13 miles NW of Grassy Butte

That is where I grew up. 13 miles of dirt road from the nearest gas station, post office, grade school, and most importantly, bar.
I think about driving 13 miles (on a nice, paved road) and it seems like such a big pain in the butt. But growing up, I made that trip (plus stops in between) daily for 1st through 6th grade on dusty, wash-board roads. Once I hit 7th grade, it was another 30 miles each way. Or if you needed a real hospital, add another 60 miles or so to that 13.

We didn't bother with doctors and such too much as there was never enough money (oh how that rings through my head still today), and certainly not hospitals. Except one time.

I was probably 10 at the time. Mom was stressed out as usual, but I could tell it was worse than normal. She sat hunched on her stool in the kitchen,  cigarette in hand, shaking...whole body shaking. I went to rub her shoulders like I did when I knew she was upset, but I could feel the hopelessness of the situation without really knowing what was going on. I tried to sooth her, but I might as well have been trying to sooth.

Then it happened. She popped off her stool, glassy eyes wide as she skipped in circles around the house, wrapping on the walls while singing a song about how "they" were going to take her "to the funny farm" and she would "knock on the walls for them to let her out."

"They" was my oldest brother and his wife who drove her to the hospital, 73 miles away, where she stayed for several weeks recovering from her "nervous breakdown." Because it was 73 miles, I only visited a couple times. But that was okay. I couldn't have admitted it then, but it was a welcome relief to not have to be my mother's keeper for those weeks. It was sad, it was lonely, but there was a peace in the alone-ness that I shared with my alcoholically shut-down father.

And when "they" finally brought her home, I was reminded by my brother that it was my job to keep my mother's nerves calm, out there, 13 miles from nowhere, 13 miles NW of Grassy Butte.