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related to our heritage.”
    The sheriff shifted his weight and looked down the lane that led out to the road. “Do you think you could figure out what it says? What it is? I don’t mix well with those college-types in Dickinson, and I figured you’d be the best person to come to. You’re the . . .”
    I nodded, anticipating what Hilo was going to say.
    â€œ. . . smartest person I know.”
    At that moment, my love for books seemed like a curse more than a blessing. Not long after we got Shep, about five years ago, we hit a rough patch on the farm. A drought hit the spring wheat, dropping the yield to an all-time low. The price per bushel was already down because of the bad economy of the late ’50s, during the waning Eisenhower years, and it was forced even lower by the weather.
    A confluence of events struck us hard. Hank had bought a new combine the year before, straining our budget even in the best of times. Knowing our situation was dire, the previous county extension agent, Lloyd Gustaffson, had brought me a packet of paperwork from the United States Department of Agriculture. Inside was a list of courses designed for farmers’ wives to make extra money during the long winters. I was immediately fascinated by the idea of writing indexes.
    It was a job that could be done from anywhere but took attention to detail, tenacity, an ability to meet deadlines, and a love of books and words—all of which I felt I wholly possessed. I was a compulsive list maker, punctual—I couldn’t remember the last time I was late for anything —and a neat and tidy housekeeper by nature. If something was out of place, I noticed. I’d read compulsively since I was a little girl.
    I took the correspondence course, learned how to pick out keywords and concepts from the densest text, how to format and type up an acceptable index, and how to solicit work from publishers far away in the dreamland of New York City.
    Indexes, I learned from the course, were a garden of words neatly tended—weedy modifiers pulled and discarded—only the most important ideas left to grow in unknown minds. The index, my work, would provide sustenance to the world in a tiny, tiny way, but a helpful, meaningful way, nonetheless. The work made me feel useful, like I was helping make the world outside my own front door better. I had desperately needed to feel hopeful, especially in those early days after the accident when things went from bad to worse.
    Never believing that I could actually make money from reading books and writing indexes, I mailed fifty letters of inquiry after successfully completing the USDA course, expecting nothing in return. To my surprise, I was hired almost immediately by a well-established publisher, H.P. Howard and Sons. Two weeks later I was winding my way through the tedious process of writing my very first index.
    The extra money saw us through the drought and helped us get ahead on the payments for the combine—until Hank went hunting and came back on a stretcher.
    Each book since had been a new adventure, and not only had I indexed books about Africa, but New Zealand, Russia, and nearly every European country. The topics ranged from history to religion, and included of course, headhunters. I knew I’d never go to any of those places, or ever use the information in casual conversation, but the world was larger for me because of my endeavor of writing indexes; a savior of my heart and sanity.
    I’d always had the reputation of being “smart,” of talking above peoples’ heads. I knew my place and had long since tried to acquire the skill of restraining the exposure of my intelligence, even with Hilo. Most days, my secret garden of words was enough for me, but the sadness of it all was that I would’ve never had the opportunity to learn any of these things if it weren’t for a turn in the weather and my husband’s bad luck.
    â€œI