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"wild meadow" could well be the title for the
pioneer history of a swedish immigrant family on
the prairies. when my grandfather first came to
iowa, he broke many acres of the prairie sod. some
he kept for pasture and hayland, but gradually
other crops became more important, leaving only 20
acres of prairie hayland. this"wild meadow" is cut
each september and its abundant hay crop stored for
the horses' winter feed.
just the word meadow brings memories rushing
back. of the six children in our family, i am the
most like my father, and ever since i can remember
we have taken our annual trip to the meadow to pick
flowers. each june we gathered mammoth bouquets of
sweet william, black-eyed susans, sweet peas and
other nameless "flowers". these nameless ones were
probably weeds, but if they were pretty in out
bouquet, flowers they were. we weren't too
particular. we wandered across the meadow, being
led on by the brighter blossoms always in the
distance: before we realized it, the bouquets had
grown almost too large to handle. the tough stems
of these flowers had to be snapped sharply before
they'd break, in contrast to the delicate, short
life of the blossoms. for only a day or two did
these sweet williams retain their rich beauty and
enchanting odor.
earlier in the spring and later in the summer
there were other flowers, though not so profusely
as in the magic month of june. in this month only
did the meadow acquire its rippling patchwork of
pink and white sections on the light green
background of real prairie grass - long, fine and
as slippery as ice and good especially for
horses.
"wild meadow" and "down east" are the names we
gave this historic tract of land, for it was east
of the farm and over and down the hill upon which
our house stands. on the banks of the dredged ditch
and scattered around the border of the meadow grow
clumps of cottonwood, willow and wild plum trees.
delicious plum jelly each summer and pussy willows
each spring are harvested from the prolific meadow
along with the bouquets and the hay crop.
but a farmer must be practical, and even a
romanticist like my father realizes that he could
profit more by cultivated land than by tradition
and history. so this year, there was talk of
turning the wild meadow over to the greedy plow. by
losing this one touch with the pioneer iowa, my
father and i will have only memories remaining. i
didn't always enjoy our long tramps through the
meadow, but i realize now how much they meant to
him. by teaching me to love the meadow, he was
teaching me to appreciate and understand the two
generations of a family which had grown up there.
this meadow is one living reminder of his own life
with his brothers and sisters, and hard-working
pioneer parents. for me the meadow has great
significance not any for historical reasons, but
for the vital sense of belonging to a place with
its dear memories.
someday there will be no " wild meadow". my
father has refused to plow that 20 acres for many
years and i hope he remains stubborn. for, like the
buffalo i the far west, the iowa prairie should be
preserved for future pleasures: the new generation
also must know what it's like to gather the great
bouquets of sweet william.
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