Showman’s Pasture . . . by Justin Hunt

showman's pasture

Virgin Pasture Once Owned by the Author’s Grandfather — Sumner County, Kansas


The following essay was first published by DASH Journal, Vol. 11, Spring 2018


One spring afternoon when I was about six, Dad took my younger sister, Cynthia, and me to Showman’s Pasture, an eighty-acre swath of treeless, virgin prairie one block south of our house in Conway Springs, Kansas. It had rained that morning, and the forsythia blooming at the edge of our driveway still sagged with moisture. As he led us down the dirt alley past Ethel Thew’s barn and the Rutherford’s snarling, fenced-in dogs, Cynthia and I tromped through every mudhole we could find.

“I bet you kids have never seen a buffalo wallow, have you?” Dad said.

“What’s a buffalo wallow?” I asked.

“Well, I’m gonna show you one. It’s where buffalo used to roll to keep the flies off. There used to be millions of ‘em on this prairie before they were hunted out—buffalo, that is, not flies. They’d roll till they wore off the grass, and they’d keep rollin’ on that spot, gettin’ dust all over themselves and makin’ a dent in the prairie. You’ll see.”

At the end of the alley, we came to a barbed wire fence strung on posts of hand-hewn hedge. Dad pushed the lowest strand of wire down with his left foot so that Cynthia and I could slip through without snagging ourselves. He maneuvered himself through the higher strands, and we began walking over ground that had never been put to the plow. The wet, native grasses cleaned our mud-caked shoes. The south wind lifted the scent of soaked prairie to our noses. To our ears, it bore the slog of feet, the lilt of distant meadowlarks and the sound of itself billowing north under a blue, empty dome of sky.

About a hundred yards south of the fence, we came to a depression in the earth, an almost perfect circle about thirty feet in diameter. It was filled with rainwater and spiked with the rust-and-gold stalks of bluestem still dormant from winter.

“Now, that’s a buffalo wallow. If you look southwest, you’ll see another one,” Dad said as he pointed with his long, wiry arm.

Cynthia and I ran to the second, rain-filled wallow, a larger and somewhat deeper formation. As we trotted along its edge, scores of nickel-sized frogs leaped through the grass. We stopped, looked into the clear water and spotted hundreds of small, oblong balls of gray-black flesh wriggling themselves through the bluestem with their tiny tails.

“Dad! Come look!” I said. “What are these?”

My father walked over to the second wallow.

“Why, those are tadpoles,” he said. “They’ll crawl outta there soon enough, when they grow some legs.”

“But you said the buffalo wore all the grass off. How come there’s grass here?”

“Well, the buffalo have been gone a good eighty years. And cattle don’t roll the same way.”

“How’d you know the buffalo wallows were here?”

“I used to play out here as a kid,” Dad said.


Throughout the rest of my childhood, my friends and I would walk Showman’s Pasture often—every inch of its grassy high ground, every meander of its lower reaches where runoff, over eons, had cut through thin topsoil and exposed layers of red clay and faint-green limestone. After I left for college, I’d always find time during visits home to walk the pasture again. It remained for me an anchor to something I couldn’t name, something beyond words that always brought me back to who I am. I knew it had never been broken out because its soil was thin and poor, suitable only for grazing cattle. I thought it would always be there, inviolate and whole.

But in the early 1970s, after the U.S. Government began selling huge quantities of surplus grain to the Soviet Union, the price of wheat skyrocketed. The owner of Showman’s Pasture, E.J. Frantz, had several truckloads of dirt hauled in. He ordered his tenant farmer to fill the buffalo wallows, then plow and sow wheat—fencerow to fencerow.

“That ground’s no good for farmin’,” Dad said not long afterwards. “I wish E.J. hadn’t done that. It’s just a shame.”

A few years later, wheat prices dropped, and my childhood haunt was allowed to revert to grass. But a remnant of untouched prairie had been gouged, and the wallows were gone forever. It wouldn’t be long before Showman’s Pasture would vanish altogether—graded and carved up for a new church, a nursing home, and in the early 2000s, a baseball diamond.


It takes work these days to find a buffalo wallow in south-central Kansas. The last time I looked for one was in 2006. I drove mile after mile of dusty section roads, scanning the horizon for signs of never-tilled land—a lone stretch of grassland bounded on all sides by plowed fields, a narrow enclosure of native grass tufting along a slough or creek, a sliver of terrain too ragged to work with farm implements or a pasture snaked with low ridges of red clay.

At last, I found a wallow on a grassy rise southwest of Conway Springs. I looked out over the land. Wind scoured my ears. As I walked the wallow’s perimeter, I imagined the time before white settlers came to these plains, the millennia of the Kiowa and Comanche and other native peoples who had leaned into the same wind that I, too, had come to know as the breath of home. I saw bison grazing the boundless expanse of which this rise was once part—the great herds that darkened the horizon in undiminished number as late as the 1860s, only thirty years before Dad was born.

I saw my father driving cattle with his father in 1907—Dad on his quarter horse, Old Whitey, my grandfather on a bay mare, the two of them riding in a hush disturbed only by the creak of saddle leather, the soft clomp of hooves against earth.

I stepped again into that distant day when Dad took my sister and me to Showman’s Pasture.


Justin Hunt grew up in rural Kansas. His prose and poetry have been published by a number of journals, anthologies and literary-prize websites. Justin’s memoir, Dominoes Are Played at Joe’s Place (working title), probes his relationship with his zany but hard-driving father, who was born in 1897 to Kansas settlers.

Find out more about Justin and his writing here.

Read stories about other fathers here and here.

Looking for My Grandparents’ Story . . . by Linda Whitesitt

Looking for My Grandparents' Story; Elof and Egedia Johnson

Elof and Egedia Johnson (Linda Whitesitt’s maternal grandparents)

From Linda’s forthcoming book Hope as Wide as a Prairie Sky: Memories of Homesteading in Minnesota, Saskatchewan and Montana based on the life of her Swedish-American ancestors. 


I have prairie dust in my bones — dirt from the sod my Swedish great-grandparents broke on the tallgrass prairie of Minnesota; traces of soil their youngest daughter, Gedia, and her Swedish husband, Elof, tilled on the Saskatchewan plains; bits and pieces from the plowed earth of their second homestead on the shortgrass prairie of eastern Montana — every speck as much a part of me as the stories Gedia tells in this book.

Born Hulda Egedia Peterson, my grandma Gedia (pronounced Gid-ja) came to live with her daughter and son-in-law (Judith and Donald, my parents) shortly before I was born. It would be her job to take care of me while they worked, her labor of love to feed me and change me, play with me and potty train me, read to me and teach me how to read. I am who I am because of my kind-hearted, steel-willed grandmother. 

Today I’m almost as old as she was when she first held me in her arms, and I’d like to see her again; hear her strong, gravely voice tell me tales of her life on the prairie; have her introduce me to Gustaf Elof Johnson, the grandfather who died before I was born. What would she tell me about her parents’ and grandparents’ immigration to America? What tales would she share about how she fell in love with a man thirteen years her senior and decided to follow him in the great turn-of-the-century adventure of transforming grassland into the world’s granary? How did she and Grandpa live through the deaths of their children?

Thinking there must be something left of their rugged, pioneering lives, I started to root around in my attic for remnants of who they were and what they did, gleaned box after box for any shred of family history. In a large trunk, I found a shoebox from Penney’s department store labeled “Daddy’s things,” recognized the writing as my mother’s. Seeing the curve of her letters was a treasure all its own. Inside, I picked out Elof’s love poems to Gedia; his small, red-velvet autograph book filled with greetings from his first American friends; a few letters and documents; a couple of photographs; his diary, in Swedish, from his last years; his funeral album; an old Baptist hymn book. Stacked around the shoebox were letters Grandma wrote to my mom during World War II, Gedia’s favorite book of poetry, my mother’s high school diary, the journal of family stories she started to write a few years before her death, and an envelope marked in Mom’s hand — “Linda, you will want this. Aunt Minnie’s story about their Swedish parents.” Grandma’s sister! What a delicious discovery!

Returning to the Penney’s box, I picked up in my hands what Grandpa had touched with his own. “You have his thumbs,” Mother used to tell me as she outlined mine with her finger. “Even when you were a baby, I could tell they were the same.” Perhaps, I thought, Grandpa and I share the same memories as well.

I turned to the Internet, scoured it for information not only about Grandma and Grandpa, but also their prairie friends, the ones they knew in Minnesota who went with them to Canada and then to Montana, and Grandma’s brother Edward who, with his family, accompanied Gedia and Elof on their homesteading moves. Slowly, click by click, I uncovered memories of my grandparents tucked away in local histories, and most astonishing of all, I found Edward’s grandson Jim Peterson, who shared family photos along with his meticulously researched book on our shared ancestors. Equally as fortuitous, I stumbled on the family in eastern Montana who bought the old homestead from Gedia and Elof. They still live there and invited me to put a visit to “the old place” on my bucket list. They’d show me around. Tell me family stories.

I basked in what I’d found. Gathered the stories around me. Started to write. Stopped. Realized I would always want to know more. So I listened. Listened for Grandma Gedia, who always was eager to put in her two cents. Heard her say she’d like to tell me about my ancestors’ pioneering lives in her own words. I paused, then I started to write again, this time in her voice, imagining myself inside her story. 

Knowing her love of poetry, I chose to write in verse, and after many attempts at different forms, I decided couplets were the best fit for her book of memories. The white space reminded me of the emptiness of the prairie; the couplets, the intimacy of their love and the furrows of dirt she and my grandfather spent their life turning.

Hearing Gedia’s “two cents” has filled me with awe for my grandparents, dreamers called “honyockers” — chasers after honey (land and opportunity). With hope as wide as the prairie sky, they chased land to grow a future on, then fought to keep going when the unthinkable threatened to tear their lives apart. As I’ve continued to gather information and sift through memorabilia, all the while trying to discern how Grandma would describe her life on the prairie, I’ve become filled with gratitude for all my prairie ancestors and the dust they’ve mingled in my bones. In searching for their lives, I’ve unearthed endless nourishment for my own.

After years of looking and listening, writing and rewriting, I’ve begun to share Gedia’s story with others and in the process, I’ve noticed how hearing about her life has encouraged them to recall anecdotes from their own family history. It’s as if her memories have triggered their own. Then, like me, they want answers to long-held questions about their ancestors’ lives and wonder what information they might uncover on their own Internet treasure hunt. As I tell them about my adventures finding Gedia and Elof, they embrace the possibility that if I’ve been able to forge a link with my grandparents who have been gone for more than half a century, then perhaps they can as well. 

I coax them to start looking, tell them that perhaps they’ll find stories related specifically to their forebears. If not, I’m certain they’ll chance on bits and pieces of what their grandparents’ lives must have been like in stories about other people’s ancestors. They might even light on their own story. I suggest that as they take on their own pilgrimage of discovery, they’ll learn, as I did, not to be surprised by the connections they come upon, relationships past and present that feed their soul. And finally, I urge them to take counsel in Frederick Buechner’s reminder that “all our words are in the end one story, one vast story about being human, being together, being here.”


Linda is the story gatherer for TreeStories. Read her poem about her immigrant great-grandparents — “Belonging to the Land” — another selection from her forthcoming book Hope as Wide as a Prairie Sky.


Read Linda’s reflections about her husband’s battle with lung cancer.