It's hard to estimate, given Covid, but it wouldn't be a risk to guess that, this summer, more than three million visitors to Yellowstone will stop by this park behemoth. It's not as great a favorite as Old Faithful, but the Glacial Boulder, Yellowstone calls it, sits in state like a great gray relic between the trees, as if, like Gulliver, it’s imprisoned by matchsticks. The Glacial Boulder is huge. It shall not be moved, nor has it since it got washed along--that's right, washed along--by an anonymous glacier, impossible as that is to imagine.

Albert Colgrave [Public domain] / Wikimedia Commons

I was tired. Not sure why, but I was; and even though we'd been gone for little more than a day, I was anxious to get home. Besides, it was July-hot, thick and humid. We were alone on a two-lane highway, coming back from a small-town Fourth fest. Hardly anybody else was out on the road, which made driving nice, so nice I didn't want to stop.

I had planned to. I knew the old battlefield lay there right along the highway. I could have been in and out in a quarter hour, if I wanted to; but we just drove right on by. It was hot, too--not in the car, but outside.

Today I would like to recommend the nonfiction book, “Longitude: The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time” by Dava Sobel.

Wikimedia Commons

Seems to me that houses these days have no attics, and I think that’s sad.

In what might be his most famous book, Curtis Harnack, born and reared just outside Remsen, spends an entire essay on the attics he explored as a kid in his ancient Iowa farm house, one complete chapter of his celebrated We Have All Gone Away. 

That wasn’t enough. A few years later he followed up with yet another memoir of the farm, The Attic, proving thereby that attics are actually treasure troves.