Here in the Midwest, mystery is called lack, and adventure, lost. The Midwest, where questions become an arrow through the eye, and she must because she must because she must.

In Mary Henrietta Peters’ diary of Wednesday, January 5, 1927, while living in Iowa, she wrote, “… got a letter from Aulden he is all settled now W L & Vean B butchered a beef to day Cora Rothlisberger tryed to comit suside this morning about 4 oclock.

Sparse lanes and ordinary scenes. We’d lie if we said we didn’t tire of it. But gone are the gremlins of urban darkness, the noise and topics of debate roiling under umbrellas of revolt. We rarely miss them now, the roiling, the revolts, the rhetoric and the reasoning. You can think out loud here, and if it sounds like bragging, it’s not. Instead, it’s a brash space spoken. It’s an open door letting the cockcrow in. It’s yesterday told soundly off. Bam. We’ve learned to walk closer to the sun, that’s all, naked and freer for the walking.

On Aug 29^th, 1856, Sarah Kenyon wrote from Plum Creek, Iowa: We get along and do without things here that would be impossible in the East.  I should dread for our neighbors to come and see us if they were not going to stay and settle.  if so well and good for they would soon see the way of Western life…. Our freight bill was enormous on our goods but I dont see what we could have spared very well. we get along with what we brought. all that I have bought is half dozen cups & saucers. we have to snub it but that is what I knew we should have to do but as long as we have enough to eat I shall feel pretty well satisfied. We dont have nay dainties but we shall live just as long and perhaps be the healthier.

Because of a hawk screeching outside my window, feathers full, fleeting. Because of the starkness of a fresh blanket of snow. Because the secrets of the universe are to those who listen carefully and interpret with the mind of a seer. Because of all these things, we show compassion.

Plumb Creek, Iowa, Oct 1st 1857, John Kenyon: …I am rather tired to night. I have been helping Mr. Segar this afternoon draw corn. he helped me thrash. that is the way we have to manage out here. change work with one another. to morrow I have got to help Mr Box next day Mr Cruse then I shall be square with them all round. our wheat crop was rather light this year.

Mary Ellis, Earlville, Iowa, March 18, 1860: John’s hand gains but slowly [he smashed it using a farm implement]. The neighbors are very kind and have promised to come and put in his wheat for him… 

In a wayward wind, we grow abundance. Fertility feeds us. And pleasure is just plain fun. But don’t drink the water or, at least, purify it first. Don’t eat the corn; it’s genetically modified and sprayed these days. And don’t breathe when the biplane flies overhead dispersing its load of death. Easy enough; we’re brave, after all.

Aug 1^st, 1859, Sarah Kenyon, Iowa: ….Well our wheat is pretty good this year so we shant have to buy flour I hope.  oats good barley good taters one and two in a hill sorghum good garden sass good all but the beans…

I wake glad to be alive, thankful that though the sun may not be shining at this moment, it soon will be. I wake realizing that many somethings will be sacrificed today, crucified on the cross of selfishness, denial, bias or hatred. Someone’s rejection, abuse, or need for control. Their humanity. This will happen over and over again. Here, there, where you are, where I am. I realize it early on, before my eyes open and before my brain clicks on. But then I also realize that for every crucifixion, love will rise again. A stone will be rolled away and kindness will rise again. Compassion and fairness will rise again. Mercy will rise again. These things always rise again. And then I can go on about my day, believing in the goodness of life. Believing in a sun that will shine again and people who are good and aren’t afraid to show it.

Mary Ellis, Earlville, Iowa, n.d., but evidently written between letters of March 12 and 18 1860: …I want to talk with you about John and Sarah this evening. They have tried so hard to get along since they came west and it seems as though bad luck was there portion. I sometimes wonder they keep up the courage they do. you have no idea how poor they are for their crops have failed them every year yet John has just looked it all in the face and kept steady to work and Sarah has done more work the three years we have been here than she ever done before. John is respected by all his neighbors and loved too, and that is something. how he will bear up under this last misfortune I dont know. it comes just as Spring’s work comes on…

Mary Ellis, Earlville, Iowa, March 18 1860: You cannot think how pleased I was to receive a letter from you so soon. I feel very grateful to you for what you have done for John. It was great as well as a very glad surprise to them. You will never lose anything by it, for if the time ever comes when they can you will be rewarded.

A winter without sun, snowdrifts too high; I’m alone on these snow-packed roads, and the sky is thick and metallic. Love me by name, I tell my farmer, for in death only shadows soundless and blind. And it’s because those who seem to have it all together are often the ones walking closest to the edge, those with the weight of hidden trials bringing them daily to their knees. Because of the brave rare souls who dare to fall and get up again, to love, we believe it really exists.

Which velvet move will have her voice, which heart will do this thing?

– Chila Woychik