Last month Sarah called from Farmington and said we need to drive out to Cynthia Dixon's and do a story on her lambs. "What about her lambs," I asked. "She just buried twenty-seven." I hadn't seen Cynthia since Desert Rock seven years earlier. At first glance she appeared as strong as I remembered, but her eyes couldn't hide her great loss. She showed me twenty-five graves, each one marked. Two of the graves had twins buried together. Like Dub's calves in Oklahoma, they couldn't stand or nurse. And like Dub she knew the culprit was coal.
be strong, be safe, Carlan