Oil on Board
18 x 24 in.
Loved ones taken by Cholera near St. Louis and the sound of those creaking wooden wheels across the miles; being awed by never having seen a mountain and to see them now….so open, swallowing us up as we pass, then spiting us out again into the broad and unforgiving valley. To hear the sound of the chisels as we passed, and watch the workers eat their meager sandwiches at noon. The strata on the mountain, folded, all laid over each other like pages of a book torn apart and sandwiched together again in the sun, in the summer, in the millenniums of June and May were new and the boys were making for themselves places in the scraggly trees to watch us was we pass. They whiled away the time between the chores of morning and working in the fields and waiting for the glass to come for the windows from the east to keep the pesky bugs of summer out, and to hold in the warm here by the fire when winter comes.