There
once was a young girl whose name was Dana.
Dana
lived in a big grey house with her mom, her two sisters, her four brothers, and
a three-legged bulldog named Trigger. Their big grey house sat beside a dry red
road made out of dirt which ran into a slightly bigger road made out of gravel.
And the road made out of gravel ran into a road made out of concrete, and the
road made out of concrete ran into a convergence of streets, and this convergence
of streets was the town square of a place you’ve never heard of, right in the
middle of Oklahoma, which is equally far from everywhere.
The
town where Dana grew up was a curious sort of town where the dogs outnumbered
the people, and the snakes outnumbered the dogs, and the tumbleweeds
outnumbered the snakes, and the churches outnumbered the tumbleweeds, and
nothing outnumbered the churches except tornadoes.
Now,
it might seem strange to you, or wrong, or it might even seem to be a lie that
there exists such a town where churches outnumber people, but in the town where
Dana grew up there was exactly the right number of everything. There was the
right number of people and the right number of dogs, the right number of snakes
and the right number of tumbleweeds.
