A few weeks ago, I made an impromptu trip to Marcus, Iowa, to see the place my great grandparents raised their children. A howling frigid wind and the season’s first snowflakes greeted my arrival. Following some directions out of town, I came over a little hill with my car and saw the place. An old farm house among a group of leafless trees. I wasn’t positive but it felt right. This had to be the place.

The old farm struck me more than I thought it would. The stories my mom, grandmother, and great uncle tell started to make more sense. They emerged from the weird abstract place of stories you hear as a kid and became a reality. In the peeled paint, perseverance through the Great Depression. The looming wind turbines, unstoppable passage of time and change. Out the driveway and onto the gravel road, the kids who would serve in World War II, become parents, writers, nurses, artists, and schoolteachers.