleb had never seen snow!  The transformation of 2 road weary boys to 2 boys seeing snow for the first time was inspiring.

They were dressed, down the stairs, and outside before the sun was even above the horizon.  Not far behind them was the rest of the family, and it was Grandpa who threw the first shot.  A snowball went hurtling across the yard and caught Joshua right in the chest.  After a short flurry of snowballs, it was Caleb whose shouts called the battle to cease.  He noticed in a panic that all of the snow in the front yard was being trampled and going to waste.  “We have to save it to make a snowman!”  he demanded.

Well, breakfast was put on hold.  The adults gave some profoundly important instructions on how to construct the perfect snowman.  The instructions were instinctively ignored by the 8 and 12 year olds, so the adults found refuge in the house from the cold and watched through the window to the wonderland outside.

Outside the sun was casting a pinkish hue across the whitened world.  Two boys were seriously intent, scooping up handfuls of snow to begin the first phase of creating the first snowman in their lives.  The snow was carefully moved to the center of the yard, and with deep concentration the beginning of a magnificent snowman was beginning to take shape.  The only sounds were the occasional calls from the house, asking if they needed to come in and warm up.  But these calls were ignored and soon ceased.   Joshua and Caleb were oblivious to everything; every bit of energy was going toward the experience of building that snowman, based on pictures they had seen and the innate knowledge that all a 8 and 12 year olds have.  They seemed to be communicating on this project telepathically, no words were exchanged.  As the snowman began taking shape, they often stood back to evaluate their work and plan new strategies of perfection.  The only thing that was limiting their industriousness was the amount of snow.  As the snowman grew bigger, so did the margin of brown, winter grass around the base.  Then Joshua noticed the wheel barrow parked upside down at the side of barn.  The wheel barrow became the solution to the problem of limited snow.  Single wheeled tracks traversed the driveway, back and forth, back and forth.  Load after load of snow was brought to the sight with much enthusiasm. Finally,  until the snowman had grown to the height that was almost unmanageable for the boys, they felt successful.

We couldn’t stay inside any longer ourselves, as it got to the point of adding the head, the face, the arms.  Everyone wanted to be a part of bringing life to the snowman.  The yard was full again with childlike exclamations coming from everyone.  Josh and Caleb erupted with words of joy, and welcomed the company. (Their enthusiasm was beginning to wane to the cold.) The front yard was no longer quiet.  Everyone had ideas of how to bring the snowman to life.  Chokecherry twigs for arms, rocks from the driveway for eyes, Caleb removed his ski hat and placed it jauntily on the snowman’s head.  Grandma took off her mittens and broke off  a few straggly twigs, so they would fit at the end of the wooden arms.  I ran in to get a carrot out of the refrigerator for the nose.  A few more loving pats and additional handfuls of snow were added, as a circle of very cold but happy children stood in a circle around the snowman in the bare front yard.  The proudest and most exhilarated might have been Caleb and Joshua, having just experienced the magic of building their first snowman, but coming in at a close second were the rest of the group having reawakened their own inner child.

The breakfast that had been put on hold was now a celebration.  Everyone at the table was animated and energized by the magic that had just taken place in the front yard.  As our guests left that morning, just a little behind schedule, pictures were taken of the snowman from every angle and with everyone at it’s side.  The boys were  relieved to see that they had built him in the shadow of the barn, so the sun still not on him as they drove out of the yard.

By noon the snowman was being diminished to gray heap of slush by the sun and the wind, but we would never tell Joshua and Caleb that.  I am sure that their memory of Western Nebraska will always be a valley of beautiful, white snow and a grand snowman.

 When we bought Barn Anew Bed and Breakfast there was one cupola, the original one, on the barn. It is crowned with a weathervane of the angel, Gabriel, blowing his trumpet, which I have always believed is responsible for showering down blessings on the Barn.

This fall, we completed renovation of the bunk house, and in keeping with the cupola tradition, Allan crowned the new building with a cupola of its own. Topped with a weathervane of a goose in flight, it looks right at home with all of the geese using the fly way above our home.

When unseasonably warm temperatures beckoned us to take on outside projects in the dead of winter, Allan became consumed with “cupola fever“. Spending days in the garage, with the south facing doors wide open and a warm winter sun flooding in, Allan was busy designing and building more cupolas. After not seeing much of Allan for about a week, the only clue that I had that he was home was the buzzing of the saw in the garage, I ventured in to see what he was creating. Cupola #3! It was a beauty, long, rectangular and adorned with a spectacular copper arrow weathervane.

 Now it was becoming routine to see our neighbor, Stu, driving down the road in his 4320 John Deere with the hydraulic bucket. Stu pulls the tractor up to the garage, and between the two men, the cupola gets loaded into the bucket. After chaining the cupola securely in place, it is driven to its destination, lifted up in the bucket, heaved onto the roof, placed in position, and securely attached. With minor adjustments, touch ups, and positioning it is a permanent part of the landscape at Barn Anew.

Today cupola #4 was heralded onto the roof of the wood shop in the same tradition. Allan had again been absent for days, and I had only the sound of the saw for company. Then there was the familiar sound of the John Deere coming down the road. The garage doors opened and there was #4! What a beauty, a 4 gabled cube, adorned with a magnificent copper eagle.

Now, there are a total of 4 new cupolas with 4 new brass and copper weathervanes! One would not suspect that each contains a bit of history. Allan has hidden inside of each one, like a message in a bottle, a handwritten note. Just a touch of history and intrigue to make the cupolas even more interesting. Who knows who might find and read those notes, some time down the road. . .

When the phone rang I didn’t expect that by answering it, I would be involved in a final quest.  The call was from Pennsylvania.  The voice on the other end was  a young man.  He asked if we had a couple of rooms available in October.  He said he was planning a trip across the United States as a gift to his father, and I could hear the excitement in his voice. He went on to say that his father loved old barns, and that their trip was to be a quest.   They were mapping out a route that would lead them on their pursuit of old barns.    When they found our website and discovered that they could sleep in a 100 year old barn, they knew that Scotts Bluff Valley had to be one of their stops. 

    It was an October afternoon when Craig and Dave drove into the yard.  Craig was a quiet, shy, young man in his late 20s.  Dave was  robust, out going, jovial.  The two men, for being father and son, were distinctly different personalities, and yet it was easy to see that they shared a strong bond.

     They had traveled from Pennsylvania, just as they had planned, studying and photographing barns along the way.  Their excitement was contagious, as they showed us the pictures in their collection, and each picture had a story to go with it.  There were round stone barns, brick barns, barns with steeples and stained glass, historic barns, new barns.  An incredible collection! For all of the barns that they had seen, it was hard to believe that they were still passionate in their pursuit.  But passionate they were as they asked for a tour of the barn. They seemed to hang on our every word as we told them the history and stories of our barn, while Craig was busy taking pictures of every nook and cranny inside and out. They loved the hayloft where the rail and the big iron hay hook are still in place, and we stood and looked out at the vista of the bluffs.  When we had finished with our barn, they weren’t done yet, and so we made plans to load up in our truck and take a tour of  the old barns in this valley.  Traveling down county roads and back highways we saw a great collection of barns that stand as testaments to the strong farming tradition of Nebraska, and it was fun sharing them with our guests who truly appreciated them.

    When we returned late in the afternoon, Craig said that he was tired and headed up to his room to rest.  As we sat in the sun room with Dave, it was then that we came to understand that this father-son trip was not just a trip about barns.  It was a something much deeper.  Craig was terminally ill with leukemia.  This trip was a last gift to his father.  Dave explained to us that his son had been fighting leukemia since he was a young boy.  He had beaten death several times, something many of his friends, that he had made in his long stays at the hospital, had not been able to do.  With tears in his eyes, Dave told us how proud he was of his son.  He explained how brave Craig had been for the last 15 years fighting the disease, the pain, the losses, the anguish.  He had continued to live life as fully as he could.  He’d been an Eagle Scout, gone to college, gotten a job, was a great artist and musician.  But now he was living with numbered days.  Dave was sharing all of this with us as he wiped tears from his eyes and his voice was choked with emotion.

      He then got up and told us to wait one minute as he went to get something.  When he returned he was holding a book.  He said the book was a gift to us.  Dave had written the book several years ago when Craig was younger.  It had been written as a gift to his son who was having a hard time understanding and dealing with the death of one of his close friends, who also had leukemia.  The book that I was holding in my hands was a gift of love from a father to his son.  It held all of the love that this father had in him to help his son understand and deal with the mystery of death.  He had written a children’s story that had a very mature and difficult theme to it. Now several years later, the book that Dave had written to help his son understand death, was the same book that Dave would truly need to help himself understand what he knew was inevitable for him to deal with, the death of his son. 

   The next morning, after breakfast, we walked out onto the porch with Dave and Craig  as we said our good byes.  The morning was sunny and the two of them were laughing and looking forward to another day’s adventure.  As they drove out of the yard, I was overwhelmed by the strength of father and son.  They both knew what they were facing in the near future, but their quest for barns gave them the courage, and strength to face the final days that they would be able to share together.  The love that those two shared for each other was strong enough to help them find happiness and laughter each day, to give a reason for living, to make life an adventure, and to hold each other close in order to be strong.

    When I went upstairs to clean Craig’s room, there was a tightly folded piece of paper laying on the pillow.  With shaking fingers I picked it up, unfolded it carefully, and read the tiny printed lettering.  “I want to thank you for everything that you did to make our visit so special.  Always remember …everything you do on this fragile planet has value and meaning. Love Craig”

A soft sprinkling of snow on the ground, Christmas carols, sugar cookies in the oven…..hmmm.  Must be getting close to Christmas!  The geese are noisy outside the window, and I realize that I have missed them.  Glad that they are back with their cacaphony of sound.  The frozen branches are vividly black and stark against the white horizon, a good day for being inside and enjoying the holiday season.  The barn has been bustling with Christmas dinners, wine and cheese parties, and groups gathering for a Christmas cup of tea.  Of course, that makes for a festive tradition with tea cups decorated with red ribbon, the Christmas tea pot steaming, pieces of lemon, sugar cubes, honey, and cinammon; and then settle back to read the Christmas Cup of Tea.