This is Carson Wentz, and this is North Dakota
It’s Monday, I’m 5 miles outside Fargo, more than three hours into a drive, trying to make it to a funeral on time, when suddenly it’s there: the wind. It had been calm or at least seemed calm all the way from Minneapolis until this point, but now it’s howling. There’s not much to knock it down. It never goes away. This is the wind of my youth. Grand Forks is my hometown, about an hour north of here, but it’s all the same. I’m here at this point in far western Minnesota to say goodbye to my 90-year-old... Читать дальше...