The grooves in the road west of Des Moines, rubbing against my tires, made a sound like the war cry of a Sioux brave. It was foreboding and, perhaps, foreshadowing.
In Aurora, Nebraska, I stopped into a Shell station. The clerk was tall and gangly, all adams-appley, with hair that was no color at all, if you know what I mean. On his head was the most marvelous bowler hat in a color brown that exactly matched his uniform, as if Shell was issuing its employees bowler hats now.
The clerk's store was stocked for every eventuality, with food and drink, tools and supplies. The stock included samurai swords. In case one were attacked by a corn field, or something.
I tell you, I would love to vacation in Nebraska, driving up and down the back roads, taking pictures of the beautiful old white wooden churches and run-down farm houses, some with family burial plots next door! With wrought iron arched gates, even!
Driving along the Platte River, I saw surprisingly diverse countryside. West of the conjunction of the North and South Platte Rivers, an area James Michener had a lot to say about in his novel, Centennial, the land started to dry out and rise in bluffs and plateaus. An amazingly swift transformation. It is a beautiful country and how I wish I had the time to stop and admire it.