![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() I’d then creep slowly back up to Sandoz, red hair in a French bun, hands on her hips, standing quietly - even knowingly - at the window while her co-workers at the historical society buzz around her.īorn and raised in the remote Nebraska Sandhills, roughly 400 miles west of Lincoln, the author Mari Sandoz plowed her way into the literary canon of the Great Plains - just months after the teller’s leap - when she finally published “Old Jules,” the biography of her father, a Swiss homesteader. Perhaps I’d cut to the fingernail marks he left on the observation deck five floors above, or the note he left behind. I’d start with a 39-year-old hayseed - thin as a fence post and prickly as barbed wire - assaulting her typewriter on the ninth floor of the Nebraska State Capitol as a local bank teller plunges 135 feet to his death on the stone transept below. Were I to write a Mari Sandoz biopic, I’d start with a shadow racing across her desk. ![]()
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