Tag Archives: Tallgrass Conversations: In Search of the Prairie Spirit

The Prairie Whispers “Courage”

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” —Viktor Frankl

******

I look out my kitchen window at my prairie planting and see something purple. It’s the first hyacinth in bloom. I’m a native plant aficionado, so hyacinths aren’t really my thing—and I planted prairie over the old garden bulbs that came with the house we purchased 20 years ago. But I welcome hyacinths this week. I welcome their fragrance. Their beauty. That purple.

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As I look out the window, I’m folding a piece of parchment paper to reuse. I’ve been baking. A lot. Comfort baking, I imagine.  I’m also trying to minimize trips to the store during this time of Covid-19 uncertainty. “Shelter in place” means making the most of what we have on hand.

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I think of my grandmother, now long passed, who would have recognized this moment. One of my early memories is of her washing a piece of foil, then folding and putting it away to reuse later. As a child, I scoffed at this, impatient. There is always more than enough of everything, wasn’t there? An endless supply. Little did I know. But she knew.

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Grandma also had a victory garden. Long after World War II was over, her garden gave her a sense of food security. Today, I feel a kinship with her as I start vegetable and flower seeds; spade my soil to plant lettuce, peas, potatoes.

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I feel the ghosts of my grandmothers in my kitchen as I plan meals using the ingredients I have on hand, plant a garden, struggle with uncertainty, just as they once did during the Great Depression and wars. This March, I’ve remembered—and marveled at—the courage they showed as they lived through times of insecurity, fear, and uncertainty. Courage I didn’t appreciate before. Courage I didn’t really understand when I was a child, or even a young adult. Courage I didn’t understand until now.

I wish both my grandmothers were here so we could talk.. They’d tell me their stories of these times, and I could ask them for advice. As a child, I squirmed when they hugged me. What I wouldn’t give to hug my grandmothers now.

*****

Jeff and I hiked the Schulenberg Prairie Sunday in 50-mph wind gusts, needled by sharp darts of drizzle that stung our faces and soaked our jeans. It was cathartic. And invigorating. We hiked  staying “present to the moment” by necessity—aware of the cold we felt as we  sloshed through the flooded prairie trails.

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I noticed the way the black walnut and oak trees were darkened on one side from the slashing rain, and bone dry on the other.

Shadow and light.

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The tallgrass is flattened now. In previous years, its tinder would be gone to ashes from the prescribed burn that happens here each spring. For perhaps the first time in its almost 60-year history, this planted prairie I’m hiking through may not see fire when it needs it. A prescribed fire here calls for a team of two dozen people or more working together, and it’s difficult to envision those simple gatherings happening anytime soon. By the time our Illinois shelter-in-place guidelines are lifted, it will likely be too late.

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I walked, and I wondered, and I looked. In the savannas and woodlands this week…

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…I found sharp-lobed hepatica, nodding in the rain.

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Joy!

I’m looking for a different wildflower today, the pasque flower. Its newer scientific name is Pulsatilla patens, synonymous with the older name,  “Anemone patens.” It’s one of the first native wildflowers to bloom on the prairie. “Pasque” comes from the Hebrew word “pasakh,” “passing over.” The flower blooms despite the flames of early prescribed burns, usually during the Easter season (thus the name “pasque” is also associated with this holiday from the old French language.). When the pasque flower blooms, I feel as if winter has passed.

Last year, the few blooms we had were memorable, perhaps for their scarcity.

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“Anemone” means “windflower.” “Pulsatilla” means “sway” or “tremble” which the pasque flower does in March and April breezes. Appropriate names for a flower that faces down cold, brutal winds, prescribed fire, and seasonal instability.  Our population of these fuzzy-leaved lavender bloomers had dwindled in previous years; down to just one clump plus a few stragglers. Since then, I’ve sown seeds to re-invigorate our plant population from another preserve.

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Would anything be up? Jeff and I slogged through the mud and peered closely. And there! One tiny fuzzed green shoot. And another! Barely detectable in the wind and drizzle.

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Life was going on, despite the chaos of the outer world. Nature calmly follows the rhythm of spring. It was a shot of hope in a dismal month. Brave little pasqueflower. It seemed to whisper to me. Courage.

I find myself trying to summon courage for each day. Not for tomorrow, or for next week, but for the 24 hours ahead of me, in which I need to make good choices. Courage right now, as Governor Andrew Cuomo has said in one of his binge-worthy news conferences on Covid-19, means “looking for the light.” I desperately want to be strong, but some days, it’s tough to know where to start. Looking for the light seems like a good place to begin.SPMAmarch32920WM.jpg

Courage.

The courage to get up each morning, get dressed, make a meal. Even if no one sees us.

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Courage. The courage to rise each morning and school our children.

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Courage. The courage of those who live alone, whether from necessity or from choice—and who ride this season out, bereft of their usual friendships and routines.

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Courage. Those who work in a makeshift office in a bedroom, an attic, a basement, or from the kitchen table. We may deliver groceries, work in hospitals, fill prescriptions. We watch our businesses implode, our freelance work vanish, our jobs lost, our retirement savings plummet.

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And still. We choose to take the next step. We teach a lesson on weather to our children. Go for a walk with the dog and wave to the neighbors—-neighbors we’ve never seen before until two weeks ago and suddenly have gotten to “know” from across the road—because they are out walking too.  We realize that so much is out of our control.

And yet, the world goes on.

In the midst of it, we find courage to make the choices we can make.  Courage to sit through another online meeting—trying to show up with our best game face, even though we feel like getting into bed, pulling the covers over our head, and not coming out for the next month.

Or maybe the next two.

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Courage to be patient with our children as they sense the fear we feel and need us now—and our reassurances—more than ever.

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Courage to be kind to our spouse and those we share space with—adult children, older parents, grandchildren. We find ourselves together 24/7, without the distractions of outside errands and activities. Our margin for patience gets slimmer each day. But we dig deep. We find new reserves. Because patience and kindness are the things that matter most. They are choices we can make.

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We ask for courage to be patient with those who don’t see this crisis the way we do, and act in ways we find irresponsible—or perhaps, overly-cautious.

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Courage to bake bread, start learning a new language, clean out a drawer, begin a journal, plant garden seeds, laugh at an old sitcom, watch re-runs of classic baseball games because there is no opening day. Because the crack of a bat, the roar of the crowds— the  memory of what once was normal is something that reassures us. We find humor in situations—-even when we don’t feel like laughing. Why? Because those are choices available to us, when so many other choices are not.

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We scrape up our last bit of bravery to find courage to live into the next hour, much less the next day. To think ahead? It’s terrifying. We turn on the news, then turn it off. We need to know, but we don’t want to know.

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In a world where once we had so many possibilities at our fingertips —and just about anything we wanted was available to us at the tap of a computer key—we have different choices to make now. How will we live in this new reality? When we look back on this next year—in five years, ten years—what stories are we living out that we we tell our children, our grandchildren, and our friends? How will we use this time we are given? What chapter in our lives will we write? It’s up to us. Today. Right now.

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Don’t surrender to fear.

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We can choose to love. To be kind. To keep moving forward.

Take courage. You’re not alone.

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Together, let’s keep moving forward.

*****

The opening quote is from Viktor Frankl’s (1905-1997) Man’s Search for Meaning. Frankl was a Holocaust survivor and Austrian psychiatrist who lost his wife during their incarceration. A quest for meaning was what Frankl said helped him survive tremendous uncertainty and suffering. “Meaning,” he says, came out of three things: work, love, and courage in the face of difficulty. Read more here.

****

All photos and video copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Dutch hyacinth (Hyacinthus orientalis), author’s backyard, Glen Ellyn, IL; rolling pin, author’s kitchen, Glen Ellyn, IL; Willoway Brook, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; seed starting, author’s office, Glen Ellyn, IL: flooded trail, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; tree lashed by rain, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie dropseed (Sporobolus heterolepis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Schulenberg Prairie Savanna, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; sharp-lobed hepatica (Anemone acutiloba), Lisle, IL; pasque flower (Pulsatilla or Anemone patens) in bloom on the Schulenberg Prairie in 2019, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pasque flower (Pulstilla or Anemone patens) seeds, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pasque flower (Pulsatilla or Anemone patens) shoots, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Schulenberg Prairie; Schulenberg Prairie; shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia), author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; bur oak (Quercus macrocarpa), log on the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; March on the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; western chorus frogs (Pseudacris triseriata); The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; compass plant (Silphium laciniatum); mosses (unknown species, would welcome ID suggestions!); common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; fox squirrel (Sciurus niger), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morotn Arboretum, Lisle, IL; switchgrass (Panicum virgatum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; bridge over Willoway Brook, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; cup plant (Silphium perfoliatum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; chalk art, author’s driveway, Glen Ellyn, IL.

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Cindy’s classes have moved online! For updates on classes and events, please go to http://www.cindycrosby.com. The next Tallgrass Prairie Ecology class online begins in early May. See more information and registration  here.

*****

Have you always been curious about the native landscape of the Midwest, but didn’t have time to read?  Tallgrass Conversations: In Search of the Prairie Spirit (order directly from Ice Cube Press) and The Tallgrass Prairie: An Introduction  from Northwestern University Press (order from your independent bookseller if they remain open or deliver, or from Bookshop or Amazon.com.  I’m grateful for your support for prairie, books, small publishers, and freelance writers like myself.

A Little Prairie Solace

“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on…” — Mary Oliver

******

Jeff and I began the hopeful work of garden prep on Sunday. We added a new raised bed and filled it with compost and top soil; then knocked down some old zinnia and tomato stalks in an older raised bed and carted them away.  I spaded and forked in a dollop of compost here, breaking up a dirt clod over there. And then — look! A few sprouting onion sets, missed from the year before. Something alive and growing! So welcome.

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In the herb garden, the chives were up. My Egyptian walking onions were vital enough to cut some of the tops and use them in an omelet. The first greens of the year. In the backyard prairie patch, the signs of life were less evident. But I know it’s only a few days  until the life-force of new plants push through the ground. Spring.

As I raked topsoil, we heard a racket overhead. Waves and waves of sandhill cranes.

The cranes, as it turned out, were flying just ahead of a snowstorm that has since blanketed the Chicago region. By bedtime Sunday, the garden we had readied was covered with white. The pond and the prairie patch as well. We woke Monday morning to a completely different backyard that the one we’d gardened in the day before.

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Everything looked softer somehow, the harsh edges of unraked leaves and prairie grass stalks in the backyard blunted by snow. The activity and bag-lugging and digging the day before was over now for a while.

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I scanned the pewter sky. So silent. The cranes were somewhere north now, ahead of the weather.

*****

On Saturday, the Illinois shelter-in-place order was announced. Feeling unsettled by events, Jeff and I went to the Belmont Prairie for a short hike.

The prairie was empty.

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The sandhill cranes flew over as we hiked. It was reassuring, somehow—certainty in the midst of uncertainty. The cranes migration is a rhythm of spring, as dependable as the sun rising in the morning. Knowing that cranes of some species have been around for at least 10 million years is a comfort. Their lives go on.

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The creek flowed through the prairie, winding its way through this remnant as it likely has since time before human memory. Western chorus frogs sang from the wet areas. Creeeeek! Creeeek!

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A train whistled in the distance. High—oh so high in the sky—a plane  from O’Hare took off for parts unknown, and I thought of my niece, returning that same day from Australia after a study abroad cut short. How glad I was to know she was on her way home! I wondered—how much longer will planes continue to fly?  Will travel cease, as it did after 9/11? Unimaginable, only a month ago, that we would ponder these questions today.

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But life is full of the “unimaginable” right now. I thought of the stories I was hearing from friends; fears for health, for job security, for older family members far away.

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Jeff and I walked, and walked, and walked. In the creek, the new growth of cursed crowfoot spreads across the surface of the water.

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Deer tracks sliced through the grasses and wildflowers and mud…

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….showing where they had made their way through the prairie to drink here. I stepped across the footbridge and peered closer.

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Iris speared through the stream. That vivid green! The prairie was coming alive.

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I turned from the footbridge and made my way along the path. Would the Belmont Prairie stewards be able to burn this remnant prairie this season? How, when groups of people can no longer gather? Disruption. When will life return to “normal?”

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My stewardship work on both prairies where i volunteer is on hold. As it should be.

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All the hustle and bustle of tasks I once deemed imperative have taken a back seat to staying healthy.

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Keeping others healthy.

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And yet. In this midst of knowing so many of the ordinary tasks I take for granted would cease, it felt like a relief to do something—even if “doing something” essentially meant doing nothing. Or at least, less of what I was accustomed to.

****

In our new work-from-home rhythm, Jeff and I went for a walk Monday morning, admiring the transformation of our suburban street. A few houses down, the  neighborhood children—sequestered at home, with schools closed—had made a snowman.Snowman 32320WM

By Monday afternoon, the snow had all but melted. In the wetlands at the Arboretum, the skunk cabbage was in bloom. People were out walking in the neighborhood, desperate perhaps for some fresh air.

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My backyard pond, covered with the white stuff just six hours before, was snow-free by 4 p.m.

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This new rhythm of our days—the rhythm of sticking close to home—has its rewards. The backyard in close proximity has taken on new significance.  I refill the bird feeders, and marvel at the common but welcome birds that visit. Laugh at a fat robin that attacks the suet, or the herd of mourning doves that peck at the safflower seed. The squirrels even get a pass this week as they scale the feeders—a Herculean task, due to squirrel baffles and other deterrents. Their ability to make me laugh is worth a few pounds of birdseed. The snow this weekend brought out the first truly “gold” goldfinches, which showed up at the thistle feeder in full mating plumage. A change of color. Another signpost of spring.

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After our morning walk on Monday, Jeff and I worked from home until supper time. Then, we went for another walk to end the day. We’ve both found that a 30-minute hike helps alleviate the stress that can accumulate when the news of the day feels like…well…too much. These walks are bookends to the day that are helping us establish new rituals of “normalcy.”

Indiangrass32120BelmontPrairieWM.jpgAround and around and around the block we walked, oohing and aahing over simple things. The sound of a cardinal singing. Lichens patterning a a tree branch in olive green. We even saw an owl.

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What will the next few days bring? We don’t know.  Every day is a new challenge in focus. We choose what we can control: Kindness. Patience. Attentiveness.

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Letting go of what we can’t control.

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As we walked around the block, we noticed that the snowman, made that morning by the kids down the block a few hours earlier, was now only a memory.

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But above that slushy mess, the flowering silver maples along the street signaled the hope of spring. Of a new season.

 

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Each day is a new challenge.

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Meanwhile, the natural world goes on.

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We can still choose to pay attention.

*****

The opening quote is from the poem, Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver. This particular poem has been so widespread and oft-quoted that people tend to dismiss it. It remains one of my favorites. Haven’t read it? Check it out here. You’ll be glad you did. Stay well, my friends.

****

All photos and video taken at Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL;  unless otherwise indicated (top to bottom): garden bed, author’s backyard, Glen Ellyn, IL; sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis); author’s backyard pond, Glen Ellyn,IL; garden beds, author’s backyard, Glen Ellyn, IL; trail through Belmont Prairie; sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis); creek through Belmont Prairie; Indian hemp/dogbane (Apocynum cannabinum); round-headed bush clover (Lespedeza capitata) (infected with a virus); cursed crowfoot (Ranunculus sceleratus–thank you Andrew Hipp, for the correction!); thimbleweed (Anemone cylindrica); footbridge over the creek; iris (unknown species); compass plant (Silphium laciniatum); rattlesnake master (Eryngium yuccifolium); pale purple coneflower (Echinacea pallida); queen Anne’s lace (Daucus carota); snowman, author’s neighborhood, Glen Ellyn, IL; skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus); The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; author’s backyard pond, Glen Ellyn, IL; pair of goldfinch (Spinus tristis) previously taken in April 2019, author’s backyard, Glen Ellyn, IL; Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans);  owl, species uncertain, author’s neighborhood, Glen Ellyn, IL;  little girl checks out the natural world; wild quinine (Parthenium integrifolium); snowman, author’s neighborhood, Glen Ellyn, IL; silver maple (Acer saccharinum), author’s neighborhood, Glen Ellyn, IL; compass plant (Silphium laciniatum); Belmont Prairie trail.

***

Cindy’s classes have moved online! For current updates on classes and events, please go to http://www.cindycrosby.com.

*****

Have you always been curious about the native landscape of the Midwest, but didn’t have time to read?  Tallgrass Conversations: In Search of the Prairie Spirit (order directly from Ice Cube Press) and The Tallgrass Prairie: An Introduction  from Northwestern University Press (order from your independent bookseller if they remain open or deliver, or from Amazon.com for delivery in April.).  I’m grateful for your support in this difficult time for prairie, books, small publishers, and freelance writers like myself.

Imagining the Prairie Year

“If the world is torn to pieces, I want to see what story I can find in fragmentation. –Terry Tempest Williams

“*****

Snow is in the forecast. A lot of snow. But how many times has the forecast promised a snowapocalypse, only to be be followed by a little rain; a “powdered sugar” dusting? Weather forecasting is an inexact science, even in an age where it seems we have so many answers at our fingertips.

On Sunday, I went for a hike on the Belmont Prairie, where the 56 degree weather and bluer-than-blue skies had melted most of the recent snow.

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The spring-like wind and warmth were in sharp contrast to  snowstorm predictions for the coming week.  On the prairie, everything looks frayed and chewed.

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Worn out.

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Broken.

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Even the compass plant leaves had disintegrated, their last leaf curls clinging to what is past and will soon be burned.

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A few seeds remain. In September, when the prairie brimmed and frothed with seeds, these might have gone unnoticed.

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As I walk at Belmont, I think of my coming stewardship work on the Schulenberg Prairie, which begins in April. What will we plant? What will we remove?  My head is full of plans and scenes of what is to come on the Midwestern prairies, imagining the prairie year ahead…

March

March is fire season.  Soon, very soon, we’ll burn the Schulenberg Prairie—-if the snowstorms fail to materialize and the weather cooperates.

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March, the time of fire and ice, will also bring transition.  It’s the first month of meteorological spring. It’s also mud season.

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April

April is the season of flowers—at last! I think of the hepatica, sunning themselves in the savanna.

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Everywhere, there will be signs of new life.

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May

I imagine the glorious shooting star in flower, a swaying coverlet of bumble bee enticing blooms. The prairie will hum with pollinators.

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The small white lady’s slipper orchid will briefly unfurl her flowers, hidden deep in the grasses.   I’ll drop to my knees in the mud to admire the blooms. More lovely, perhaps, for their fleeting presence here.

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June

In June, prairie smoke, in its impossible pink, will swirl through the grasses. Or will it? This wildflower has gone missing the past few years here. One of my management goals as a prairie steward is to see it bloom here again.

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There is no shortage of spiderwort that will open…

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…and mornings on the prairie will be washed with violet.

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July

Fireworks of a quieter kind will light up the tallgrass this month. Butterfly weed, that monarch caterpillar magnet, will explode with eye-popping color.

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Bees and other butterflies will make frequent stops to nectar.  This brilliant milkweed is a front row seat to the cycle of life on the prairie.

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August

We’ll be seeing red in August. Royal catchfly, that is. Not much of it. But a little goes a long way, doesn’t it?

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Its less finicky neighbor, gray-headed coneflower, will fly its yellow pennants nearby. Cicadas will begin playing their rasping music. The hot, steamy days of August will have us thinking longingly of a little snow, a little ice.

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September

The end of this month brings the first waves of sandhill cranes, headed south.

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While on the ground, the buzz is all about asters…New England asters. Good fuel here for bees, and also the butterflies.

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October

October is a season of goodbyes. Warblers and cranes and other migratory birds are moving in bigger waves now toward the south. The last hummingbird stops by the feeder. On the prairie, we’ll be collecting prairie grass seeds and wrapping up our steward work.

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Winding up another prairie growing season.

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November

Everything crisps up in November — except the carrion vine, which still carries its plump seeds across the prairie.

 

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The bison are ready for winter, their heavy coats insulation against the coming cold.BisonONE-CROSBYBison-NG fall 2017CROSBYWM.jpg

 

 

December

Temperatures drop.

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Snow falls, outlining the prairie paths. Winter silences the prairie.

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January

Ice plays on a thousand prairie creeks and ponds as the snow flattens the tallgrass.

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Blue snow shadows transform the prairie.

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And then, we will have come full circle to…

February

Here at Belmont Prairie, where I snap out of my imagining. I remind myself to enjoy the present moment. This February is so short! And each day is a gift to be marveled over. Only a few days remain until March.

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I wonder where I’ll be a year from now. Hiking at Belmont Prairie? I hope so. Marveling again at the last seeds and flowerheads, catching the late winter sun.

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Thinking of spring! It’s in the red-winged blackbird’s song.

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The prairie season goes ’round and ’round. A snowstorm today? Maybe. Spring? You can almost smell it in the air.

Today, anything seems possible.

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Terry Tempest Williams (1955-) quote from Erosion: Essays of Undoing, opens this post. She is the author of many books including: Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert, and Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place. Williams is Writer-in-Residence at Harvard Divinity School, and lives in Castle Valley, Utah.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve in February, Downer’s Grove, IL; pale purple coneflower (Echinacea pallida) seedhead, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; unknown leaf, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; broken black-eyed susan (Rudbeckia hirta), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; prairie brome (Bromus kalmii), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; bison (Bison bison) track in ice, Nachusa Grassland, Franklin Grove, IL (The Nature Conservancy IL); hepatica (Hepatica noblis acuta); Schulenberg Prairie Savanna, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; bird’s nest, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL (The Nature Conservancy); shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia); small white lady’s slipper orchid(Cypripedium candidum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie smoke (Geum triflorum), University of Wisconsin-Madison Arboretum Visitor Center, Curtis Prairie, Madison, WI; spiderwort (Tradescantia ohiensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; spiderwort (Tradescantia ohiensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; monarch caterpillar (Danaus plexippus) and butterflyweed (Asclepias tuberosa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; monarch (Danaus plexippus) and butterflyweed (Asclepias tuberosa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; royal catchfly (Silene regia), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; gray-headed coneflower (Ratibida pinnata), author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis), Jasper-Pulaski Fish & Wildlife Area,  Medaryville, Indiana; bumble bee on New England Aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae); author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL: seed collecting, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; blazing star (Liatris spp.), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; carrion flower (Smileax spp.) Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; Gensburg-Markham Prairie, Markham, IL: path through Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL;  bridge over the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL (The Nature Conservancy IL); path through Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

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Join Cindy for a class or event!

The Tallgrass Prairie: An Introduction– February 29, Saturday 10-11 a.m.,  Aurora Public Library,  101 South River, Aurora, IL. Free and open to the public! Book signing follows.

Nature Writing Workshop (a blended online and in-person course, three Tuesday evenings in-person) begins March 3 at The Morton Arboretum in Lisle, IL. For details and registration, click here. Sold out. Call to be put on the waiting list.

The Tallgrass Prairie: A ConversationMarch 12  Thursday, 10am-12noon, Leafing Through the Pages Book Club, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL. Open to the public; however, all regular Arboretum admission fees apply.  Books available at The Arboretum Store.

Dragonfly Workshop, March 14  Saturday, 9-11:30 a.m.  Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL. Free and open to new and experienced dragonfly monitors, prairie stewards, and the public, but you must register by March 1. Contact phrelanzer@aol.com for more information,  details will be sent with registration.

Tallgrass Prairie Ecology Online begins March 26 through the Morton Arboretum.  Details and registration here.

See more at http://www.cindycrosby.com