Located north of town, the cemetery at Sheridan Lake sits on the crest of the gentlest of slopes. The elevation is no more than perhaps a hundred feet higher than the land that surrounds it, yet it is still graced with just enough rise to give all who stop and look an unobstructed view of the miles and miles of wide open plains that stretch all the way to the far distant horizon.
Recently, one of the readers of the Independent suggested a story he thought other readers might enjoy. It took place in 1872 and involved a group of individuals whose names are so well-known that the story itself sounds like something more likely to be found in a dime store novel than a history book of the time.
There’s a certain kind of beauty to the plains that is, from what I can tell, truly unique to this country. Let a little bit of rain fall on these expansive acres, and the most extraordinary flowers will emerge. But, unlike the manicured and pampered blossoms that adorn more “settled” places, these beauties have retained their sturdiness, their wildness, as if the sheer determination to thrive sometimes harsh conditions is an inherent part of the flower’s glory, itself.