The Little Sweet Boy Crying Bitterly

Thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover anchored on a windy Nebraska table and was trying not to be blown away. A mystified snowflakes were curling and eddying about the cluster of low, dry buildings huddled on the gray prairie under a gray sky. The main street was a deeply rutted road, now frozen hard which ran from the squat red railway station to the green elevator at the north end of the town. On either side of this road straggled two uneven rows of wooden buildings.