Jessie O’Callaghan looked rougher than a cob when I first met her in 1976. It was at her house on Swamp Creek, near Trout Creek, Mont. She was about 70 years old, short and very heavy with unkempt grey hair, and dressed in what could have once passed as a flower print dress. She was sitting in her kitchen shelling peas. Her eyes were small and blue, encased in folds of skin, and their expression seemed to alternate between skepticism and joy. Continue Reading →
