Bareback conversion stories

I was born on June 24,, on a farm near Berthold, North Dakota. The winters there are cruel; temperatures sometimes fall as low as 40 to 60 degrees below zero, and snowdrifts may cover a property. There was a wire stretched from the house to the barn so that in a blinding blizzard we could locate our way back to the house by following the wire through the blinding whiteness.

My father worked a section of land he had staked out from the government. If faithful in using the land, he could eventually own it. He raised wheat, a crop that only yields every seven years. Our nearest neighbor lived several miles away.

My recollections of this adj life are rather vague, except that we were poor. I was the oldest of five children. I had to amble three miles to our one-room school.

I was one of the poorest children in the educational facility. Some lunch-times when I had only an empty bread sandwich to eat, others would contribute parts of their lunch with me. Other times they threw me peanuts and laughed at me because I ate them shell and all.

One morning, I started out for sch