Prologue
I sit in my study looking out the big bay window across what we call the Home Meadow. A snowstorm from Montana is moving into our area of South Dakota, and the meadow is almost covered. I sigh. A snowfall is magical for me, and I sit in my old red leather chair feeling peaceful and contented as I watch the snow accumulate.
Joseph, one of the ranch hands and our houseman, and has laid a fire in the large creek stone fireplace. I light the fire; it blazes and warms the room. Between the snowfall and the cheery fire, I have a profound sense of gratitude.
Joseph is an Oglala Sioux Indian from the Pine Ridge Reservation to the south of our ranch. He has the nickname Chief Joseph among the ranch hands. Joseph doesn’t like the nickname, believing it disrespectful of a brave and honorable Nez Perce Indian chief, who battled the U.S. Army in 1878 while leading his band of seven hundred Nez Perce to Canada to seek asylum. He finally surrendered just twenty miles from the Canadian border. He and his people were removed to a far away reservation, where he died at an early age. Of a broken heart, it is said, a tragic story. We agree with Joseph and don’t use the nickname.
It is the late afternoon, the time when my wife Elena and I have drinks in my study. I have become a devotee of single malt scotch whiskey; Elena remains, as always, a two-fisted bourbon drinker. So I pour our drinks from the makeshift bar I have. For me, three fingers of Macallan’s 12-year-old, with ice and a splash of water. For Elena, two fingers of Early Times Kentucky Bourbon, also with ice and a splash of water, or branch water, as they say in Kentucky.
She comes in; we pick up our drinks, clink glasses, say a simple toast, then sit down to talk. I know what to expect this evening. I have recently retired as a judge of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Eight Circuit, which sits in St. Louis and St. Paul. Prior to serving on the court of appeals I was a U.S. district judge for the District of South Dakota. Elena is after me to write a memoir of my judicial service.
This evening she starts in again, insisting that I do something productive with my time, which in her mind would be to write about my distinguished (her word) career. After thirty eight years of marriage, I love her completely, but she can be a nag.
As we watch the snow accumulate, I gently demur. Who would want to read about me, I say? No one or not many, I believe. I am satisfied that I lived my life in the law honorably and am happy to have my record reflected in the hundreds of opinions I authored over twenty years on the bench.
But my wife is not one to be dismissed. She persists, going on about my decisions and opinions in cases involving Indian tribal rights, environmental issues on Indian reservations in South Dakota, and so on.
Finally, after much back and forth to make peace, I agree that I will write something—just not what Elena wants.
Perhaps I could write something about the early years, when Elena and I got together, and how all that occurred in the midst of the 2020 election, that awful time. At least it will mollify Elena.
But it occurs to me that I can turn the tables on my dear wife. I will write as she wants. And, since she was a part of the story, she will have to write her part. I am momentarily amused at this maneuver since it isn’t easy for me to get the upper hand with my wife.
So I tell her, here’s the deal: This is what I am going to write about. And since you were there, you have to write your part.
“We’ll do this together. Or I won’t do anything.”
Now it’s her turn to demur. She protests she doesn’t have the time with her ranch responsibilities; she doesn’t have my writing skills. And so forth.
Silence—the best approach with Elena.
Finally, grumbling:
“Well, if that’s what it takes to get you doing something, I guess that’s what we’ll do. Maybe if you start writing, you will write about what I want. But you will have to help me with the writing, Jack, you know that. I didn’t spend my life like you writing things.”
The snow falls heavier, and to my eye, there is now about eight inches of snow on the meadow. The wind has picked up; tomorrow there will be drifts.
My old snow globe with the little snowman sits idly on my desk. I’ve had it since I was a kid; oddly, it is a precious possession. But no need for the snowman’s ephemeral magic today. We have a big snowfall.
Ada, the ranch cook, comes in to announce that dinner will be at six-thirty.
Elena comes to my side and sits on the arm of my chair. It’s dark now, and we see the snow swirling around our yard lights. For a long moment, we sit there entranced. Falling snow never loses its magic for us.
Finally, Elena bends down and kisses me on the cheek, tells me I’m impossible as always, and, as she leaves, has the nerve to ask when I will have something for her to review.
So that is how this story began: in my study in a rambling old ranch house in western South Dakota in the middle of a snowstorm.
Westwind 