Dad, I drove through your kind of town the other day. I didn’t exactly stumble upon it as the marquee outside of town read “Combine Demolition Derby” plus my friend Anders had alerted me to the shenanigans.

It had that end-of-the-worldness that you always kept an eye out for. Beautiful, rolling hills of dry-farmed wheat with just the right kind of weathered buildings, here and there.

A stroll through the town in the morning, a serviceable charity breakfast at the fire station with the good people of Lind, and a parade of creatures and contraptions seems to be the right way to prepare for the main event.

It’s quite a show. What is downright extraordinary is the tenacity and competence displayed in keeping these – what do we call these things? --running. An easy pragmatism that brushes off the most catastrophic deformations and mechanical disfigurements with a shrug and an acetylene torch. Right back in they go, to cheers, and enthusiasm, in deepening shadows and the thought of another year’s work lurking on tomorrow morning’s doorstep.

I liked thinking about you that day.