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The days immediately following Christmas and New Year’s Day are my least favorite of the year. It seems that all the excitement and preparation for the winter holidays are over and nothing is left much but occasional shreds of wrapping paper and dusty Christmas cookies. I’m always feeling a little guilty about not getting all the Christmas cards mailed with newsy notes for far away kin and friends. And, of course, there’s the weather. A cold wind seems to come slipping into our lives bringing with it a chill that makes the days seem especially bleak.

Or maybe, it’s just the way I was brought up to feel about the days after the winter holidays. My memories of home in Stevens County were recently brought in focus by several photos and a short video sent to me by one of my cousins living in Rolla, Kan., that is actually Morton County but near to my parent’s farm. The photos were of tumbleweeds piled high against houses and in some cases almost up to power lines. They were like the tumbleweeds I grew up with, round, gray and composed of many dried weedy branches. They were part of everyday life in Southwestern Kansas, but rare here in Eastern Kansas.

As a matter of fact, I can’t imagine life as a youngster on that remote southwestern Kansas farm without tumbleweeds. They grew in overwhelming abundance anyplace that the earth had been disturbed and when their life as a green plant was over, they became a traveling space ship borne aloft by the wind as they spread their load of seeds across the southwest. One of the reasons they have been so successful is that they share the same success story as many non-native species — no natural enemies. The tumbleweed hitched a ride to America with flaxseed brought over by Ukrainian settlers. It is also known as Russian thistle and has been so successful that many think of it as part of cowboy culture. It has been featured in movie titles and in several notable examples of music. I grew up with the Sons of the Pioneer version of “Tumbling Tumbleweeds” and Elton John’s musical album “The Tumbleweed Connection.” I own the last mentioned album and enjoy it even though it is the creation of a man from England about the world of cowboys in the western United States with a Russian weed reference added for authenticity. After all, I was born during World War II, long after the weeds had taken over the western part of the United States. Tumbleweeds, cattle and horses were an integral part of my youth.

The wind usually blows in western Kansas, blows endlessly without stopping, so that when for some reason, it stops and there is a lull, one feels like something is wrong. I was so accustomed to the whistle of the wind through cracks and windows and doors and the accompanying thump, thump, thump of dried tumbleweeds against the house all night and all day, that I didn’t really hear them. To me, they were white noise, but to those not native to the area, they were an unbearable racket. Shortly after my husband and I were married, we made a holiday trip to my home place. I remember how nervous the constant thumping of tumbleweeds and the whine of the wind made him at night. I wasn’t surprised because during the years I spent on the farm growing up, visitors and newcomers to the area always complained.

Those of us who grew up with the wind and tumbling tumbleweeds weren’t fazed. Wind turned our windmills and the tumbleweeds — well, they were just there. My grandmother used to spray paint several of them with gold and silver paint and stack them up for a cowboy Christmas tree.

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