{"id":725,"date":"2026-08-13T20:55:44","date_gmt":"2026-08-13T20:55:44","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/?p=725"},"modified":"2026-08-13T23:16:58","modified_gmt":"2026-08-13T23:16:58","slug":"finding-jim","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/family\/finding-jim\/","title":{"rendered":"FINDING JIM"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

FINDING JIM<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am between destinations, on a long journey, at a place where travelers pause and gather. Not at home, and not at a grave, but thinking about what they mean. I’ve been driving a long time: from Fort Worth to Rapid City, and then along other back highways through the prairies and the mountains. I’m looking for something.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We buried my mother’s ashes on May 11, laying her to rest with my dad at the Black Hills National Cemetery, where he has been since 1989. It’s a place of serene order: row upon row of identical white markers. Everyone lies there equal in granite and silence. It is the democracy of the dead.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I remember the strange formality of the moment, standing at the grave, all of us struggling to know what to finally say. I read a verse from Proverbs, which describes my mother: “Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.” I miss her greatly. She was a journalist who always followed a story\u2014as I am about to do.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next morning we drove three hours to Lemmon, in Perkins County. Rolling fields and buttes, a two-lane highway vanishing into an endless horizon. The sky is not metaphorically large there\u2014it is measurably, disorientingly large — the kind of large that makes you feel the curvature of the earth. The wind wrapped around us, this particular day gentle and warm, but I could imagine how it might be in winter. Lemmon sits on the North Dakota border; its founder chose the South Dakota side because North Dakota was dry.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is the town where my dad Ernest grew up, the son of Norman and Eva Myrtle Buckley. My grandfather Norman lived in Perkins County from the time he was ten until the day he died, the last of his immediate family remaining.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We drove to the address where my grandparents’ house once stood\u2014a house we visited every summer as children. It was eventually razed by the Catholic Church across the street to make way for parking after my grandmother Myrtle moved into a rest home. I stood on the walkway leading to steps that are no longer there and tried to feel something specific, but what I felt was general: the way absence accumulates, the way a family can pass through a place and leave almost nothing behind.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We drove to Greenhill Cemetery, on the edge of Lemmon, to see our grandparents’ graves, and next to them, the graves of my grandmother’s parents\u2014Elmira and Andrew Smith, who came from Iowa with their six children to build a new life on the plains. I tried to do the arithmetic of inheritance\u2014what I carry from each side of the family, what arrived in me without announcement\u2014and mostly, I fail. Genealogy is not the same as understanding.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

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We continued down dirt roads and up a hill to the Sholass Cemetery, on the banks of the Grand River, overlooking the Shadehill Reservoir\u2014the final resting place of my Irish great-grandparents, John and Margaret Buckley. A passage from Willa Cather came to my mind, and I looked for it on my phone: “Everything here seemed strangely moving and significant, though signifying what, he did not know\u2026.He thought of city cemeteries; acres of shrubbery and heavy stone, so arranged and lonely and unlike anything in the living world. Cities of the dead, indeed; cities of the forgotten, of the ‘put away.’ But this was open and free, this little square of long grass which the wind forever stirred. Nothing but the sky overhead, and the many-colored fields running on until they met that sky\u2026.” I read this aloud, but my brother and sister were lost in their own thoughts.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We stood there at the graves of our ancestors; these people who died 120 years ago. What is there to say, after all, about people we’ve never met? And yet\u2026we are them. They came from County Cork and County Clare, which already tells you something: two Irish traditions, two counties, brought together in the diaspora that flung people from the old world through Erie and Iowa and the Dakotas, scattering them like seed. They stopped here, in Perkins County, in a place called Seim. Down the hill from where we stood, the reservoir was calm and silver in the afternoon light. Seim is somewhere underneath it. That’s the kind of ending a place can have in the American West.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My grandfather Norman’s obituary told me that his father John\u2014who had come from Ireland to work in the steel mills of Pennsylvania before plying the Dakota freight trails by ox team between Fort Yates and Belle Fourche \u2014 died in 1907. “The responsibility for the rest of the family was assumed by Norman Buckley’s older brothers, James and Mert.” Mert\u2014Joseph Murtaugh Buckley\u2014became the family success: his own obituary described a man of wide acquaintance throughout the ranch life of the two Dakotas who acquired vast holdings of land and livestock. He is remembered as one of the last great figures of the western range.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

But what of Jim?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was the oldest brother\u2014John James, but always Jim. It’s hard to locate him in the narrative.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A distant cousin shared a fragment from some newspaper he’d found: “\u2026Mr. and Mrs. Buckley were a grand old Irish couple who had come from Fort Yates, ND, in 1895 with their children Mary, Rose, Jim, Mert, Grace, and Norman. Rose soon returned east; Mary married Charley Ross; Grace married Sam Hooker; and Norman married Myrtle Smith. A big celebration was held at Seim in 1906 when the Hookers were married. Jim Buckley, who never married, had located on the place in 1894 for his folks. He was a Turkey Track ‘rep’ widely known and respected\u2026”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Turkey Track was the Cresswell Cattle Company\u2014a major ranching operation in Perkins and Harding counties, named for their brand, which resembled the track of a turkey. The Turkey Track Ranch sat on the banks of the Grand River, southeast of Lemmon, which was essentially the backyard of the Buckley family. A rep\u2014ranch representative\u2014was a prestigious position. When the big outfits ran their roundups across the open range, each major ranch sent a rep to ride along, identify their cattle in the mixed herds, and cut them out. It required horsemanship, deep knowledge of cattle, and the outfit’s trust. The statement calling Jim “widely known and respected” as a Turkey Track rep is not a small thing. He was operating at the highest level of that world.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jim came to Perkins County first and settled the family. He was older than Norman by nine years and Mert by three. He tended to his folks. He was widely known and respected.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He “never married.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s puzzling. What happened to Jim and where is his obituary? How had the one who carved the path become such a background character in the official account of a family? Why, I wondered. What was it about him?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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*****<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Our pilgrimage over, my sister Betty Lynn and my brother Pat return to Texas. I continue driving into the rolling hills of Montana, toward Vancouver, where my life is being reassembled into a new shape. I am widowed and now\u2014finally at 70\u2014truly orphaned. I feel the flux of being between an old life that is over and a new one that hasn’t revealed itself. Somewhere past Billings, I continue wondering about Jim, not knowing that Billings is the town where he spent his final years.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stop in Bozeman for a spell and start digging online. And there I find him.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not Jim himself, but the document that ends him: a death certificate, February 1944, Montana State Hospital in Warm Springs, the only publicly operated psychiatric hospital in the state. Cause of death listed as Senile Psychosis, Simple Deterioration. Which could mean what? Dementia? Alcoholism? Depression? Surrender? He was only sixty-eight years old, younger than I am now.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jim had been committed to the hospital in December 1943 by someone in Billings. He died two months later. He is buried in the hospital cemetery, where there is no public access, where the family of the deceased must make an appointment and be accompanied by an administrator to visit the grave.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

To my knowledge, no one has ever made that appointment. Not then, nor in the eighty-two years since.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

I begin to reconstruct him the way you reconstruct anything lost: from the edges, from the documents that survive, from the silences in what gets recorded. I write to the hospital to request any records they might have. I reach out to the Montana Historical Society as well.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A few days later, after a week in Bozeman, the highway takes me by Warm Springs itself. I see the turnoff. I know what is out there\u2014the hospital and the cemetery, sitting beneath a beautiful mountain range. I have tried calling to arrange a visit. No one has called me back. So reluctantly, I keep driving. It feels strange to pass so close and not go in, the way it might feel to stand outside a relative’s locked door, knowing they are home, and unable to find the key.<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

I am in Vancouver when the documents start arriving. It is raining, the way it rains here in early summer\u2014not a storm, just a steady gray presence, the kind of rain that seems to have all the time in the world. I am at my kitchen table with my laptop, reading the files. A records clerk in Helena writes to tell me she has found the commitment file. An archivist at the Montana Historical Society finds the patient ledger. A newspaper database, searched late into the evening, turns up more information.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jim takes shape, fact by fact, the way sediment becomes rock. None of it, alone, would be a man. Together, slowly, in the gray Vancouver light, the facts start to become one.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The evidence accumulates. Jim spends his young adulthood in an all-male world\u2014cowboys, bunkhouses, the open range. He arrives in Perkins County in 1894 at 18. He establishes a home for his family, moving them from Fort Yates, North Dakota. He becomes “widely known and respected”\u2014he has standing, dignity, a role. But his devotion to his parents prevents him from forming a separate household.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then his parents die, within a year of each other. His anchor is gone, and perhaps so is something else: his role as a caretaker, as a source of support for others. He has lived with them until he is thirty-two years old, the dutiful son in a houseful of cowboys, the one who never left. Most of his siblings have married by now\u2014Mary, Rose, Mert, and Grace\u2014all, except Norman, the youngest.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Within six years, in his late thirties, Jim leaves Perkins County for Billings, a new town, looking, perhaps, for the conventional life most everyone else in the family already has. There he meets Tillie Syverson, a widow, Norwegian Lutheran, outside the Catholic community in which he grew up.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In my imagination, he sees something in her\u2014the practicality of a woman who has already buried one husband, the steadiness of someone used to running a household. Perhaps it reminds him of his own mother. They marry in November 1913. But by 1914 the records indicate that Jim is back in North Dakota, working on his brother’s ranch.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then Jim loses his leg below the knee in 1915, in an accident with a gang plow. The details are unclear, but one thing is certain: a cowboy without a leg is a man whose life has already started to close.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I try to imagine what this means for a man like Jim. Not just the pain of it, but the particular vertigo of it. He has spent twenty years on horseback, trusted by the biggest outfit on the range to cut cattle out of a mixed herd at a dead run. His body has been his whole instrument and his whole argument: this is what made him “widely known and respected,” this is what let an eighteen-year-old become the man his family depended on. And then, in some unrecorded moment, a piece of farm machinery takes part of his leg. The man who was always the one others turned to becomes, instantly, the one who needs tending to.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

What does a cowboy become, when he can no longer cowboy? There is no language yet for rehabilitation, no path back to the saddle with a wooden leg strapped on with a canvas harness, no pension for a hired man hurt on someone else’s machine. He has to learn, at forty, an entirely new relationship to his own body\u2014how to stand, how to walk a furrow, how to climb into a wagon, how to be looked at by men who had ridden beside him and now watch him learn to walk again. The man who has been the head of the family is gone. What replaces him, I don’t know. I only know that he is learning, in real time, what he is now and that he can no longer be what he was. Whatever happens to his marriage happens to that man.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I learn from a newspaper clipping: in March 1916, Tillie files for divorce. She alleges “extreme cruelty.” She asks the court to restore her maiden name. What “cruelty” meant in a Yellowstone County courtroom in 1916 could be almost anything\u2014drunkenness, violence, the ordinary catalog of marital failure, or something neither the court nor the century yet had language for.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My guess: It\u2019s a man still learning what he\u2019s lost, and taking it out on the nearest person. Or maybe cruelty is just a legal word for a marriage nobody has the language for. Same year, they remarry, Stillwater County this time. Whatever she calls it, it isn’t over.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it doesn’t hold. By December 1918, Tillie publishes a notice in the Billings Gazette, refusing responsibility for his debts. In March 1919, it goes to trial by jury. She alleges cruelty again. He cross-files, alleging desertion, asking for a division of property\u2014then withdraws that request when the trial actually begins. The jury recommends divorce. No children. Granted.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twice married to the same woman, with an amputation in between. Maybe the marriage to Tillie is a genuine attempt to finally have a household of his own. Maybe it is something else entirely\u2014a question the record will not answer, and I will not pretend to settle. But I notice that the family history erases the entire decade\u2014as though none of it happened (they were Catholic, after all), as though the failure of it was so unacceptable, or maybe the truth behind it so unnamable, that the simplest thing was to make him a bachelor and leave it at that.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The census records track his movements. 1920 finds him back in Perkins County, once again in a bunkhouse, working as a farm laborer\u2014on one leg now, listed as single. I think about how that word\u2014single\u2014may mean something entirely different to him than it does to the census taker. I imagine Jim, as he looks at his siblings’ lives\u2014even his youngest brother Norman is married to Myrtle by this time–and he realizes he doesn’t really belong here anymore. So he leaves and disappears into a transient life in Montana.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

By 1930 he’s a cook at a construction camp in Great Falls, Montana, again, far from home, and now listed as divorced. By 1940 he’s a dishwasher in a caf\u00e9, back in Billings, lodging with several other men, all much younger. He’s listed in this census as widowed (though Tillie is still alive and living in the same city. She lives until 1972\u2014when she is finally buried under her first husband’s name\u2014Syverson, not Buckley\u2014as though the years with Jim are a door closed firmly and painted over.) I think about Jim cycling through various marital categories in the census records\u2014single, divorced, widowed\u2014and none of them quite fit.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sends my grandmother Myrtle a picture of the caf\u00e9 where he works\u2014a pressed-tin ceiling, pendant lights, two men and a woman standing behind a long counter\u2014with a note on the back that says, “This is where I work.” He wants someone to know where he is, what his world has become.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He doesn’t explain or apologize. He just sends her the photograph, as if to say, “I still exist, and this is where I am.” He offers it to Myrtle like a hand extended across a great distance. And she keeps it with the family papers, which means she understands exactly what this is, and takes his hand.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think about Jim, living out the rest of his life in rooming houses, bunkhouses, construction camps with other men who don’t ask questions. I think about the cowboy life, one of the few structures in which a certain kind of man can exist without constant explanation. I recognize something of myself\u2014I have found my own version of that temporary fellowship over the years, on film sets, among people thrown together by a job, dispersing again when the job is done, never quite settling into the place where I am working.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Among the files, there is a handwritten letter addressed to Myrtle from a landlady, dated on Jim’s birthday, December 17, 1943. It is unaccountably in the hospital correspondence: “Dear Mrs. Buckley, Received your letter and will say, they took Jim to Warm Springs, Montana (Hospital for the Insane) a couple of days ago. They couldn’t keep him here, he had to be watched all the time\u2026.This is all I can tell you.” The commitment papers list it plainly, in the flat language of institutions: “irrational conversation, inability to feed himself, wandering away, setting fire to bedclothes, destructive to bedding. Onset gradual. Elated at times.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The landlady watches as an old man begins to come apart, alone, in a city far from anyone who ever knew him. They examine him at intake, and he denies most of it\u2014says he didn’t tear up his bedding, says he didn’t wander off except once, last fall, when he got lost. He thinks it is a different year than it is. He thinks he is fifty-six. He is sixty-eight. He says his health is good. He tells the doctor he is in a railroad camp in South Dakota. But he is in Montana, in a state hospital, at the end of his life.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is a copy of a letter to my grandfather Norman in Lemmon while Jim is still alive, in January of 1944, telling him his brother has been committed. Their sister Grace, in California, is copied on it also. There is no mention of Mert. I look for some record of what Norman did with the hospital’s letter\u2014a reply, a wire, a note tucked into other papers somewhere\u2014and find nothing. I find no correspondence from him in the files, no mention of a visit, no indication he wrote back. It is the war, after all, and things are chaotic for everyone. Norman’s own son, my father, is flying bombing missions over Germany the same winter; the household in Lemmon has its own worries. I don’t know if Norman and Myrtle reached out to the hospital. The records don’t say.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of everything that I find in the files, it is Grace’s letter to the hospital that moves me most.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

She is sixty-two years old, doing housework in California, after fleeing from a bad marriage and the cold winters of the Dakotas. She writes to the hospital superintendent asking him to tell her brother that she loves him, that the family loves him, that she prays for him. She has no home of her own to take him to. She cannot handle him, she admits, even if she could. She asks only that someone make him understand he is not forgotten, and that the dying be made as gentle as money sent from a woman with very little of it can make it. Her letter arrives too late.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jim dies in the hospital on February 6, 1944, at Warm Springs, one leg, a fifth-grade education, far from anyone who had known him young. He is buried on February 10 in Grave 31, Cemetery 6, on the hospital grounds. A priest says Mass for him. The cooks and waiters’ union, of which he had been a member from his years working caf\u00e9 kitchens, provides a burial fund in his name\u2014one hundred fifty dollars, just enough. Grace offers to send more if it is needed.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think again about Seim. It was founded in 1894\u2014the same year Jim arrived to prepare the place for his parents\u2014a real town for a while, with two banks, a newspaper, saloons, a livery barn, a creamery, a school. Then the railroad chose a route to the north, and the highway went east. By 1918 the town was already emptying out. What was left went under for good in 1951, when a dam backed up the Grand River and the Shadehill reservoir rose over the streets, the foundations, and the ground where the dances were once held.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Seim’s disappearance and Jim’s are not so different. Both went quietly, and by forces larger than themselves. The town he called home went under, slowly, in the very years Jim went under in Billings\u2014both of them giving way to a world that moved on without them. By the time the reservoir finally closed over Seim’s streets, Jim had been gone from there for many years, and was himself long disappeared, down to the last things he owned.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

His personal effects, inventoried by a hospital nurse, fit in one brown leather suitcase: a brown felt hat, a worn wool suit, cotton trousers, denim overalls, eight work shirts, a heavy cotton union suit and two lighter ones, a sweater, a gray wool muffler, one pair of black leather shoes, a white handkerchief, three pairs of socks, a canvas harness for an artificial limb, false upper teeth and a lower plate, broken, a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, a safety razor. That was the whole of it. That was what remained of a Turkey Track rep, once widely known and respected across a hundred miles of open range.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I return to one detail from the hospital record: Jim was cooperative and orderly. He tried to adjust. This man — who no longer knew what year it was, who believed he was in a railroad camp in a state he had left, who could not always say where he had just been\u2014still, by every account, tried to get along.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

What’s left of a person when the things that make him recognizable to others fall away one by one: the marriage, the leg, the work, the name, finally the year itself? What’s underneath all of that? What persists when the persona, the place, and even the time have stopped holding still? Is our identity only ever the sum of what we do, who needs us, and what we are called? When those things go, is the person, in some real sense, already gone?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is what I have been looking for since I started driving. Not Jim, exactly\u2014though it took finding him to find this: I look for what persists. I look for what survives. I came looking for something without knowing what it was, and what I have found is the question itself, which may be the only honest answer a search like this will ever give me.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think about how much is chance. I was born into a family that holds tightly to its own. My mother remained present to the very end, reading the paper until her last days. My siblings and I drove many miles to bury her properly and to stand over the graves of people we never met. None of our good fortune was earned. It was given, the way a good hand of cards is given, not won. Jim was dealt a different hand: parents who died early, a body that broke at forty, a family that loved him in its way, from a distance that kept widening until it became permanent. He didn’t choose his disorientation any more than I chose my mother’s steadiness. The line between us is thinner than I want it to be.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

So I will do the one thing that is still possible. I will bring him back — not into the fold he was born into, which let him drift to the edges and off the page, but into a larger one. I will bring him into the fold that includes everyone who came before and made us possible, whether we ever knew their names or not. I will hold his confusion, his wandering, and the year in which he could no longer place himself. I understand the disorientation after losing the parents who were the center of his world, because I recognize the shape of this particular unmooring. I don’t need to resolve who he was to claim him. I only need to say that he was, that he mattered, that the thread runs through him to me, whether the family wrote him into its history or not.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

That, I think, is what persists: the thread. The willingness of someone, eventually, to come looking. I will make the appointment. I will go back. Someone will walk me out to Grave 31, Cemetery 6, and I will stand where Grace and Norman could not stand, where no one has stood in eighty-two years. I don’t know what I will say to him. Probably nothing. I think the standing there will be enough. I will let him know, the only way left to tell a dead man anything: that he is remembered.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I will honor Jim Buckley, who never married.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

June 30, 2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/a><\/figure>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

“We stood there at the graves of our ancestors; these people who died 120 years ago. What is there to say, after all, about people we’ve never met? And yet\u2026we are them. They came from County Cork and County Clare, which already tells you something: two Irish traditions, two counties, brought together in the diaspora that flung people from the old world through Erie and Iowa and the Dakotas, scattering them like seed. They stopped here, in Perkins County, in a place called Seim. Down the hill from where we stood, the reservoir was calm and silver in the afternoon light. Seim is somewhere underneath it. That’s the kind of ending a place can have in the American West.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":726,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-725","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-family"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/725"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=725"}],"version-history":[{"count":15,"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/725\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":756,"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/725\/revisions\/756"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/726"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=725"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=725"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/normanbuckley.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=725"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}