“I don’t deny,” he said, “that there should be priests to remind men that they will one day die. I only say that at certain strange epochs it is necessary to have another kind of priests, called poets, actually to remind men that they are not dead yet.” —G.K. Chesterton, Manalive
We ascended a trail for a few miles along the creek, and suddenly found a stream of water five feet wide, running with a lively current, but losing itself almost immediately. This little stream showed plainly the manner in which mountain waters lose themselves in sand at the eastern foot of the Sierra, leaving only a parched desert and arid plains beyond.
The forecast was for fog Saturday but clear skies by the close of the weekend.
With three short weeks until Christmas, the shops along Chester, already decked out for the Yuletide, beckoned shoppers with gifts to trim the tree.
From its earliest beginnings, Bakersfield was really two cities. One was proper, one was rude. One craved work, one craved play. The eyes of one gazed intently toward the future, while the other locked eyes on the present.
In the 1930s, Nature and human folly joined forces to turn America’s fertile Great Plains to fields of dust.
The wind blows the dust around empty lots in Fresno, California. It is 1944 and 16-year-old Bill Ray works his butt off at the Famous Department Store.