Coming to Omaha was not in the plan. But we had a good reason to come for a while. Staying in Omaha was not our plan. We were abducted by its charms.
I’m in the parking lot of a truck stop in York Nebraska looking at a semi-trailer detached from its tractor unit and set down on its landing gear. TRUCKERS CHAPEL, the letters on the side of the trailer say.
The pioneer woman stands in the door of a sod house with a blue enamel basin of rinse water in her hands. Early morning and the air already simmers. She listens to the rustle of grasshoppers. She narrows her eyes and watches her husband and son light fires at the edge of the cornfield. Smoke from green cottonwood branches rises, floats over the corn, and settles. Hoppers rise, swirl, and settle back in place.