Me and the Kid
And Cow Rushes
I guess I'd better set the scene for you first of all. You'd never get it otherwise. See, in ponds and ditches and sloughs in the country a whole lot of stuff goes on - summer and winter. There's frogs and tadpoles and little water snakes and bugs of all sorts. And the grasses and flowers and trees makes you wonder where they all came from.
Well, that's the sort of picture you get walking or driving down a country road in these parts. There's smells too, all kinds of them. And then there's always interesting pebbles on the road, enough to fill a boy's pockets in no time. Sure is different from the city these days.
So I guess by now you know where this story is going to take place. Me and the neighbor's kid, we go for long hikes down the road whenever we get the chance. Every time we go we see something we've never seen before - sure beats the pants off staying around the house to do all kinds of chores. See, I can get away with it if I tell them I'm teaching the kid about nature. It's very important you know - this nature education stuff. And the kid, well I got a notion that his mother is just happy to get him out from under foot so she can get some peace and quiet once in a while.
Well, this one hot, muggy August afternoon, me and the kid headed out to the drainage ditch south of our place by about three miles. A family of beavers had moved in there at the junction of two connecting municipal drains.
Every time we showed up we were surprised at the changes there. These beavers seemed to be an organization of full service wrecking and construction crew all rolled in to one. On the one hand they were more or less clear-cutting the poplar growth along the banks of the ditches - trees and branches scattered all over the place. The kid said it reminded him of his room. On the other, the two dams they had built were just so - not one twig out of place. If you went and moved a couple to see what would happen, sure enough the next time you came back, they were back where they belonged. Interesting creatures, these beavers.
About halfway to the dam, the road sort of narrows into more of a trail than a road. That’s where we were when both of us smelled it at the very same time. The kid wanted to know what that was. Actually, what he said was "Phooey - what stinks?"
"Cow rushes," I said. I don't know what made me say it, but I did.
"What?"
"Cow rushes."
Well, now I had to explain myself. I had the choice of describing the biodegrading of organic matter that naturally takes place as all the plants ripen and the plant seeds devour their hosts in order to prepare for the next season. Oh sure! That would be a right memorable lesson for the kid. How much of that kind of boring crap wouldn't he have to swallow once he was back in school?
No sir, he didn't need a horticultural lecture and I sure wasn’t about to give one. He should learn about nature the same way I did. After all, what I learned about things in the country more than sixty years ago came from a gnarly old geyser with a twinkle in his eye. There was adventure to be had here – real adventure, not some boring yarn out of a school textbook.
"Where?"
"Oh, you don't think you'll get to see them do you?" Things are always more exciting when there’s a mystery to solve. He took the bait and was all ears. I learned that trick from old Man McClintock too.
"Why not?"
"They're invisible when they're working."
"Then how do you know they're working?"
"Look over there." I pointed to a stand of bull rushes trailing off along the ditch. Little tufts were starting to form on the tops so that the first breeze that happened by would carry them along. "See what’s goin’ on there?"
The kid strained his eyes, wondering what he should be seeing. I kept a dead pan face, which made him look all the harder. "They're doin' the same things dandelions do,” he said. “That don't prove nothin’."
I went over with my trusty old pocketknife and sliced off one that still hadn't started to ripen. "Here," I said, handing it to him. "That feel like something what can get all soft and fluffy like a dandelion all by itself?"
"Well, no," he allowed, taking the hard cone in his hand.
"Then there you go! That proves it once and for all!" I hadn't figured out yet what it proved, but it was coming to me.
"Huh?" The kid scratched his head and squinted as if to say I'd lost my marbles.
"Just think about it a minute," I offered. "You know them cattle at your Uncle Ralph's place. There's the cows, right?"
The kid nodded. "And then there's the bull." He nodded again. “There’s cows and bulls and then there’s calves.” I saw he was starting to get what I was driving at. He'd been around Ralph's place enough to know how you ended up with a bunch of calves.
"Takes two to tango," I suggested.
Now the kid figured he had me cornered. He was just winding up to catch me in a big fat lie.
I had it all backwards, he claimed. It was the cow that had the calves, not the bull.
"Oh, I'm just passing on what I heard," I dodged, "heard it from old man McClintock's grandpa years ago."
That was the truth too. In a scene very much like this, the old geyser had led me down the garden path about cow rushes. He was an even bigger liar than I could ever hope to be, and that's going some. But he had a way about him that made you want to listen, even when you were positive sure he was lying through his teeth. The more you prodded him, the more outlandish the story.
"Shhh - listen. You hear that?" I took the kid by the shoulder. A breeze had come up and rustled the poplar trees. They made that whispering sound as only poplar trees can. The breeze died down.
"Aw, that's just the wind," said the kid. But you could tell he wasn't really sure. "Isn't it?" he asked.
I figured it was time to launch into the story before I overdid it and ruined everything. So I told the tale as I remembered it.
"Used to be that way with bull rushes and cow rushes too. A long time ago, after the last ice age, this whole area for miles and miles was under water. It was called - well it don't matter what it was called because nobody was around to call it anything anyway. About the very first plants to start growing were the bull rushes and cow rushes.
Now you got to remember in them days things was a bit different than they are now. In them days plants and animals, and even humans could talk to one another.
Anyway, as the lake started to dry up little clumps of dirt poked up here and there above the water. It didn't take long for the cow rushes to put down roots and get started spreading their seeds on the little dry spots all around, just like a regular family.
Only things were kind of different back then. The bull rushes were still free to move around. They were supposed to be scouting for suitable places to live. Well you can imagine how dreary that was. There was nothing but water for miles and miles, not a tree in sight, not another plant to talk to - nothing but shallow, mucky, murky water everywhere.
That's not exactly right either. After a while other plants found their way to the new land. So did some animals. It was like a big new wave of homesteading. Come to think of it, there must have been people here too, when the big winds came or else we wouldn't even know about it.
Fact is, there was so much migration going on that the bull rushes got caught up in it. Seeing they were the first ones here, they figured it was up to them to welcome everybody who showed up. So they flitted around the land being good will ambassadors, greeting and welcoming everything that moved. They were having such a good time they forgot all about the cow rushes back home whose roots had by now got stuck in the ground.
Of course, the cow rushes were a little peeved at their party lovin’ mates, to put it in polite terms. It's pretty clear that they needed the bull rushes if they were going to make seed. As I said, it takes two to tango.
The only one the cow rushes could get to talk to was the wind. He had been around forever - ice age or not. He'd seen it all and was getting a little bored himself. A little adventure wouldn't hurt so when the cow rushes came to him for help, he was more than willing to listen.
Well they told him about their good for nothing bulrushes flitting around like big shots and not looking after family matters. If that kept up the wind wouldn't get any seed to carry around for planting. First thing you know he'd be unemployed.
Now then, you don't really ever want to get the wind upset if you got any brains. And here the bull rushes went and done it. They were going around acting like they owned the place when he'd been here an awful lot longer than anybody. Not only that but they were going to put him out of business with no seeds to deliver.
First thing he did was to curl himself up into a raging tornado and rip out all the cow rushes from where they were stuck in the ground. He carried them with him until they spotted the bull rushes at a banquet with water lilies and muskrats and frogs. Well that was just too much for the wind. He hid the cow rushes on a piece of rock where they wouldn't have to set down roots. He'd be back when he settled the score.
The wind set to thinking about what to do. When a wind paces up and down thinking, all kinds of things happen. He ripped up and down the land so fast that he sucked up the water between Lake Manitoba and Lake Winnipeg and dumped it all into Hudson's Bay. That's how those lakes came to be, by the way. Not only that, but he figured out a way to put an end to this migration business once and for all. What he did was dump the rest of the water he'd collected on to the Bering land bridge. That’s how you got your Bering Strait' Let's see them get across that!' he muttered.
With one last giant blast he picked up the unsuspecting bull rushes and started spitting them out all along the shores of the lakes and rivers that his rampage had made. He spit so hard that they stuck in the ground like spears. The bull rushes were so shocked that by the time they recovered they had already put roots down and couldn't move.
Then he made a deal with the cow rushes that they could always be free so long as they helped to make the seeds. They jumped at the chance. Well you know how women are about muddy feet. And they could stay invisible too so the bulrushes wouldn’t know what they were up to in their spare time. The bulrushes only know when they’re around by the special whispering sound poplar trees make.
At least, that's what old man McClintock said."
"Wow!" The kid was impressed.
