In sublime overview of the valley of the Little Missouri River, in the Badlands of North Dakota, stands a simple but elegant residence from the 1880s known as the Chateau de Morès. As a historian, I have a little bit of a problem with anachronism here. You see, I can uncover no evidence that people in the territory ever called this place the Chateau des Morès. There was no Chateau de Morès, but there was a Chapeau de Morès. Which is to say, the hat of the Marquis de Morès.

A powerful new biography of Antoine-Amédée-Marie-Vincent Manca Amat de Vallombrosa, here generally known as the Marquis de Morès, has consequence on both sides of the Atlantic—in France, and in Dakota Territory.

James W. Foley Jr., who on his passing in 1939 was eulogized as “North Dakota’s unofficial poet laureate,” has always intrigued me. Not because of sublimity as a poet, although sometimes he surprises you with poems like “The Passing of the Prairie” or “The Garden of Yesterday.” More often he lapses into faux-vernacular rhetoric that doesn’t age well. Sometimes he descends to cynicism. Overall his contemporary, Clell Gannon, is a better poetic exponent of the children of the pioneers on the northern plains.

An old friend left an orphan cookbook on our doorstep, and it proved to be of more than passing interest. It is a centennial cookbook from the town of Lignite, near the Canadian line, published in 2007. It is a rich register, containing some recipes I’m going to try out, each credited to a particular person. I’ve never been satisfied with recipes for beer cheese soup—Jud and Gen Tracy’s recipe from the Chieftain in Carrington comes closest—but I think I can work with the one contributed by Nancy Nodland Hermanson.

Since publication of Thom Tammaro’s new book of poems, Aurora, by North Dakota State University Press, I have been present at two venues where Thom read from his work. He reads his work well (not a given among poets and writers). He reads with a manner that makes the room gentle. He owns the podium by ignoring it. Quiet confidence in his work.

Two conferences of regional scholars, one in Lincoln, Nebraska, the other in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, have taken the future of the Great Plains as their theme this spring. This sort of thing makes me uncomfortable. I can mouth off about the future like anyone else, but when I take up my tools as a historian, I have to say, the future is not my business. Heck, I’m not even sure the present exists.

Finally I found it, this song people were telling me about; found it in the Alfred G. Arvold Collection of the Institute for Regional Studies, at NDSU. The song, written by an NDSU graduate, James Golseth, is “Lilac Days,” an ode to spring, and beauty. Maybe also to hope, and persistence.

There is this group of people that gathers now and then in a converted gas station in Rapid City for what they call the Morning Fill Up. The agenda is to have a conversation with some interesting thinker with ideas about life in rural America, to have a “national conversation” within the context of the Great Plains. Now and then the contributions are gathered into a book and published by North Dakota State University Press. So now we have Rethinking Rural, Volume 2, with the subtitle, Reflections on Changing Communities.

Christmas Eve, 2015, on the Montana Hi-Line, somewhere near Glasgow, in a one-room school called Willow Bend. Miss Miller had prepared her pupils well, and the local correspondent declared their program “a success.” Then there was the ringer: a quartet of bachelor homesteaders, the Willow Creek Quartette, comprising Will Lloyd, bass; Raymond Sullivan, baritone; James Lloyd, tenor; and L. O. Carter. Lorenzo Otis Carter, that is. The absence of a part-designation with his listing indicates he was the lead singer.

Early in his new memoir from North Dakota State University Press, Tough but Fair: Reformation of a Prison, Memoir of a Warden, Winston Satran recounts a great escape. Ten prisoners broke out of the North Dakota Penitentiary in 1973. They overpowered officers in recreation areas, scaled the walls, stole a car, and lit out east on Highway 10. The ten-day manhunt required to return them to captivity was a shock to the public, and to prison administrators.