I am not a religious man, but sometimes I go to church. The brick walls shield me from the noise and chaos of the world, and I find a stillness there I can't locate anywhere else, except maybe deep in a forest. And though I don't sing the hymns and I don't raise my hand during the sharing of joys and concerns, I still take pleasure in the sense of togetherness and ritual and hopefulness. The banker shakes the hand of the farmer and says, "Peace." The organ brays, and the congregation rises and struggles to match its voice with the key.
I feel something similar about Holt, Colorado, the stage for much of Kent Haruf's fiction. The winters are too cold, the summers too hot, and everyone knows everyone's…
