We made it to Spearfish, driving hard across the plains like our ancestors, albeit at easily 5 times the pace of the wagon train.  The long haul across South Dakota is full of rolling hills and empty grassland, and but for being dotted with the occasional herd of cattle, or a grain silo or dilapidated farm house or barn, you’d think it was entirely devoid of civilization.  Instead, you see the small towns of the prairie strewn across the map like so much grain in the field.

 

Family has converged upon Spearfish, all 48 of the greater Strands are here.  Grandma Strand is here from Duluth. All my mother’s generation is here, nine in all, having trekked from Alberta, California and Iowa, and then the 28 in my generation are here, plus 14 great-grandkids.  We’ve converged from China and Canada and all over the US on a small town in the middle of nowhere to celebrate my Aunt Sharon.

 

I love the imagery of the converging paths on a map, and just thinking about the constant travelling from all four corners of the continent is a romantic image I just can’t shake.

 

Well, between that and the cribbage tournament, anyhow.