Which Came First?

First published in the print column, Strictly Haresay

Last week I had the good fortune of attending the Story Catcher Summer Writing Workshop and Festival sponsored by the Mari Sandoz Heritage Society and Chadron State College. The annual event was held in Custer State Park this year and was attended by roughly thirty-some literary creatives.

In such a beautiful setting, surrounded  by nature and people obsessed with the written word, it was somewhat of a dream come true kinda retreat for me.

Returning to my hometown here in the heart of the Sandhills has been much more rewarding than I ever anticipated. It’s been good for my soul. But then, I’m not exactly rubbing elbows with the world’s literary movers and shakers out here. So that’s been somewhat of a challenge at times—birds of a feather, and all that; I don’t really have much of a flock.

To put it in relatable terms, it’d be like any one of the local ranchers here moving to New York City and trying to find someone with whom you can talk about the sweet smell of fresh cut meadow hay, or how it feels to be in the saddle in the early morning with creaking leather and hoof clops the only sounds around. Or trying to have a conversation with someone who has no idea of the importance of that work, or how much that life defines you as a person.

That’s sortta how I feel sometimes, living out here, but the larger truth is, I don’t want to live anywhere else. Over the years I’ve called many different states and places home, but looking back, I can now see that of the various elements of all those different locations, the qualities that excited me most were the ones that reminded me of home—the giant cottonwood tree along Carbon Canyon Creek, seen from my kitchen window in southern California; the deer that came into the yard through the mist of early morning in northern California, the glittering expanse of stars over my farmhouse on the hill in northeast Nebraska, and the booming thunderstorms and fantastic lightning shows exhibited in south-central Mexico, all were reminiscent of home. No matter where I was, or even how much I may have liked being there, some part of me was always looking for a touchstone to home.

And even if I whine about not getting to spend much time around other writers, it’s this culture and these people of this rugged landscape which I’m from that I’m anchored to most—the unique geography and the volatile history here, the scent of which is still carried on the winds that first shaped these sweeping dunes; the nature of life here, lived out against the backdrop of unparalleled beauty and bitter extremes; and the ones who descended from tough-as-nails ancestors to all this, the misfits and outliers, Native peoples and outlaws.

Which makes me wonder: Did I develop the itch to write because of all the larger than life, stranger-than-fiction people I knew growing up, or did I come home after growing into a writer because I knew there was no richer fodder for writing material than what the folks from these parts provide?

Have to think on that one…