Report from the Prairie Field Station
Author’s note – I like to think I come to the Houston Arboretum to unplug from an artificial world. If that were true, I would not have a cell phone in my pocket and an iPad in my bag.
The location in these photos, a small field station at the edge of acreage that has been returned, over a span of decades, to its original meadow habitat of prairie grasses and wildflowers, is my favorite place in this forest. It’s a place to listen for the voice of the universe, which, if you sit still long enough, may whisper in the sleepy language of late afternoon.
I met an inquisitive man the other day at the Prairie Field Station in the Houston Arboretum. We had one of those unexpected discussions that sometimes happen when you least expect it.
On my favorite log bench, deep in the solitude of a late afternoon at the edge of forest and meadow, I was reading Ralph Emerson’s description of Henry Thoreau, which serves as an introduction to “Excursions,” an 1863 anthology of Thoreau’s essays. This little book is full of beauty and insight and I highly recommend it. If anyone gives you grief about sitting in the woods reading about a guy who liked to sit in the woods, smile at them until they go away.
For a couple of hours, few humans had passed on the nearby trails – it was a Wednesday and schools were in session. Butterflies worked the last of the dying, fall flowers. Dragonflies zipped here and there, hovered and were off again on endless patrols. Small birds held brief, stand-up meetings in a barren tree, often sending someone out to scan for snacks, with instructions to call the office if they found something.
A soft crunch of bark mulch nearby told me I was about to have company. A man appeared from the path behind me and, hesitantly, respectfully, crossed in front of me and began to study the field station’s text, graphics and photos explaining the development and value of native prairies. He took his time; many people don’t.
He was middle-aged, not tall, and a sturdy enough fellow. He wore a faded blue jacket. His britches were a similar dusty hue and he wore the shoes of someone who worked outdoors. At length, he turned around and looked at me. I said hello. He had a brown, friendly face and a demeanor that paid a stranger respect before he said anything. His name was Habib.
I asked if he had been here before (it was obvious he had not and I could tell he was genuinely interested in this place). He said this was his first time at this arboretum. He was a farmer, visiting from Pakistan.
I told him I come from a family of farmers. He was curious about this forest in the middle of a city. He noticed things not everyone would think to question.
“This place,” he said, referring to the meadow. “Was it always here or did they make it?” He knew “make it” was not the right way to say it.
I briefly explained the location’s history and decades-long restoration, preservation and conservation efforts. He said he had noticed a lot of fallen trees in the forest. I told him about the 2011 drought that killed many post oaks here. The thick support posts of this covered field station and the bench I sat on were made from a few of the victims. Due to the canopy reduction that resulted from the drought, more sunlight now penetrates to the forest floor, allowing a greater diversity of native grasses to return. Some of the dead trees were cut and allowed to stay where they fell, as decaying trunks create important micro-habitats and food sources for insects, reptiles and small mammals.
I ask him what he farmed. He said he grew rice, wheat and sugar cane. I told him about similar crops that are planted nearby in Louisiana.
“Have you been to New Orleans?” I asked.
“Only to the tourist parts.”
“If you drive there from here you can see the rice and sugar cane growing on the south side of the interstate highway,” I said.
“Do they plant it by hand?”
“No. Everything is done by machines.”
“Mechanical,” he replied.
I told him how Louisiana farmers grow rice and crawfish in the same fields, as their seasons are opposite each other. He nodded and thought about this and appeared to appreciate the benefits such field utilization.
Here was a traveler who declared none of the baggage of arrogance, jealousy, judgment, suspicion, fear, indifference or other human character faults that so often drive people of different cultures apart instead of together, where they could be helpful to each other. I don’t know what else he had been doing on his travels, but on this day he sought knowledge in a big-city forest.
He asked me what I was reading. I told him. He asked me who Thoreau is. What a big question. I told him Thoreau was a naturalist but it might take a long time to describe him. Habib took a photo of my book and said he would Google it.
Guy D. Johnson is a writer and marketing communications professional. Previously an animation studio owner, daily newspaper editor, reporter and photographer, volunteer fireman, railroad bridge gang helper, FM radio station underling and cave guide. He has lived on farmland trusted to the sun and rain; atop a wooded hill; beside great rivers; upon an arid, high plateau; and at the subtropical coast of the Gulf of Mexico. For 20 years, he worked and wrote in New Orleans.