You could trace Lyman’s progress yearly for almost twenty years across the country, starting in the West, then the Middle West and the Deep South, and finally the East, like he had some feeble notion of reversing the tide of pioneer migration so as to end up at the beginning, where, for him, the first wrong step had been taken,  where his old man’s old man had been carried in his great-great-grandmother’s arms down the plank off some boat in shit filled diapers.

Kent Haruf, The tie that binds.

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