The abominable itching of her scalp bothered her more than anything else. Her attempt was to pass as a young farm boy rather than the seventeen-year-old young lady she was. Her attire was most inappropriate for the heat of the summer, yet she had carefully chosen each item before setting out. Her inner thighs were sore, chafed by the four-sizes-too-large overalls she had donned for her journey, and her wrists were grubby and dirt streaked from constantly rolling up the sleeves of the loose flannel shirt. Her feet carried blisters and calluses representing the many miles covered, and now she pushed them into the soft soil beneath the tree to cool them. She had come a long distance, sometimes hitching rides in the backs of rattling wagons and once having the luxury of a leather seat in a Model T. The gentle whisper of the wind through the leaves was as pleasing as a lullaby to the weary traveler. She rested her back against the bark, the tree’s shade a welcome respite from the stifling August heat. It was one of the few trees left standing when the farmers cleared the land to plant their Turkey Red wheat some seventy-five years past. On the outskirts of Mountain Lake, Minnesota, a young girl was seated beneath a gnarled, century-old cottonwood. Hulda Schmidt (1872), 1898 O’Brien Family Treeīurton O’Brien (1870) m.
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