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My father was born in the autumn of 1922 in Deer Trail, a little railroad town in eastern Arapahoe County, Colorado. When he was very small the family moved to Iowa, where he grew up on a farm just outside of Ottumwa. His accent was a muddled mix of midwestern, with some cowboy drawl from Oklahoma that he inherited from his father and passed on to me in my earliest years.My father was a man of few words. He wasn’t stern or stoic, just quiet. He once told me that he didn’t talk much because he didn’t have any good stories that anyone would want to hear. After all, he was from Iowa. Iowa was the opposite of interesting. Iowa was, in his view, a flat, featureless field with no big cities, no mountains, no great forest, no national parks. It was too cold in the winter, too hot in the summer. Nope, Iowa was the opposite of somewhere. It was nowhere, he was nowhere, and everything interesting in the world was somewhere else.My father was a heavy equipment operator. A cat skinner. That’s what you call someone who op