Stupid question.

Long, long ago, when I was a student in journalism school, we learned about interviews. The whole point was to learn to ask probing questions, learn to ask follow-up questions on the fly, ask questions requiring more than “yes” or “no” answers, ask again when someone dodges a question, ask for additional information to provide context to answers to questions, and so on.

You’ll note two words are repeated several times: “ask” and “question.” That, we were taught, was how reporters and writers and journalists and broadcasters and talk show hosts and others in the interview business conduct business—by asking questions.

It seems to be a lost art nowadays. Seldom do I hear interviewers ask a question. Now, it seems, the method-du-jour is to give orders. Instead of asking, you tell the person you are interviewing to “talk about” this and “talk about” that. Talk about, talk about, talk about. It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s breaking news, hard news, political reporting, sports interviews, talk shows, panel discussions, or whatever. Interviewers seldom seem to ask questions anymore. Instead, it’s “talk about.”

Talk about this. Talk about that. Talk about, talk about, talk about.

Whatever happened to questions and answers? I suppose that’s a stupid question in today’s world. I guess I should say, “Talk about the demise of asking questions in interviews.”

Double Header.

Two new books to tell about.

A collection of rodeo poems, Buckoffs and Broken Barriers, written over the years is now available online in paperback and eBook. The poems range from humorous to wistful and everywhere in between, and all are the result of years spent riding, working, or watching rodeo. Some are based on actual events. Others ought to be, even if they’re not.

Nine-time World Champion Rodeo Cowboy Ty Murray read the book, and had this to say:

“Rod Miller is a very talented wordsmith who brings out the humor, danger, mystique and drama of cow people and their sport. After reading many of his poems that depict his experiences as a rodeo cowboy, it’s a damn good thing he’s a hand with a pen.”

Coming mid-August is a collection of short stories, Shiny Spurs and Gold Medallions, co-authored with friend and fellow writer Michael Norman. Many of the stories are award winners or finalists for those honors, or recipients of other noteworthy recognition. There are Spur Awards from Western Writers of America, Medallions from the Will Rogers Medallion Awards, Peacemakers from Western Fictioneers, and other honors some of our stories have been fortunate enough to receive. We collected those award winners and finalists, wrote some new stories, and put them together in this two-author collection.

Michael is author of several modern-day Western mystery novels, and also writes short stories. Most are historical tales about the Apache wars in the Southwest. My stories run the gamut in setting, subject,  and style. The book is a Thorndike Press large-print edition, available from online booksellers as well as on the shelves at many libraries.

Whether your taste runs to poetry or short fiction or both, you’ll find Buckoffs and Broken Barriers and  Shiny Spurs and Gold Medallions enjoyable. You’ll get a taste of arena dirt, feel the heat of the southwestern deserts, and hear the creak of saddle leather. You’ll find a touch of anxiety and anticipation, some fear and uncertainty—and even the occasional laugh.

 

Word came down last week that Wallace McRae is dead.

He was among the handful of cowboy poets behind the rebirth of our art and craft in the mid-1980s, and his passing is a loss from which we will never recover.

The word “curmudgeon” was as firmly affixed to McRae as his bushy mustache, and it was a description I believe he carried with pride. To many, he came across as gruff. But underlying that gruffness were two simple facts: he had a low tolerance for bullshit, and he did not suffer fools gladly.

McRae was a poet. More than a mere rhymer, jokester, versifier, or entertainer, he wrangled words to create well-crafted poetry that spoke of the West in layers that plumbed the depths, asking questions and demanding thought. You will not find among his work the cheap emotion, the manufactured pride, the manipulative humor so often found in cowboy poetry.

I did not know McRae well. We were well enough acquainted to speak, but it’s not like we were drinking buddies. Back in 2016, he agreed to be interviewed for a magazine article I was working on, and we had a good, long talk at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada. I got what I needed for the story, and I got a lot more than I expected.

We talked about his early exposure to poetry, including his first public recitation at age four at a community Christmas celebration. And his exposure at an early age to one of the greatest cowboy poets of all time: “We got a livestock publication, my dad did, I don’t know what the title of it was, but it had a monthly Bruce Kiskaddon illustrated poem in it. . . . I knew Kiskaddon before I could read.”

I asked his opinion on what Kiskaddon and other early masters—Badger Clark, S. Omar Barker, and others—might think of today’s cowboy poetry. “My guess is, I think they would for the most part feel that we’re trying hard. But maybe not measuring up. Because so few people are trained now in writing. They haven’t read the classics. We haven’t studied the art enough. . . . I don’t think there’s enough of us that study poetry.”

McRae’s honors are too many to mention. But his legacy is one we should treasure—and we could all benefit from reading and rereading and studying his poetry. He was one of the best of us. And now he is gone.

Peacemaker Finalist!

Western Fictioneers—an organization formed in 2010 by professional Western writers to preserve, honor, and promote traditional Western writing in the 21st century—recently announced the annual Peacemaker (named for the iconic Colt revolver) Awards. My book, Hanging Man: The Hunting of Man Book 1, was a Finalist for Best Western Novel.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.”

That quotation seemed a good description for a bounty hunter, and Matt Crowder was born. A middle-aged former Deputy United States Marshal turned bounty hunter, Crowder is relentless in his pursuit of justice—although, at his age, he would rather not sleep on the ground anymore if he can help it.

In Hanging Man, Crowder comes upon a man hanging from a tree in an isolated area and pursues the mystery of who he is, why he died, and who killed him. He chases the two men he believes responsible, and along the way discovers graft and corruption involving the US Army, and in a chance encounter captures another wanted man.

In Running Man: The Hunting of Man Book 2, and Hiding Man: The Hunting of Man Book 3, Matt Crowder’s adventures lead him across the Old West on the trail of other outlaws.

History repeats itself.

Not long ago, while visiting the Long Barracks Museum at the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas, we came across this statue. It’s not a big statue, only 18 inches high or so, and displayed in a clear plastic box. There are other statues of a similar size throughout the short tour of the Long Barracks. This one depicts a padre—a priest or clergyman of some sort (we didn’t get his name) from the long-ago days before the Alamo became the Alamo and was known as the Mission San Antonio de Valero.

What intrigues me about the statue is that it proves beyond doubt that history repeats itself; that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Because what the statue clearly depicts is a padre with his handheld digital device. And he is doing, way back then, the same kind of thing you see happening everywhere, all the time, today.

Maybe he is engaged in a phone call on speaker. Perhaps he is sending (or reading) a text message. It could be that he is using the camera function to take a photograph—maybe even a selfie.

Could he have gotten an alert on one of his social media platforms? Is he responding to something on Facebook or Instagram or TikTok or the wreck formerly known as Twitter?

Since he is some kind of Catholic clergyman, it is probably a safe bet that he is not perusing a dating site or matchmaking service. I suppose he could be checking the weather forecast. Or he might be watching cute cat videos on YouTube.

By way of full disclosure, I don’t have any kind of handheld digital device myself, so this is only totally ignorant, wholly uninformed speculation on my part.

Trees and Indians.

Years ago, I lived on Oak Street. Living there always brought to mind the old joke that when real estate developers start a project, they cut down all the trees and then name the streets after them.

Something similar, only infinitely more tragic, has taken place since the first Europeans set foot on land that was to become the United States of America: our forefathers—government, military, business interests, and ordinary citizens—all but exterminated the Indian tribes that already lived here, then named things after them. States, counties, cities, towns, rivers, lakes, mountains, canyons, valleys, and more carry names derived from Native American languages.

Of our United States, 27 of them—27!—carry names that come from the languages of the tribes that occupied the land before being forced off by one nefarious means or another.

Here in my home state of Utah (named for the Ute Indians) there are five counties with Indian names, along with three cities and towns, at least one mountain and two mountain ranges, and a whole lot of other stuff. And Utah is not unusual—in fact, there are many, many states whose maps are marked with many, many more names borrowed from Indian words.

I suppose in some sense it is a sign of respect. But it is impossible to believe that whatever smidgen of honor is involved in any way scratches the surface of the damage we have done—and still do—to the people who lived here when our ancestors arrived.

(ABOVE: The Indian riding through the trees is a work of art by Bev Dolittle)

 

The Anti-Western?

Social media, I am told, is all abuzz these days with Larry McMurtry’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, Lonesome Dove. While I lack even a passing acquaintance with the online exchanges, I have it on good authority that the book is experiencing a resurgence, heaped with praise all the way up to and including being christened the greatest book of all time.

Much of the discussion revolves around Lonesome Dove being declared by some the “anti-Western.” I’m not sure what that means. It may have to do with the idea that McMurtry attempts to present a realistic portrayal of the Old West, warts and all—a departure from the romanticized, glorified version popularized by Owen Wister, Zane Grey, Louis Lamour, and others, continuing right up to our time. (Not that those good-versus-evil tales with their necessary triumph of the good-guy hero are unusual in literature. The same pattern holds true at least as far back as Homer and the legends of King Arthur, and continues in cozy mysteries, thrillers, fantasies, private-eye novels, Westerns, and even much of literary fiction.) But somehow, calling Lonesome Dove the “anti-Western” gives supercilious readers permission to read a Western novel—something their refined, sophisticated tastes would not allow otherwise.

But there is nothing new in Lonesome Dove’s attempt to present a raw, unvarnished version of the Old West. It has been done before and since, many times. Andy Adams tried it in 1903 in The Log of a Cowboy, a trail drive novel that, unlike Lonesome Dove, grew out of the author’s personal experiences.
Paso Por Aqui, penned by Eugene Manlove Rhodes in 1925, cannot be written off as glamorizing its subject. Nor can The Ox-Bow Incident by Walter Van Tilburg Clark, which has been turning the mythical Old West on its head since 1940. Glendon Swarthout’s The Shootist (not the movie, which pulls Swarthout’s punches) breaks all the expectations of the triumph of good over evil. True Grit by Charles Portis also represents a departure.

A previous Pulitzer Prize-winning novel set in the Old West, Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner, presents a realistic view borrowed from the experiences of real-life Western transplant Mary Hallock Foote.

It would be difficult to depart from the romantic view further than Cormac McCarthy does in Blood Meridian and The Crossing, or E.L. Doctorow in Welcome to Hard Times. Loren D. Estleman’s Bloody Season demonstrates the dubious distinctions between heroes and villains. And while a glamorized view of the Old West peeks through in Ivan Doig’s Dancing at the Rascal Fair and The Meadow by James Galvin, it is portrayed through the eyes of some characters, and is countered by the notions of other characters.

Are these examples—and others out there—“anti-Westerns,” or are they merely Western literature, sharing the stage with the broad range of plots, points of view, and approaches that make reading good books of any genre a joy? I cast my vote for the latter. To me, Lonesome Dove is not “anti-Western” at all, but “pro” good reading and a great Western novel.