Yesterday six of us headed for White Earth Valley near Lake Sacajawea. Writing, of course, was on my mind. In this deeply moving landscape, it was easy to imagine how hard life had been in the 1950s as North Dakota's first oil well was being drilled a few miles away.
There was a level of complexity to the memories being shared; I knew they would be retold. We listened to Sharon relate the adventures of a young girl on horseback looking for cattle in the coolies surrounding the high plateaus of this place.
As I plucked sage in the constant wind, Sharon's tale of her eight year old self jumping off the back of a pony moving far too fast on a precipitious incline churned in my tummy.
We were both there in that moment - two generations living out the old story, an adventure worth saving, worth including in a story of autumn along the Missouri.
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