Harvesting a Symbol of The Old West
Harvesting a Symbol of The Old West
Those good-for-nothing weeds that blow across the prairie, pile up on fence rows, and clog irrigation ditches have been a windfall for Katz. By accident, she discovered that people worldwide are willing to pay for the humble symbol of the Old West.
Katz didn’t plan to become a tumbleweed farmer. In 1994, the Internet was new in her hometown of Garden City, Kan., (pop. 28,451) and the former insurance agent wanted to teach herself how to build a Web page. Just for grins, she wrote a tongue-in-cheek description about a fictitious Prairie Tumbleweed Farm, complete with photos of nieces and nephews helping in the field.
Katz even invented a tumbleweed price list: small (15-inch), $15; medium, (15 to 20-inch), $20; and large (20-inch and rounder), $25. And a guarantee: “If they don’t tumble, we don’t sell them!”
“It was just a hoot,” she recalls. “I was sure that no one would ever see this but our family.”
Within two weeks, Katz received an order from a New Jersey bride-to-be for two tumbleweeds for her Western-themed wedding.
“I couldn’t tell her it was a joke,” says Katz, 52. “I thought I’d help out the woman so I walked a half block, picked up two tumbleweeds, and mailed them off.”
That same week, another order drifted in. Then another. The media got wind of the wacky business and boosted sales even more. Katz soon found herself with a full-blown business, averaging 30 orders a week. Businesses and individuals ordered tumbleweeds for movie props, museums, decoration, Christmas trees and classrooms.
Katz received a $1,000 order from the producers of the children’s television show, Barney & Friends. A San Antonio restaurant ordered 30. So many orders rolled in from Japan that Katz added a description in Japanese.
“At first I felt guilty,” Katz says. “I thought, ‘Oh, my goodness. I’m selling a tumbleweed.’ But then the customers would send all these e-mails and wonderful letters about how happy and nostalgic the tumbleweeds made them feel. You can’t get any more American than a good ol’ prairie tumbleweed.”
Typical of happy customers is Vivian Boyer of Saylorsburg, Pa.
“My tumbleweed is hanging up in my archway,” she says. “I’m 72 years old and I grew up loving Western movies. Roy Rogers and Joel McCrea were my idols. I always wanted to go out West and see these tumbleweeds. Finally, I got my tumbleweed.”
Margie Mittett of Snohomish, Wash., bought a small tumbleweed as a gift.
“My sister always wanted a tumbleweed,” Mittett says. “She planted it in her garden in Seattle.”
On the dry plains of western Kansas, the tumbleweeds, or Russian thistle, sprout everywhere. Once they freeze, the round bushes dry up, snap off at the base, and roll along with the prairie wind.
“They’re a nuisance to everyone,” says Linda’s husband, Stan, a roofer. “In the fall, they’ll bust off and there may be a thousand tumbleweeds blowing around out here. The big ones can put a dent in your car.”
One of the whopper weeds Linda sold was so large that she packed it in a washing machine box for shipment.
Although she stumbled into business, Katz says a childhood incident probably planted the idea.
“I saw a station wagon from New York stop and the people picked up a tumbleweed and put it in the back seat and I thought, ‘Why would anyone want a tumbleweed?’ That always stuck with me.”
That romantic symbol of the Old West popularized in movies and songs, such as Tumblin’ Tumbleweeds, just keeps blowing business and goodwill in Katz’s direction. In fact, the successful venture has even sparked competition.
In typical good humor, Katz e-mailed a competitor and said she looked forward to meeting her at the tumbleweed convention.
“She wrote back and asked, ‘Where?’ When?”’
It’s a joke … so far.
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