I am going to tell you a story. It belongs to the time before flour. Before flintlock muskets. Before paisley-pattered skirts and starched cotton blouses.
A man wakes up somewhere near Little Missouri National Grassland, North Dakota – except, he didn’t call it that back then. He looks at his wife, admires the curve of her hips and her soft belly, a half-moon pushing against her buffalo robe. “Wife,” he says, “We’ve got this river flint. I am travelling northeast to trade.” Maybe he wanted some miskwaabik (copper) from around Lake Superior. Hard to say. Continue reading