We drove out to the Last Chance Saloon for lunch, over bridges, along the meandering Rosebud River, and heard blackbirds whistling in the rushes. This was my father’s early country, a landscape hard and austere and beautiful. At the museum later with my grandchildren, looking at dinosaur skeletons and the tiny fossils of ginkgo leaves, I remembered my father telling me how he’d walked endlessly in those hills as a boy. “But I never found anything worth keeping in my life.” What’s left? Everything. I wish all of you were here. Love.