There were giants in the earth.

Over Christmas, I read a book.

Really, this is noteworthy for me.

I haven't finished a book since 2011

(besides the Book of Mormon of course).

I picked a title off my reading list for my

"Cultural History of Scandinavia" class 

that I have this semester:

Giants in the Earth by Ole Rolvaag,

a book about Norwegian settlers in the Dakota territory.

I made myself read a little every day,

and soon I loved it.

There was something boring about it,

in a pleasant, intimate way of daily life.

I love those characters

who pushed west to the sunset,

creating their own fairy tale:

Per Hansa

Beret

Sorrine & Hans Olsa

little Peder Victorious

From here

I loved them so much that sometimes I got mad at them.

And in the end,

the harsh blizzard took two of their lives,

the vindictive winter "that drank the blood of Christian men

and was satisfied."

I cried on the airplane while I finished the book,

and when I looked out the airplane window,

there was the snow covered prairie,

the very same that murdered my friends.

And I was mad at the land below me as I cried.

And the fact that the book wasn't even real

meant nothing at all.