Sweetgrass: Book IV

Early May, 1864, in Iowa, heading toward the Dakota Territory

I wonder if I'll ever love this land as much as Esher does. My eyes scan the horizon. The space is intoxicating, and in equal amounts mind-numbing.

"God is extravagant, Joey. Have you ever seen such unending beauty?"

I watch the sweep of Gladys' arm as she includes the whole range of Prairie vista in her glowing testimonial. (Italics) Did I say "whole range?" (End) The sun must be getting to me. All there is to see is sky and interminably swirling grass. I'm not accustomed to noticing sky. In Vermont, where I'm from, sky is what shows between mountains, or patches of it gleam amid fertile forests. Here, the sky dominates the earth, but all the earth offers is miles and miles of grass, unless I count the wind, and it must be counted because it never stops blowing. Eternal is the word that comes to me. The wind is eternally blowing, the miles of grass are eternally swirling, and the sky is an eternal dome that caps everything. I'll grant the Prairie sky this, it is majestic. It dwarfs everything beneath it. All is reduced to mere specks in a sea of grass.

I look at Gladys and catch her smiling at the vast expanse of grass that surrounds us. A blade of it protrudes from her mouth. It bobs rhythmically between her teeth as she chews on the stalk. She's already sucked the droplet of water out of it, a tasty drop that gives this grass its name: Sweetgrass. It's half miracle, half mystery to me, having grown up in Vermont. There, grass is a vivid green, ankle high, a respectable height, and only animals chew on it. Here, grass is a golden green, and as the summer approaches I notice that it's gradually fading to a pale yellow-gold. Also sweetgrass is thigh high, way above ankles, and humans find it flavorful, though I doubt I'll ever develop a grass-chewing habit. I let Gladys' description 'unending beauty' filter through me unimpeded even though these words would never occur to me; the land is deceptively bland. The sameness of sky, grass and wind is relentless. You cry out for a waterfall. The ache for a forest pulsates within you. And forget mountains. Rolling knolls of grass-covered earth are what the Prairie features, you can't even call them hills. The only thing to look forward to is the morning and evening light shows, courtesy of the sun, and I readily admit that they are magnificent, like nothing I've ever seen before. No artist could hope to capture the scope of color as the sun bows in and out of the day. Each rivals the other in breadth of palette. The vision is truly momentous. But when the day gets underway it's just more grass, wind, and sky.

I said 'deceptively bland' on purpose, because from one moment to the next the Prairie landscape can change from overbearing monotony to overwhelming drama. I'm speaking of a Prairie storm and I'm not using the word drama poetically. Innocent, puffy white clouds become monstrous roiling ones in seconds. The sky goes from blue to black in the blink of an eye. Mighty cracks of lightning sever the sky and slam into the earth as though to demolish it. The thunder is deafening. The wind rages and blows the breath right out of you, leaving you dazed and gasping, and yes, awed. So I confess to being intrigued by the drama of the Prairie, it suits my soul better than Vermont ever did, but I don't understand Esher and Gladys' love, I can even say passion for this strange land, and I wonder if I ever will.