My favorite book, Part 32

For years, Wendell Berry has been one of my favorite writers. He is versatile, penning poems, essays, nonfiction, short stories, and novels. I like all of it. But perhaps my favorite of his works is Watch With Me: and Six Other Stories of the Yet-Remembered Ptolemy Proudfoot and His Wife, Miss Minnie, Née Quinch.

The stories are set in Berry’s fictional community of Port William, Kentucky. He has written several novels and lots of short stories about the place and its people, set from just after the Civil War till now, and their relationships to one another and the land.

Watch With Me: and Six Other Stories of the Yet-Remembered Ptolemy Proudfoot and His Wife, Miss Minnie, Née Quinch, stars Ptolemy “Tol” Proudfoot and Miss Minnie, who, later in life than is usual, become husband and wife. They are an unlikely pair—he an oversized and disheveled farmer whose slow and easy ways fool people into believing he is a bit dim upstairs, while she is a diminutive, prim and proper schoolmarm who is sharp as a tack. As their relationship develops over—roughly—the first half of the twentieth century, they learn to accommodate and appreciate one another’s ways and make a happy marriage.

Much of what the book recounts about Tol and Miss Minnie is humorous—some of it laugh-out-loud funny. There’s an incident in a country store featuring Tol and a basket of eggs that is one of the most amusing stories I have ever read or heard. In true Wendell Berry fashion, the book presents country folk as complex, layered characters rather than the hicks and bumpkins we so often see.

Wendell Berry’s writing has earned him the distinction of numerous literary prizes and honors, including receipt of the National Humanities Medal in 2010 and the Life Achievement Award from the National Book Critics Circle in 2016. In addition to a busy writing life, Berry practiced the old ways of agriculture he often writes about, farming with mule teams and raising crops on land where he and his wife still live. His way of writing is likewise old-fashioned—every one of the millions of his published words was written in longhand on paper with a pencil. You would be hard-pressed to find any author who has done more or better with the benefit of all the modern conveniences.

If you don’t know Wendell Berry, it’s time you met. Watch With Me: and Six Other Stories of the Yet-Remembered Ptolemy Proudfoot and His Wife, Miss Minnie, Née Quinch would make a fine introduction.

Who killed Lily?

The building of the Central Pacific toward Promontory Summit in Utah Territory and the completion of the transcontinental railroad was accompanied by a string of mostly temporary towns known collectively and individually as “Hell on Wheels.” Two Finger Pete tended bar at O’Sullivan’s Saloon in those towns. At Corinne, the last of the Hell on Wheels towns, he partnered up to build the Promontory Saloon, a more prominent establishment in a city with big plans.

But one morning a body was discovered in an upstairs room—the murdered, mutilated body of a young woman.

Who killed Lily?

The town marshal, the county sheriff, and deputy United States marshal Porter Rockwell work together and apart and sometimes at odds to find the killer. With little evidence, questionable clues, several suspects, multiple motives, doubtful alibis, and unexpected complications, unraveling the riddle proves a challenge.

Who killed Lily?

Can you solve the crime before the lawmen do? As Flame to Smoke is scheduled for release in a large-print edition from Thorndike Press in early June. Reserve a copy today at Bookshop.org, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online booksellers.

Who killed Lily? It’s a mystery.

The West is dead.

Not long ago I read a book titled Paper Talk. It is a collection of dozens of illustrated letters and other odds and ends by the late, great Western artist Charles M. Russell, edited and with commentary by Brian Dippie. Included in the collection is the above drawing and verse Russell inscribed in a book for a friend. It reads:

The west is dead my friend
But writers hold the seed
And what they sow
Will live and grow
Again to those who read.
—C.M. Russell, 1917

I like the short poem for a couple of reasons. There is Russell’s declaration that the West is dead. He made that statement in 1917, but he was not the first (nor would he be the last) to voice the sentiment. The West has died on numerous occasions, beginning in the nineteenth century. It died when the great trail drives out of Texas ended. It died with the end of the open range era and the invention of barbed wire fences. It died when the influence of women tamed the wild and violent towns. It died when historian Frederick Jackson Turner mourned the closing of the American frontier in 1890, and with it the westward movement that created the unique American character. And the West has continued to die, over and over again ever since, with the homestead act, with the regulation of public lands grazing, and you name it. The West is dead.

But the truth of it is, the West has never died. It has evolved and changed just as the North, South, East, and all the other points on the compass have adapted over the years, and will continue to do so. Still, through it all, the West managed to maintain much of its character as it aged.

And at least some of the reason for the truth that the West lives on is credited in Russell’s claim that writers “hold the seed.” The so-called Westerns created by writers—whether stories, poems, songs, radio plays, movies, television, histories, biographies—have also been declared dead on more occasions than anyone can remember. But Western writing is as prone to survival as the West that inspires it. It carries on and continues to “live and grow / Again to those who read.”

The West is dead. Long live the West.

Thank you for making it so, whether you are a Western writer or Western reader.

Good news.

Western Writers of America just announced the results of the 2026 Spur Awards for literary works published in 2025.

“Leftovers,” from the collection Buckoffs and Broken Barriers: Rodeo Poems, was named a Spur Award Finalist for Best Western Poem. It is a lighthearted verse bemoaning the state of an old, broke-down rodeo cowboy long, long past his questionable prime, reminiscing about the past. It is not altogether autobiographical.

“Rawhide Robinson Faces Fear” was honored as a Spur Award Finalist for Best Western Short Fiction. The story appears in the collection Shiny Spurs and Gold Medallions, which features award-winning stories from the past (and a few more) by yours truly and fellow author Michael Norman. Now, Rawhide Robinson has truly earned his place in the book. (Rawhide Robinson is, by the way, winner of a Spur Award and twice a Spur Award Finalist as the subject of previous novels.)

Since 1953, Western Writers of America Spur Awards have honored writers “for distinguished writing about the American West. . . . Spur Awards have been one of the most prestigious awards in American literature.” In addition to the Spur winner, two Finalists are named in each category. I have been fortunate to have won four Spur Awards—two for short fiction, one for poetry, and one for a novel.

These two new Finalists bring the total to eight for that recognition, joining other Finalists for short fiction and poetry, as well as novels and a song (with stellar cowboy singer/songwriter Brenn Hill).

Sometimes you get lucky. I just got a little bit lucky again. Twice.

 

Express mail.

With a gash in his side and an arrow lodged in his shoulder, Pony Express rider Thomas Jefferson Jackson fights off pain, fatigue, and blood loss in his quest to reach the home station and pass along the mochila. Above all, the mail must get through.

His meandering thoughts continually turn to Loriann, the girl he left behind, and he wonders if his imaginative efforts to communicate with her through marked passages on pages torn from the pocket-size Bible provided by Express company Russell, Majors, and Wadell, will reach her and convey his feelings for her.

You’ll ride with Tom through dangerous desert plains, mountains, and canyons across Utah Territory’s West Desert in The Mail Must Get Through, a heart-wrenching story of courage, commitment, and love.

The Mail Must Get Through is available in paperback and eBook. Follow the link, or watch for it on your favorite online bookseller site and on eBook sites.

 

MISSING PERSONS

There is a move afoot by businesses in our country to eliminate any and all person-to-person interaction. Somewhere between “press one for . . .” menus on touchtone landline phones, “apps” on mobile phones, and “AI” rearing its head in everything digital, it has progressively progressed (or degenerated) to the point that it just might be possible to spend entire days and weeks, perhaps a lifetime if you are young enough, without ever having to rely on another human being to get something done, at least not directly.

Where have all the people gone?

At the grocery store, you can wander the aisles then scan and sack your purchases without human intervention. Or you can do it without leaving home, using an app to shop online. Then you can arrange with a delivery service—again through an app—to leave what you bought on your porch. Rather than knock on the door, they’ll take a picture of your purchase sitting there and send the photo to you in a text message to let you know it has arrived.

Speaking of text messages, when was the last time you actually called a friend and spoke to them? Or even left a recording of your voice on a messaging system that allows them to never speak directly to another person?

What if you’re one of the rare breed who wants to talk to people on the phone? Dial up a business and you’ll more than likely have to wend your way through a lengthy session of button pressing to conduct your business. A living, breathing, human being is only available as a last resort after pressing another button and waiting and waiting and waiting for your call—which is important to them—to be answered by a person. Even then, that person is unlikely to actually converse with you. Instead, they will read canned responses from their computer screen which may or may not (usually not) answer your question or solve your problem.

Looking for help online—already a step removed from human interaction—used to result in a slow-going, tedious exchange of typed messages with someone on the other end. But those people seem to have been replaced by AI. But artificial “intelligence” offers no discernable improvement in intelligence. Often there is no direct response to your question at all, just a choice of answers only tangentially related to your query, if at all. And then they want you to answer a little quiz about how satisfied you were with their performance.

Getting your order taken at the counter in a fast-food restaurant appears to have joined the list of threatened and endangered species. The invasion of “kiosks” is making contact with a person unnecessary and, it seems, unwanted. If you prefer the drive-through window, you are encouraged to order through the “app” and avoid even speaking to a person through the speaker. At an increasing number of sit-down restaurants you can find little gadgets on the table that let you place your order without dealing with a person, and maybe play a few games while you wait for your food. Your dining experience requires only the briefest of contact with a human person as he or she flits past to put your food on the table. Then you can pay the check on the gadget, and be invited to take a survey about how satisfied you are with their customer service. Or, of course, you can stay at home and get it all done and delivered through those “app” things.

Health care has also become a pain for those who wish to engage with humans. Online “portals” require you to ask your questions, set appointments, get referrals, request prescriptions, see test results, and just about everything else, all without human contact.

And that’s not all: You can buy anything your heart desires from online retailers, from roller skates to automobiles, all without human contact. Banks are in on it. Money lenders. Car dealers. Gas stations. Movie theaters. Pharmacies. And on and on and on.

Finally, and perhaps most damning of all, even those annoying telemarketers in their call centers are giving way to recorded messages and make-believe conversations with artificial people who offer you things you don’t want or need.

The world is changing. Or maybe it has already changed.

Where have all the people gone?

 

Sad Anniversary

January 29 marks 163 years since a Shoshone winter camp was attacked by forces of the United States Army, leaving as many as 350 children, women, and men dead. Events leading up to the attack are many and complicated and years in the making. But the government’s actions cannot, in any way, be justified, excused, or explained.

It was a tragedy unprecedented at the time and unmatched since. No other of the many unpardonable actions against the native people who have populated the West for thousands of years can match the Massacre at Bear River. By any measure it was the worst we—our white American ancestors—could do. And yet it is little understood and almost entirely forgotten by history. The few accounts that do exist in history books are often incorrect and inaccurate.

For one of the few times over the past two decades, I will miss the annual commemoration at the massacre site, hosted by the Northwestern Band of the Shoshone Nation. But my heart will be with the families and descendants of the victims, and the hundreds of supporters who will gather a few miles north of Preston, Idaho, to honor the fallen as well as the survivors.

The Massacre at Bear River has been something of an obsession with me. I have written a book of history about the massacre, as well as magazine articles and other nonfiction accounts. And I have attempted to capture the emotion and the human aspects of the event in poems, song lyrics, short stories, and a novel (available in hardcover, paperback, and eBook).

The Massacre at Bear River is a stain on our nation that is not pleasant to remember, but one that should never be forgotten.