I remember the first time I tried to visit the French family grave, just outside of Wabash, Indiana.
It was a Sunday, in the middle of the winter, one day before the mini-blizzard that closed county schools and buried every car on Market Street up to its door handles.
I had just moved into town, and I was feeling the things you feel when you move someplace new. I was wondering if the people were nice, and I thought of the friends I hoped to make. I wondered if the new job would work out, and I hoped that Wabash was a good place to call home.
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