Sunday, March 11, 2007

I have another journal, a private one. I use a pencil instead of a keyboard. I tape photographs and articles into it instead of using digital images. I write new lyrics there and use unsavory language sometimes. I never proofread it, but scribble short-hand. I'm flooded with thoughts this week. I could write a novel if I put my mind to it.

Aunt Olga's funeral was yesterday in Killdeer, and the burial was fourteen miles west, at the tiny Whetstone Cemetery, less than a mile from where she grew up. The weather was sublime--warm and sunny. Horses were galloping in herds across the prairie, kicking and playing, as if welcoming my great-aunt to Heaven. Olga Sloan Nupen was a saint if I ever knew one.

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