Interview with John Price: Part 3

What have been some of the aspects of that personal journey for you?

I think learning to love and commit to a place is very similar to learning to love and commit to another human being. Much of it is accidental (like nearly getting killed by a pheasant) and instinctive, deeply spiritual, and beyond our capacity for expression. Much of it is also a matter of choice, of conscious searching, hard work, and articulation. There are moments full of elation and sentimentality and humor and other moments full of self-doubt and even despair. Learning to respond successfully to the challenge of committed love—for people or places—begins in childhood, which is a big part of this memoir. I grew up surrounded by several generations in a family who, despite serious challenges and personal losses, remained dedicated to their communities and to each other. So I had that example from very early in my life. Nevertheless, I spent most of my adolescence wanting to leave home, which is nothing unusual for a young person in America today. I was guided back home by the land itself, by the beauty and fragility of its native habitats, but also by stories about that land told by my family, by writers past and present, and by my own articulation of life in this place. It was also a matter of recognizing what I refer to in the book as a state of kinship: “the familial embrace of nature, body, and spirit.” Kinship is not something you choose, it is something you are given. The choice is whether or not to return that embrace and live fully within it. Ultimately, Man Killed by Pheasant is meant to reach out to others who may not identify themselves as environmentalists or midwesterners, but who are likewise seeking to settle more deeply within the kinships that define and sustain them.

Excerpt from "Mole Man Lives!" in Man Killed by Pheasant and Other Kinships

Between my eighth and fourteenth year I grew approximately six inches. Which is to say, not at all. There is never a good time to be a short boy in America, but the late seventies and early eighties were especially challenging. The Randy Newman song "Short People (Got No Reason to Live)" was immensely popular, as were Troll Dolls and Gnomes. Gary Coleman ruled. Then there was my own sister, Carrie Anne, who was two years younger than me, but who'd had the audacity to grow two inches taller—the rogue cornstalk towering above the bean plant. That's how it felt sometimes, and there were moments when I would've appreciated someone ripping her out of my life by the roots just to be rid of the comparison. And the danger. Almost the very instant my sister stepped into the hallways of Fort Dodge North Junior High School, she commenced telling the most monstrous bullies that her "big brother" was going to pound them straight.

"Carrie Price?" I'd say as one after another of these bullies shoved me against lockers. "Never heard of her!"



John Price is the author of Man Killed by Pheasant and Other Kinships

Interview with John Price: Part 2

You grew up in Fort Dodge and have lived in Iowa your entire life. You’re now nationally known as a writer of place, in particular the Midwest. How do you define the Midwest and what makes it unique?

The great thing about places is that, like people, they resist definition. This is certainly the case with the Midwest. If you ask a group of people to define the borders of the Midwest, my guess is you’ll get a very wide range of answers. Some might paint a broad geographical swath running from the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains all the way to, perhaps, Pittsburgh. Others might zero in on the mostly rural center of the country, excluding major metropolitan areas like Chicago and Detroit. Others will focus on more abstract concepts like “the heartland” and conjure up images of “the simple life.” The Midwest, like all places, is anything but simple and its resistance to easy definition is part of what makes it interesting to me as a writer and resident.

When you look closely at the natural environment, however, unique features do emerge. For me the Midwest or any other region should ultimately be defined by its native ecosystems, one of which—the one I happen to live in and write about—is the tallgrass prairie. Unfortunately, most of that prairie has been lost (less than one percent remains in my home state of Iowa), which has created significant challenges for those of us trying to anchor our identities to the natural environment. Much of my writing has focused on my personal journey to recover a sense of place and identity rooted in that environment.

An excerpt from Man Killed by Pheasant and Other Kinships:

Now in my fortieth year, I live in western Iowa in a house near the Missouri River, just a few hours from Fort Dodge, where my parents still reside, where my grandparents and great-grandparents are buried. Esther, too, is at rest in the Boone cemetery. I've never lived anywhere but Iowa. This has become the unexpected, defining journey of my life: to come home without ever having left. When others ask why I've stayed put, I reply with what must seem the ordinary details of life: a job, a family, a history. I often mention the place itself: the wildlife and natural areas I've learned to love, the human communities I've called home, the flawed yet promising terrain that's become as familiar as my own flesh. All of these answers are true, but none, by themselves, ever feels complete. Only together, in relation, do they begin to mean anything. What word is there for this? Mosaic? Ecology? Kinship—the familial embrace of nature, body, and spirit.

   

John Price is the author of Man Killed by Pheasant and Other Kinships

Butterfly of the Week

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail

Papilio glaucus (Linnaeus 1758)

Status: Breeding resident.

Flight: Generally double brooded, with flights from April through June and early July through August. A partial third brood may be present in some years from mid September to first frost. 

Distinguishing features: This familiar butterfly is yellow with black margins and black tigerlike stripes on the front edge of the fore wing. Females are dimorphic. One form resembles the male, with yellow wings and black markings. The other form is melanic: the yellow may be completely obscured by black scaling, but under close examination the tiger stripes may be seen. Some individuals appear intermediate, with the yellow scaling only partially blacked out. Wingspan: 9 - 16 cm.

Distribution and habitat: Map 297. Common throughout the state in a wide variety of habitats. It is particularly frequent along forest edges, where adequate nectaring sites occur. 

Natural history: The larvae feed on a number of common trees, such as ash and wild cherry. They derive protection from predators in at least two ways. First, the dorsal part of the thorax has two large eyespots. When larvae are disturbed, they shake the front part of their body, calling attention to these spots, intimidating predators, and discouraging further attack. Second, the brightly colored two-pronged osmeterium (normally kept tucked under the mid dorsal region of the thorax) can be made to release a bright, unpleasant-smelling liquid. Adult males frequently congregate at mud puddles or along streambanks.

Questions: Does the percentage of melanic to yellow female vary from population to population, and what environmental factors influence any such changes? Is the dark form mimetic and related to the protection derived from other swallowtails (e.g., Pipevine or Spicebush Swallowtails)? How protective are the eyespots against predation by native birds? What is the chemical nature of the odor-producing osmeterium?

The Butterflies of Iowa, by Dennis W. Schlicht, John C. Downey, and Jeffrey C. Nekola

Interview with John Price: Part 1

­­The title of your book is rather unique. Care to explain it?

Well, it’s based on a unique experience—nearly being killed by a pheasant. While I was still in graduate school, when my wife and I were living in Belle Plaine, Iowa, I was driving down a rural highway when a pheasant flew in my open driver’s side window, flapped around in my face, and nearly caused me to dump the car in a ditch. Luckily I knocked it back outside and was able to safely pull over, where I remained for a long time, trying to recover myself. The surrounding landscape was also experiencing some dramatic surprises that summer. It was the summer of 1993, during some of the worst state-wide flooding on record. The rural countryside along my commute had become nearly unrecognizable, a mixture of massive destruction and surprising natural beauty. Flooded cornfields were full of wild birds, and the unmown ditches erupted with native grasses and wildflowers. For most of my life I had thought of my home landscape and its wildlife as ordinary, overly familiar and predictable—that wayward pheasant and the floods changed my thinking. I got a brief glimpse of what Iowa used to be, a rich ecology of wetlands and prairies, a place of surprises and danger, which is one way to define wilderness. The ordinary suddenly became extraordinary, and it transformed me and my relationship to the place in which I had been born and raised. Having spent most of my life wanting to leave home, I was now longing for a deeper relationship with what remains of wildness here, a new sense of kinship with place. I see that process as a kind of death and then rebirth, which I believe is what happens during the most profound experiences of our lives—this memoir is about those kinds of transformative experiences. But we don’t usually recognize their significance until much later. At the time of the pheasant incident itself, I was just frightened out of my mind and embarrassed—who expects their obituary to read “Man Killed by Pheasant?”  


John Price is the author of Man Killed by Pheasant and Other Kinships

Autumn is here! Celebrate with Baked Apples.

Cut off a 24-inch strip of aluminum foil for each apple. 
Fold the foil in half and place a cored apple in the center. 
Fill the hole with 1 tablespoon red-hot candies, 1 tablespoon raisins, and 1 teaspoon butter or margarine. 
Wrap foil around each apple and twist the ends to seal. 
Bake at 425 degrees for about 30 minutes or until tender. 
Fold down foil and serve in the little foil container. This can also be done in the microwave. Use plastic wrap in place of foil and place each apple in a small saucer or Pyrex bowl. Microwave on high for 5 minutes, rotating saucer once. 
Test for doneness. 
Make as many as you want.

Excerpt from Up a Country Lane Cookbook by Evelyn Birkby

Carl Kurtz's Photo Essay: Compass Plants

In preparation for the upcoming second edition of A Practical Guide to Prairie Restoration by Carl Kurtz, we're excited to be sharing Carl's beautiful photos and observations about nature!

Carl Kurtz is a professional writer, teacher, naturalist, and photographer. He and his wife and partner, Linda, live on a 172-acre family farm in central Iowa that is one of the few prairie seed sources in the Midwest.

Compass plants, one of the most distinctive features of the mid-continent tallgrass prairie, grow in both wet and dry areas.  They seem to flourish where the soil is moderately wet, in botanical terms, mesic.  As a long-lived perennial they require a number of years to mature and produce a flower stalk.  Young plants, 3 or 4 years of age, may have only one flower stalk, while those 10 or more years of age may have more than a half dozen.  It appears they are sensitive to changing weather conditions and some years store food reserves rather than produce flowers and seeds.   Showy-tick trefoil provides a  
colorful understory to this scene.

September Gardening Tip

Expect the first frost around September 30 in northern Iowa and October 15 in southern Iowa. Tender plants can be protected from the first few frosts by covering them with sheets, blankets, or other protective material.

From Gardening in Iowa and Surrounding Areas by Veronica Lorson Fowler