Jim, Randy, and I had just started smoking pot. We barely knew how. At first, we used an apple, a technique Jim\u2019s older brother had shown us. Wherever we smoked \u2013 my house, Jim\u2019s house, or Randy\u2019s mom\u2019s apartment \u2013 we disposed of the apple-pipe with the most careful attention to detail. For example, we didn\u2019t stuff it at the bottom of the garbage. Someone might smell it. We didn\u2019t chuck it outside into the neighbor\u2019s yard. Someone might find it, smell it, and turn it over to the police. Our fingerprints were on that apple. Instead, we\u2019d chop the apple up and stuff it down the garbage disposal, or flush it down the toilet, or just eat it. These, we thought, were foolproof methods of disposal. <\/p>\n
After we got the hang of it, we grew braver and restless. We drove around the rural countryside of Union County, apple in tow, looking for our next great revelatory experience. I was the only one with a car, an old Chrysler Concorde my parents gave me, and I took us by the cows and cornfields, the farmhouses and soybean fields, the woody banks of our Missouri River oxbow. While driving, we liked to play homemade tape recordings of our attempt at a band. We\u2019d nod our shaggy heads and say, \u201cSounds good, man\u201d or \u201cBad ass,\u201d dreaming big, even though the sound quality was shit and the instruments sounded like hissy white noise. <\/p>\n
All fifteen-year-old freshman, we fit together perfectly, Jim, Randy, and I. Jim was the big one, already over six feet and two hundred pounds. I was in the middle, three or four inches shorter and forty pounds lighter. Randy was no more than five-two. He actually had to gain weight to wrestle at one-hundred and three pounds. <\/p>\n
Eventually we started smoking out of a Dr. Pepper pop can. It became our first regular pipe, the first thing we used more than once. Again, the methodology and technique was imparted to us by Jim\u2019s brother, a legendary pot smoker. He loved it so much he dropped out of college for it. Well, that and cocaine. <\/p>\n
So Jim bent the pop can just so and poked little holes in the necessary places and I drove us out of Elk Point and down South Dakota Highway 50. I went farther than we\u2019d ever gone, past the road where you could turn right and head towards the hills and be in Iowa in five minutes. I decided to be spontaneous and turned off the highway onto a paved county road I\u2019d never taken. <\/p>\n
The hills became steeper in these parts, more forested, the houses less frequent. Eventually we came upon a little country cemetery. I think Randy spotted it. He was always absent-mindedly noticing things. We pulled off the highway and parked safely out of view behind some trees. <\/p>\n
A spiky black fence enclosed the old stone graves, which numbered exactly fourteen. It made me think of my brother Trent, who was one year older. As boys, my mom dressed us alike, and sometimes people thought we were twins. We shared sports, action figures, had the same friends. It happened quickly and without a clearly identifiable cause, but by high school we had completed our growing-apart process. We didn\u2019t hang out, and we didn\u2019t share mutual friends. I didn\u2019t know him anymore. I only knew that, at sixteen, he drank all the time and \u2013 the reason the cemetery reminded me of him \u2013 was obsessed with death. <\/p>\n
\u201cHey, look at that tree,\u201d said Jim. <\/p>\n
A lone, nondescript deciduous tree stood about ten yards from the cemetery gate, apart from the forested tree line, like a general in front of his cavalry. What really made it stand out was the rope hanging from one of its branches. We thought that rope was the coolest thing ever, and we tied it into a noose and smoked under the tree. That\u2019s what we took to calling it: the tree.<\/p>\n
We dug a little hole and stuffed our pop can in there, covered it with twigs and leaves. A little careless, yes, but we were safely in the middle of nowhere, miles from anyone. At least that\u2019s what it seemed like when you looked up at the open sky or gazed into the wooded thicket. There were shadows, and all you felt was stillness.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
Around this same time, Trent was getting on my nerves with his incessant mourning of people whom he knew, at best, casually. \u201cRyan\u2019s frickin\u2019 stepdad died today, man,\u201d he said one night at supper. \u201cThat\u2019s three people I know in the last two months who\u2019ve died.\u201d Ryan was Trent\u2019s friend Ryan Kayl, and Ryan\u2019s stepdad lived in Denver, some 650 miles southwest of our little town in the southeastern corner of South Dakota. I knew for a fact Trent had never met Ryan\u2019s stepdad. <\/p>\n
\u201cI bet you were really close to him,\u201d I teased. <\/p>\n
\u201cRoss,\u201d my mom scolded, even though I\u2019d had private conversations with her in which I expressed my belief that Trent had no right to be in mourning of people he barely knew, and she had conceded that she, too, found his constant verbal obituaries tiring. My mom turned to Trent and said, \u201cThe best thing you can do is just be there for Ryan.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s just so hard. Everybody close to me dies.\u201d He hung his head and dropped his fork on his plate, the metal clanking. He sobbed softly. <\/p>\n
I shook my head and sighed. Loudly. On purpose. I looked to my dad for support, but he just continued to chew his food. He stayed out of stuff like this, delegated the mediating of brotherly disputes to my mom. <\/p>\n
It was worse when Trent drank. He\u2019d get sloshed every weekend and pretty tuned up most weeknights. It was strange, though, because he wouldn\u2019t slur his speech or stumble at all. He\u2019d drink to this certain point at which his eyes glazed over, and then he\u2019d just start bawling about all the people he knew who\u2019d died. It was as if he\u2019d already lived an entire lifetime \u2013 or several \u2013 and everyone he loved had perished long ago. I suspected it was all a ploy by Trent to get attention, but the truth was I didn\u2019t know where it came from, nor did I make an effort to learn. <\/p>\n
He also started criticizing me for smoking pot. How did he find out? It was Elk Point. Secrets were public knowledge. One night while my parents were out, we were drinking in the basement \u2013 Jim, Randy, and I. Trent came home around midnight, crashing our party. He hadn\u2019t quite reached that sobbing state of anguish. Instead, he was angry. <\/p>\n
He said to me, \u201cYou\u2019re a fucking pothead.\u201d <\/p>\n
I said, \u201cSo?\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a worthless druggie.\u201d Druggie was the ultimate Elk Point drug pejorative, worse than stoner or burnout. <\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a worthless alcoholic.\u201d<\/p>\n
Trent came at me, fists flying. I absorbed a shot to the cheek, barely felt it. I wrapped my arms around him and brought him to the ground. He kicked and screamed. Randy and Jim just sat in their spots on the couch and recliner, respectively, amused and entertained. <\/p>\n
I should mention that my parents adopted Trent when he was five days old from a seventeen-year-old girl from Sioux Falls. I came along a year after that, and, fifteen years later, had two inches and twenty pounds on him. I held him face-down on the floor until he agreed to give it up. I let him go and he dashed from the basement living room and up the stairs. <\/p>\n
Randy and Jim shook their heads and chuckled. They\u2019d seen Trent and me argue plenty of times, but it had never gotten physical. A minute later, Trent reappeared with a twenty-gauge shotgun pointed at me. It was the one and only time I ever had a gun pointed at me. <\/p>\n
I laughed. <\/p>\n
Trent\u2019s eyes were red and moist and he cocked the gun and said, \u201cKeep laughing, motherfucker.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cCome on, dude, put the gun down,\u201d Randy said. <\/p>\n
I knew Trent would never shoot me. His finger wasn\u2019t even on the trigger. <\/p>\n
Trent laid the gun against the wall and sat down. We apologized to each other. Everything cooled down. Trent got drunker and started whining about some friend of his from Beresford named Zach Hardy who had shot himself. I loved Zach Hardy so much and Zach Hardy was such a good friend of mine and on and on. Rather than sit and listen to that drivel, I suggested to Jim and Randy that we get an apple out of my parents\u2019 fridge. <\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
We were at the tree, had just finished a few bowls off the pop can. We\u2019d got used to the tree, the cemetery, our little spot, and we were ready for the next big thing to happen. Randy pointed north down the county road – the direction opposite Elk Point – towards the top of a hill we couldn\u2019t see over. \u201cLet\u2019s see what\u2019s up the road,\u201d he said. <\/p>\n
We climbed in my car and ascended the hill, which led to more steeply rolling hills. As we headed north, the tree cover to our right grew thicker and thicker. \u201cIt\u2019s like a forest out here,\u201d I said. <\/p>\n
\u201cWhoa,\u201d said Randy, pointing out the window. A space had been cleared from the trees at the top of a hill and a log mansion stood large and proud like a castle, taller than the trees surrounding it. <\/p>\n
Jim said \u201cWe could record our first album there\u201d just as the tape recording skipped and cut out, then jumped to a spot several beats ahead. <\/p>\n
A few miles later, we ascended the steepest hill yet, and, upon descending the crest, came on a strange ravine. To our right was the continuous forest and to our left, there were two houses and what looked like an old-West style general store. <\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the hell?\u201d said Jim.<\/p>\n
I turned down the music and when we reached the hill\u2019s base, just before passing the general store, a posted green sign said Nora and beneath that Population 5. Time slowed to a crawl, or maybe I applied the break, but it felt like we passed in front of that sign for ten minutes. I heard the words Nora Population 5 in my brain like some kind of esoteric mystical chant, over and over, and I saw a vision of the sign in my head, even as I stared at it. <\/p>\n
\u201cHoly shit! Did you see that?\u201d Randy said. <\/p>\n
\u201cNora Population 5,\u201d I yelled. <\/p>\n
\u201cTurn around,\u201d Jim yelled. <\/p>\n
There were no cars for miles and I flipped around and pulled up to the storefront. It was actually just a regular-looking, off-white two-story country house, except that it had a saloon awning over the front with the words Nora General Store<\/em> painted in red letters. <\/p>\n I shut off my car, my heart pounding. I\u2019d never heard anyone in town ever mention anything about Nora. Ever. I wasn\u2019t exactly lost, but I didn\u2019t know where we were, either – how many miles we were from Elk Point, how far we were from the closest towns, Alcester, Beresford, and Akron. <\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re going in,\u201d Jim said, opening the passenger door and climbing out. <\/p>\n It was just Randy and me. I met his eyes in the rearview mirror. \u201cWe have to,\u201d he said, and got out. I checked myself in the mirror. Of the three of us, my eyes always got the reddest \u2013 double pinkeye, I called it – and this time was no different. I opened my door and followed Jim and Randy.<\/p>\n There was no open sign or store hours posted. Just a regular door atop a three-step concrete stoop. Jim knocked, and a few seconds later, it opened. We reeked like pot. <\/p>\n A plump, middle-aged man with greasy grey hair and a scraggly beard stood before us. His brown-rimmed bifocals were so thick they looked like Plexiglas. I don\u2019t know how he could see us through them. I immediately thought: this guy either repairs antique timepieces or he has children locked in his basement. <\/p>\n \u201cHi there,\u201d he said, chuckling to himself. \u201cWelcome to the Nora General Store.\u201d <\/p>\n We said hi in unison like triplets. <\/p>\n \u201cWhat are your names?\u201d he asked, looking directly into my eyes. <\/p>\n I swallowed before answering, my mouth drained of saliva. I desperately wanted cologne and Visine. And water. I said, \u201cRoss.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cRoss what?\u201d <\/p>\n I thought: make something up, make something up. \u201cRoss Wilcox,\u201d I said, as if reporting for duty. He went down the line: \u201cRandy.\u201d \u201cRandy what?\u201d \u201cRandy Ballinger.\u201d \u201cJim\u2026Jim Cunningham.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cCome in,\u201d the man said, opening the door further and backing in. He had a gimp in his right leg, and his shoulder dipped with each step. \u201cLet me show you around.\u201d<\/p>\n Inside, the place was enormously large and open, the ceiling almost two stories high. This is because the room housed, at its center, an old, beat-up wood-carved pipe organ. I\u2019d never seen one up close. \u201cDoes it work?\u201d I gasped. <\/p>\n Huge brass pipes stood on either side of the wood console like the columns of the Parthenon, rising all the way to the ceiling. At the console\u2019s center, three rows of keyboards elevated at staggered levels in a kind of keyboard staircase. A wood pedalboard of expression pedals ran along its base.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah it works,\u201d the man said. \u201cSometimes I have concerts here. I have them every Christmas.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCan you play us something?\u201d Jim asked. <\/p>\n \u201cSure.\u201d <\/p>\n He hobbled over to the organ and seated himself at the console. As he did, I took in the rest of the room. It was mostly bare except for a row of old chairs encircling the walls. At various spots hung tattered wreaths and Christmas stockings, and on one of the windowsills stood three wood nutcrackers. The paint on them was chipped, and they possessed the eerie veneer of forsaken porcelain dolls.<\/p>\n Suddenly, a deep burst of bass filled the room. My neck jerked and my body stiffened to attention. The man held the chord for several elongated moments, then ornamented it with a melodic fluttering of shrill notes. <\/p>\n He removed his hands from the keyboard, and the room went silent. <\/p>\n \u201cWow,\u201d Randy said. <\/p>\n \u201cOkay, here goes.\u201d <\/p>\n He launched into \u201cAngels We Have Heard on High,\u201d and the room thickened<\/em> with music. What I mean by that is you could reach out and tangibly touch the notes in the air, as if the sounds were sheets of gelatinous material circling about your hands, or crawling on your neck, or vibrating down your spine.<\/p>\n The man \u2013 the organist \u2013 looked like the pilot of some strange, medieval flying invention. His hands moved up and down the stack of keyboards \u2013 pressing buttons, turning nobs and dials, it seemed. His legs moved up and down, as if he were pedaling a bicycle, and his feet moved back and forth along the pedalboard, pushing down and releasing, down and releasing. <\/p>\n What\u2019s funny is I hate Christmas music \u2013 I always have \u2013 but I closed my eyes and let the room fill with country people come on a dark, frigid December night. Maybe they all drank hot chocolate to keep warm, I don\u2019t know. And maybe there were marshmallows in their mugs, melting together into a thick white foam. And maybe they sang along together like they do in church, Joy to the World, Silent Night, Bethlehem, the Wise Men and the works. <\/p>\n I breathed in Christmas carols, swallowing, forcing them down my throat. But they\u2019d disgorge in my chest, reverberating like a drill, and work their way back up my palate and out my mouth in exhale. I opened my eyes and thought: How rurally 19th Century European it all seemed. <\/p>\n Of course, once he was done playing, we had to hound him with the story of our band. <\/p>\n \u201cI play guitar,\u201d I said. <\/p>\n \u201cI play bass,\u201d Randy said. <\/p>\n \u201cI play drums,\u201d Jim said. <\/p>\n We told him how all our equipment was in Jim\u2019s parents\u2019 basement, how we played original, instrumental compositions which were totally in the vein of psychedelic post-punk art rock, how we recorded ourselves with a tape recorder and listened to it in my car, how we\u2019d played at a few parties and were looking to book gigs in bars but we weren\u2019t old enough, how we were eventually going to move to Omaha and get a record deal with Saddle Creek Records. Like Bright Eyes. You\u2019ve heard of Bright Eyes, haven\u2019t you? <\/p>\n Of course he hadn\u2019t. But he offered us milk and cookies, which gave him the connotative aura of Santa Claus. We sat in the chairs along the walls and ate our snacks and he told us about Nora. <\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s kind of strange, but I don\u2019t even know my neighbors. Those two houses you saw? I barely know the people who live there. There\u2019s an older couple in one of them, but they\u2019re not friendly. They keep to themselves. The other house is pretty much vacant. Some guy from Vermillion owns it, but he\u2019s never there.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cSo it\u2019s pretty much just you and that couple,\u201d Randy said. \u201cIt\u2019s really Nora Population 3, not 5.\u201d <\/p>\n The man laughed. \u201cYeah, that\u2019s right. We\u2019re down to three.\u201d <\/p>\n He told us a little more about how he grew up in some little town I\u2019d never heard of. They had a pipe organ in the church, though, and that\u2019s where he learned to play. He never married or had any kids, and he eventually reached a point where he didn\u2019t have to work anymore. So he moved to Nora and bought his own pipe organ. <\/p>\n A few chairs down from me, I spotted a purple Beresford Watchdogs sweatshirt. At a break in the conversation, I pointed at the sweatshirt and said, \u201cDo you support the Watchdogs?\u201d <\/p>\n The man looked confused for a moment, but his eyes followed my finger and he said, \u201cOh that. Oh, no, that belonged to a boy who used to do some work for me. He, uh, he died not too long ago.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cReally?\u201d <\/p>\n The man nodded, his face suddenly tight, solemn. \u201cYeah. He was a good kid. A really good kid. He\u2019d come out here and sweep and clean and help with the chickens.\u201d He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. \u201cI\u2019ve got some chickens out back.\u201d <\/p>\n I got up, fetched the sweater, and sat back down. Staring at it, I said, \u201cWas his name Zach? Zach Hardy?\u201d <\/p>\n The man looked at me, his eyes wide. \u201cYeah. Did you know him?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cBut my brother did.\u201d <\/p>\n I clutched the sweater tightly. The material felt different now that I knew who it used to belong to. I handed the sweatshirt to the organist. He took it. He rubbed it between his thumb and index finger. \u201cHe was a good kid,\u201d he repeated. <\/p>\n I didn\u2019t think, I just asked, \u201cWhy did he do it?\u201d <\/p>\n The man shook his head. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he said, his eyes on the sweatshirt. \u201cHe did a lot of drugs.\u201d He looked up at us. \u201cHard drugs. He wasn\u2019t happy. But I thought he was doing better. I thought he\u2019d turned a corner.\u201d <\/p>\n I stood up and said, \u201cWe have to go. I need to get home.\u201d <\/p>\n He thanked us for coming, told us to stop by again. But I walked out in the middle of his goodbye speech. I went to my car and started it, waited for Jim and Randy. <\/p>\n They got in a minute later, and Jim said, \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong, man?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cDo you guys even know who Zach Hardy is?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cYeah, he\u2019s that guy Trent knew from Beresford who shot himself,\u201d Randy said. \u201cThat\u2019s crazy he worked here at the Nora General Store.\u201d He laughed after that, probably because of the whole absurdity of the Nora General Store and the pipe organ and its organist, all of that, not because of Trent and his grieving. <\/p>\n But I got defensive. \u201cThat\u2019s Trent\u2019s friend<\/em>,\u201d I said. <\/p>\n Jim turned the music up and I\u2019m not sure if they even heard me. <\/p>\n \u201cWe should jam with that guy,\u201d Jim said. <\/p>\n \u201cWhat was his name?\u201d Randy asked as I pulled onto the highway. <\/p>\n \u201cWhat was<\/em> his name?\u201d Jim said.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n When I asked my mom about Nora, she said, \u201cOh sure. The Nora General Store. There\u2019s the guy with the pipe organ. I\u2019ve been to a few of his Christmas concerts.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cReally?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s been years.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s his name?\u201d <\/p>\n She shook her head. She looked confused, like I\u2019d asked her if she ran into John Lennon at work that day. She said, \u201cI don\u2019t know his name.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cWhere\u2019d he come from?\u201d I asked. \u201cLike, when did he suddenly appear in Nora?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cYears ago,\u201d my mom said. \u201cBut I\u2019m not sure where he came from.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cDoes anybody?\u201d <\/p>\n She shrugged. <\/p>\n \u201cIs he related to anyone in town?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think so.\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cIsn\u2019t it weird nobody knows anything about him?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cIt is<\/em> weird,\u201d she said with encouragement. <\/p>\n That weekend, we were at a bonfire party out in the country, off a gravel road by some grain silos. We told everyone about Nora, but no one was interested. They\u2019d nod and say, \u201cThat\u2019s cool\u201d and walk away, back to the keg or to some other, less esoteric group of people. We made a pipe out of a beer can and smoked. It was a pretty typical night \u2013 Jim, Randy, and I standing around hoping to get laid but instead just getting high, talking about how no one else in this town knew anything about music. <\/p>\n Trent was there, and towards the end of the night, when the gathering had all but thinned out, he was leaning against his car, talking to a girl two grades above him, a senior. And she was listening to him. Trent had the magic like that. <\/p>\n But not on this night. In a few minutes, the girl got in her car and drove off, and it was just Trent, standing by his car, orange in the glow of the nearby fire. We watched as he shifted his stance back and forth. He jerked his shoulders and grunted, as if he were trying to break free of a straightjacket. Then the sobs came. <\/p>\n We reached him as the tears fell. He covered his face and turned away from us. <\/p>\n I uncharacteristically put my hand on Trent\u2019s back and said, \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cFuck off,\u201d he said. <\/p>\n \u201cCome on,\u201d Randy said. \u201cTell us what\u2019s wrong.\u201d <\/p>\n Trent uncovered his face and said, \u201cWhat do you care?\u201d <\/p>\n Instead of telling him why we cared, I said, \u201cHave you ever heard of Nora?\u201d <\/p>\n At first, he shook his head, wanting no part of it. But we told him where it was, described how to get there. He stood still, suddenly calmer. We described the ravine, the green sign for Nora, the saloon awning, and the general store. His ears perked up, and he leaned forward a little, bending towards our voices. That\u2019s the thing about Trent. He listened. He even listened to our band, and no one cared about our band. <\/p>\n We told him about the pipe organ and the mysterious organist. We gesticulated wildly as we told him how the Christmas music filled the room. Meanwhile, the party thinned out, the bonfire dimmed. <\/p>\n We got to the last part, the part about Zach Hardy. I said, \u201cI found Zach Hardy\u2019s sweatershirt in Nora. The guy said that Zach worked there.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cReally?\u201d <\/p>\n Trent\u2019s eyes were dry now. Everyone had gone home. It was just the four of us standing by Trent\u2019s car. We watched the fire burn and slowly die, like the fading of an organ chord, and we listened, at least I did, to Trent talk about what Zach Hardy was like. And it didn\u2019t matter how well Trent knew him. Or if he knew him at all.<\/p>\n Jim, Randy, and I had just started smoking pot. We barely knew how. At first, we used an apple, a technique Jim\u2019s older brother had shown us. Wherever we smoked \u2013 my house, Jim\u2019s house, or Randy\u2019s mom\u2019s apartment \u2013 we disposed of the apple-pipe with the most careful attention to detail. For example, we […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":354,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[46],"tags":[24],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-3eA","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12436"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/354"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=12436"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12436\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12438,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12436\/revisions\/12438"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=12436"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=12436"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=12436"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}ROSS WILCOX<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"