By KAREN MADORIN
Who doesn’t love getting Christmas cards? Since childhood, I’ve loved receiving friends’ and loved ones’ annual greetings. The best part after the letter is the scene on the front of the card.
For me, peaceful outdoor scenes top all others. It’s a struggle to find cards that express how I feel about the out-of-doors, which leads to selecting kitschy snowman scenes or clever verse simply because I can’t find a perfect image. Of course, it’d help if the picture was 3-D with a sound chip. If it met those criteria, I know exactly how it would look and sound.
A deer hunt decades ago led me into an enchanted Christmas card setting. That afternoon we hunted hills overlooking the Saline where overnight, windless snow had fallen for hours, blanketing hills in pristine white. Nothing had traveled before us, so our tracks were the first to mark previously unspoiled surfaces.
Enough snow frosted cedars dotting hillsides that it weighted branches, draping them artistically. Whenever small birds would light and flit away, their movements created mini-blizzards like one might see in snow globes.
While appreciating the stunning view, we struggled through heavy snow to an enchanted deer stand. White crystals disguised ordinary, prickly yucca disguising them as surrealistic snow sculptures. Because flakes had drifted gently, they formed outlandish shapes when they collected on spiny leaves and center spikes. Disney horticulturists couldn’t have created better fantasy creatures.
Upon reaching our destination, my feet ached and icicles dangled from my hunter orange face mask. Disregarding tingles creeping into toes, nose, and fingers, I savored the view of the river valley.
Grey sky silhouetted old cottonwood and hackberry branches. Trees hugged the river bank while a cut milo field stretched beyond, rust and burnished gold. Whitetails grazed unconcernedly. If I’d been seriously after game, I’d have been aggravated because the deer stood out of range. Instead, I enjoyed watching them browse stubble rows.
We sat midway downhill next to a large cedar that sheltered us from a breeze that made falling snowflakes dance lackadaisically about our heads. Low-hanging clouds and butt numbing snow muffled sound. I was grateful I’d done chores early so I could see this Christmas card world.
Despite muted noise, something to our north caught my attention. My husband, not wanting to signal our whereabouts or break the spell, signaled the direction from which the strange squawks and calls came. As I focused, I realized it was an army of turkeys marching single file to feed on fallen milo. I tried counting but found it impossible to number that descending horde.
After watching the flock feed, we saw them resume single file and count cadence toward their roost. By this time, another sound from somewhere over my shoulder edged into my awareness. The hubs noticed me looking toward the soft whistling and mouthed in a frosty vapor, “Bobwhite Come Here call.” I’d heard those notes many times, but this was the first time I associated them with this perky, top-notched creature. The cry signaled to these small gamebirds that dusk descended, and they needed to gather. I agreed. It was time to head home to daughters and toasty kitchen.
For an instant, I spent an afternoon in my own Christmas card. That enchanted memory still warms me.
Karen Madorin is a retired teacher, writer, photographer, outdoors lover, and sixth-generation Kansan.