by James R. Hartnett
Ralph Cunningham came back from the dead, rising up through the sawdust that came from the cottonwood that came from out of the sawmills down by where Atokad, Dakota County's racetrack (horses had negotiated a final turn long ago; hoof tracks were covered by bright concrete slabs upon which sat pools of black oil dripping from semis and tractor trailers) used to be, not that far from a muddy-brown Crystal Lake (some folks say before the Big Flood in '52 was blue and crystal clear) and said to me, tapping me on the shoulder, patting me on the head , “How did it all begin?”
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Ralph Cunningham came back from the dead, rising up through the sawdust that came from the cottonwood that came from out of the sawmills down by where Atokad, Dakota County's racetrack (horses had negotiated a final turn long ago; hoof tracks were covered by bright concrete slabs upon which sat pools of black oil dripping from semis and tractor trailers) used to be, not that far from a muddy-brown Crystal Lake (some folks say before the Big Flood in '52 was blue and crystal clear) and said to me, tapping me on the shoulder, patting me on the head , “How did it all begin?”
Read More