http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/africa/07/21/africa.famine.voices/index.html?hpt=hp_c1

We do not worry about this here.

Their eyes are what compels me to read. Their stories are what compel me to pray. Their resilience is what compels me to search my heart.

Water is not something we lack. Water is something that my dog splashes out of his bowl every day and we laugh at him. And I think to myself, "What this family would do for that dog bowl of clean water". What this family's done thus far is split ways, traversing across the country in different direction in hopes of finding water for one another. They have been traveling for 17 days.

I drink my iced coffee and I think about this.

My dishwasher runs quietly in the kitchen and I think about it.

The shower is running and I think, "Oh my, how little we lack".

Stand atop this hill with me. Look at all those trees below. Will you help me stand on this boulder? Where did they even find a boulder like this? All those trees. I used to call them "broccoli", you know. Of course you know.

Let's walk along this pathway. See the inlets of rock and gravel? See how tall the grass is? This is the medicine wheel. This has been in the making since the 1980's. What do you think of this place?

Something vivid in my memory is the seeding grass. Watch. I run my hands up the stem and at the top I take off every seed I can get. When I was younger, I threw them into the pastures. I thought I was creating a thick coat of grass. Perhaps I did.

Hold my hand, love. You're here, you see the beauty of a place many think is barren. Now we're at the top of this hill.

Let's just stand and watch.

The Overture's Crescendo

Change my heart and let it be consecrated, Lord to thee.

Watch "For the Bible Tells Me So". I found it to be a very moving documentary that examines the nation's ostracized LBGT demographic. I found Jake's family and Anna's mother's story especially inspiring.

I'm sitting on the couch surrounded by memos from FAFSA. They tell me that I'll have to submit my W2 and Tax Returns for review. They might not believe we're really this poor. Welcome to school loans, people.

So, of course, I begin to let my mind wander. It's a much nicer way to spend my time than to deal with this pesky issue. And naturally, since our long trip is still the most present experience in my mind (and because I am one who thinks obsessively about these things) I begin to think again about all of the meaning and nostalgia I extracted during last week's escapades. And if you know me, this nostalgia is certainly one of my strongest attributes. So, this:

We spent a day at Clear Water Lake. This is where my Dad's brother and his family have a beautiful lakehouse. A few years back, the house Dad and his brothers grew up in was in danger of demolition, or at least falling apart. I can't ever get the story right. Regardless, Uncle Rod and Aunt Lois decided to lift the old house from its foundation in Rosholt and move it 45 minutes (west? south?) down the road to the lake. Currently, they've renovated its and kept its integrity - quite an impressive feat - and it's become a wonderful place to sit, to relax, to eat and drink, and remember.

While we were there, the uncles brought nearly a dozen cardboard boxes from storage in who-knows-where so that all the brothers could sort through the contents. These boxes held thousands of clippings from newspapers, special occasion cards, photos, and letters. Every single box with its oddities and hodgepodge was lovingly assembled over the course of a lifetime. That is, Grandma Helen's. These boxes and their mismatched contents are the remainders of her idiosyncratic rat packing. And they are, perhaps, some of the most telling.

The work was set before her children. Dad and his brothers (with the on-again-off-again help of spouses and the like) sorted through these boxes the better part of the day. While we lounged in the chairs and refreshed ourselves, played Polish Horseshoes, and laid in the sun, they diligently (probably over a few beers) sorted. And sorted. And sorted.

A few times I went onto the porch as it became more strewn with newspapers and pictures. It was amazing to see how much care she put behind saving every single article of interest, which ranged from wedding announcements of a classmate to recipes for icebox strawberry pie. As the sun began its descent that early evening, they decided that the work done that day would have to suffice. They'd gone through only half the boxes.

Then there was the bonfire. Uncle Rod and Dad took on the task of burning those pieces deemed useless. For a while, I watched Dad stand alone at the fire, lakeside, against the orange and purple sunset. He reached his hand into the box, taking handfuls of newspapers and throwing them. Staring into the flames.

I walked over to him.

"This is hard, Laura," he told me.

I already knew that. "I know," I said.

"Knowing that these pieces were cut out and saved by your grandma...that she lovingly clipped them..."

I took a side of the box and helped him. We took last glances at the clippings, knowing the fire was unforgiving. I salvaged a recipe for braided sesame bread. He saved a clipping printed in the Rosholt Review from years ago. We do not need these things.

Amid the excitement of the day, the exhaustion from the travel, and the joy to be where we were, Dad and I stood, hands holding one side of the box each, and we threw Grandma's clippings in the fire.

July 6-12

We arrived home in Charleston after visiting home in the Dakotas.
We were so exhausted!

I wanted to buy a journal to have available to write whenever I wanted to during this trip. I forgot about that plan until the day before we left. And so, now our travels across the tristate area are memories. And so, perhaps I can capture a bit here. And so.

Largest in my memory are the rolling, green hills of South Dakota. Had I just blocked them from my mind or did I really not see them as a child? My God, they are breathtaking. There is land so far that the horizon welcomes it miles away from the dirt road you drive down. The rich green of the land makes you want to sink your feet into its surface and stand there for what could turn into days. The sun is bright and beams across acres of corn, black beans, soybeans, barley. The land is majestic.

But my goodness, time drags along slowly through all of those country towns. There is so much distance between this one and the next. Almost too much land to remember.

We drove through the Dakotas and Minnesota over the course of seven days. Our eyes devoured the landscape and our skin welcomed the sun. We saw people we've loved and cannot forget. I saw my cousins raising their own children. I remembered times they seemed so much older than me. I reminded myself how young they were back then. I held eight different babies and loved them all. I think about how those babies will not know me well, nor I them.

We ran through the grass on the farm where Dad grew up and we found his old, rusted blue car in the meadows. He laughs and tells us that workers at a drive-thru restaurant ticketed it as a "piece of shit". I ask him when that was and he tells me, 1979. This is the car he drove when he met my mother. It now rots away amidst the seeding grass and here we are touching a part of Dad's history. We are all looking over the horizon and the hills when Dad goes to the drivers' side of the door and tries to open it. It opens. He sits in the drivers' seat of the decrepit piece of shit and he puts his hands on the steering wheel. Then he sees a white, silk corsage in the window. He brings it out to show us. He thinks Mom gave it to him. Dad takes it with him and lovingly packs it in his suitcase. He will later give it to her.

Then we traversed across the states to where my brothers and I grew up. We toured through the old house we were reared in, walked the land where I played dress up, t-ball, and built forts. Our sandbox is now gone, replaced by cement benches beneath the oak tree. The raspberry bushes were overgrown and died years ago. The backroad is hardly visible under the grassy overlay. But still, it is so much the same. The integrity and spirit of the place remain.

The neighbors no longer have their cows. The milking parlour is replaced with pottery. This is their new chosen profession. We buy some pieces to begin a collection.

We tour through Fargo, rest and sleep that night. We visit with one of my oldest friends over a beer (Matthew), a bourbon-ginger (me) and a Diet Coke (Shautay). We try to convince her to move south. She does not want to come. We ask her again.

There is a heart in the Midwest that is too big to talk about. Nobody greets you with a "How are ya?" but everybody treats you like a neighbor. (Food is ever present, nothing is too seasoned and the coffee is never in danger of being too strong.)

What this place has an abundance of is land.
What it thrives off of is its people.