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<blockquote data-quote="boondocks" data-source="post: 1113153" data-attributes="member: 20599"><p>Anything by Annie Proulx, but especially The Half-Skinned Steer. <strong>Read this, I beg of you! </strong> <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/past/issues/97nov/proulx.htm" target="_blank">http://www.theatlantic.com/past/issues/97nov/proulx.htm</a></p><p></p><p>I have it in a book of her short stories on Wyoming. Can't believe I found it online. As a teaser, here's the first 2 paragraphs:</p><p></p><p>In the long unfurling of his life, from tight-wound kid hustler in a wool suit riding the train out of Cheyenne to geriatric limper in this spooled-out year, Mero had kicked down thoughts of the place where he began, a so-called ranch on strange ground at the south hinge of the Big Horns. He'd got himself out of there in 1936, had gone to a war and come back, married and married again (and again), made money in boilers and air-duct cleaning and smart investments, retired, got into local politics and out again without scandal, never circled back to see the old man and Rollo, bankrupt and ruined, because he knew they were.</p><p></p><p>They called it a ranch and it had been, but one day the old man said cows couldn't be run in such tough country, where they fell off cliffs, disappeared into sinkholes, gave up large numbers of calves to marauding lions; where hay couldn't grow but leafy spurge and Canada thistle throve, and the wind packed enough sand to scour windshields opaque. The old man wangled a job delivering mail, but looked guilty fumbling bills into his neighbors' mailboxes.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="boondocks, post: 1113153, member: 20599"] Anything by Annie Proulx, but especially The Half-Skinned Steer. [b]Read this, I beg of you! [/b] [url=http://www.theatlantic.com/past/issues/97nov/proulx.htm]http://www.theatlantic.com/past/issues/97nov/proulx.htm[/url] I have it in a book of her short stories on Wyoming. Can't believe I found it online. As a teaser, here's the first 2 paragraphs: In the long unfurling of his life, from tight-wound kid hustler in a wool suit riding the train out of Cheyenne to geriatric limper in this spooled-out year, Mero had kicked down thoughts of the place where he began, a so-called ranch on strange ground at the south hinge of the Big Horns. He'd got himself out of there in 1936, had gone to a war and come back, married and married again (and again), made money in boilers and air-duct cleaning and smart investments, retired, got into local politics and out again without scandal, never circled back to see the old man and Rollo, bankrupt and ruined, because he knew they were. They called it a ranch and it had been, but one day the old man said cows couldn't be run in such tough country, where they fell off cliffs, disappeared into sinkholes, gave up large numbers of calves to marauding lions; where hay couldn't grow but leafy spurge and Canada thistle throve, and the wind packed enough sand to scour windshields opaque. The old man wangled a job delivering mail, but looked guilty fumbling bills into his neighbors' mailboxes. [/QUOTE]
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