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Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.
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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Maybe it was the idea of so many different takes on the afterlife, just blowing past me one after another, like the way small Iowa farm towns used to blow past my uncle and that smiling chicken.
The smells of aged wood and fresh hay, machinery and tools oiled against the damp, gasoline and rotting grass trapped under a mower deck, dust and manure, all work to carry my memory not only forward, but back thirty years or more to another barn in another time, where as a boy I labored under so many of those same, exact smells, intensified in my memory somehow by the intense cold of those early morning Iowa winters, which made the barn a safe haven from the forty below air outside.
Perusing the aisles of his local used book store, Henry came upon the 1902 Perry, Iowa resident directory and was thrilled to no end to discover that the town, home to roughly 4,000, had just over 2,000 people who listed their occupation as either Engineer, Coal Shoveler, or Brakeman, and that the town even had its own college, offering study in a variety of fields including “the elocutionary arts.”
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