Things don’t change here. I live on the edge of nothingness, next to loneliness and despair. This is the plains of South Dakota, the farm where I grew up. I’m still here. I’m not sure why.
My grandparents, a pair of stoic Norwegians, homesteaded in 1912 and laid claim to some of the last free tracts of land offered by the government, determined to make their mark in the soil. The harshness of their lives is engrained in every pioneer picture ever taken. Serious faces tell sad, hard stories, clinging to the last visages of sanity hoping the next year would be better.
My father filled my early years with talk of unpaid bills and the high cost of food versus the low cost of grain, and how politicians were the root cause of it all. He had a lot of die-hard views on life, his way or the dumb…
View original post 166 more words