LAKOTA ELDER BLACK ELK, Black Elk Speaks, 1932 By the time I’d settled my score with Wolf Willow, a couple of years had passed, and life and work had been moving along, ordered and full of purpose. Then, as another winter closed down around us and just as I was preparing to write the last chapter in my prairie book, something terrible happened to us. Keith was diagnosed with cancer. Unable to foresee the three years of treatment that would follow or his eventual recovery, we were jittery, brittle with anxiety. For Keith and me in this time of crisis, Eastend and its circle of hills offered a respite not just from the city but also from the wonderful, terrible technologies—the wheezing scanners, the cold sizzle of radiation, the monstrous hypodermics—that were busily saving Keith’s life. Naturally, all of our worries came with us when we hit the highway, and sometimes the deserted streets and empty rooms that greeted us on our arrival threatened to make things worse.
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