Nebraska is the most beautifully barren stretch of land I’ve ever known. Gold and desolate, wind-swept prairies, low-hanging clouds that bunch and tear like cotton, stiff-whistling winds that bob and weave through rusted wire, empty lanes where old jalopies cruise at 95 for hours. The distant farms appear so grand it makes one question states like Pennsylvania and Ohio, states where rotting barns and livestock brush right up against the road.
Bruce Springsteen, Alexander Payne, Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows … Nebraska is a place where “Rain on The Scarecrow” still makes a perfect world of sense, where the homeless nearly outweigh the young executives, where the mid-day sky beams bright and tranquil, despite dark storm clouds on the rise.