Confessions of a Human Nerve Ending

  It Makes No Difference And the sun don't shine anymore And the rains fall down on my door Now there's no love As true as the love that dies untold But the clouds never hung so low before - It Makes No Difference Robbie Robertson                 Sometimes when I let my imagination rove I picture my dad running across a Montana wheat field, dark brown dirt under his fingernails, hair tousled, and long summer days where the only rule his parents laid out was, “Be home by dark.” In summers, in Montana, darkness came closer to midnight than regular dinner time hours. I imagine as the long day wound down, my dad sitting down next to a small fire, Montana cowboys and sheepherders telling stories, smoking cigarettes, and singing songs.   And I’m sure their voices cracked and sang off tune, and maybe the songs were traditional and passed down from generation to generation and may have sounded not unlike the music I grew up with. My imagination gets carried away and has a soundtrac