Rod Miller's Blog, page 6

NFR Icons.

Like many of you, I suspect, I recently spent ten days in rodeo heaven watching the National Finals Rodeo. This year, the festivities included a new event: the naming of “NFR Icons,” honored with a banner hoisted into the rafters and their image enshrined in a bronze sculpture.

The first honorees were Ty Murray, Charmayne James, and Trevor Brazile. The reasons for honoring those three are many and well chronicled, so I won’t go into that. What I will mention is the bronze sculpture each received.

The sculptures are the creation of cowboy artist Jeff Wolf, a friend I have known since our boyhood days in the same hometown. Jeff’s work has been honored and exhibited and displayed and featured and awarded far and wide. And rightly so, as his depictions of Western life capture the soul and spirit of the people and the place, right down to the animals. His heart and hands find essence and energy in lumps of clay and breathe life into bronze.

I had the pleasure of seeing the NFR Icon sculptures in progress while visiting Jeff at his studio one day this past summer. That memory will be treasured as much by me as the finished works will be cherished by the recipients.

Jeff’s name as artist and creator was not mentioned in any of the reports I read about the NFR Icon honors. Shame. As well miss out a bronc, tip over a barrel, or break a barrier.

Four totally useless skills I have mastered.

For several years now I have been of an age that qualifies as old. I am not feeble as yet—at least not for very long at a stretch—and my health is generally good. But I am definitely in my dotage.

Among the things that often happen at this time of life is an accounting of what you have accomplished. My list is short. But among my accomplishments are a few things I was—or still am—good at that are completely useless outside of the possibility of providing fleeting enjoyment for those easily entertained.

1. Jump in the air and click my heels three times.
This one may have left me, but it remains a point of pride for someone (me) whose coordination and physical abilities are generally lacking.

2. Recite the alphabet backwards.
Although assembling the twenty-six letters of the alphabet has earned my daily bread throughout my adult life, I have seldom, if ever, been called upon to recite it in reverse. But I could if asked.

3. Flip a rope into a bow knot.
It takes no more than the blink of an eye. You would think this skill might come in handy for tying shoes, but I do not remember owning a pair of shoes with laces.

4. Hypnotize a chicken.
I have done this. I can do this. Don’t ask me why.   

There you have it. Four things I can do that matter not a whit. (It is, as they say, a slow news day.)

Remembering 9/11.

September 11. A date burned into history like a brand. The date of the deadliest mass murder on American soil. But the 9/11 chronicled in With a Kiss I Dieoccurred in 1857 at a place called Mountain Meadows in Utah Territory—an evil deed unsurpassed in bloody violence until its one hundred and forty-fourth anniversary in 2001. 

With a Kiss I Die—A Novel of the Massacre at Mountain Meadows  is a love story entwined in the tragedy of the Mountain Meadows Massacre. Polly Alden, a young California-bound Arkansas emigrant, falls in love with Tom Langford, a Mormon boy she meets in the settlements of Utah Territory. Caught between the fear and hatred of the persecuted Saints for the emigrants, and the hostility of the emigrants toward Mormons who will not replenish their dwindling supplies, the young lovers defy mistrust and opposition as they aspire to a life together.

Animosity between the emigrants and the settlers grows as the wagon train makes its way south through the territory, culminating in the blood-stained soil of Mountain Meadows.

Follow the trail of the Arkansas emigrants and the blossoming affection of the star-crossed lovers in a compelling, engaging tale inspired by history—and the eternal conflict between good and evil, hatred and love—through the pages of With a Kiss I Die.

 

All about cowboys.

“Cowboy” is a word that implies much more than it means. To my way of thinking, one of the best definitions of the word is that applied by the late cowboy author Eugene Manlove Rhodes: “the hired man on horseback.” My dad used to say that the way to tell a real cowboy was by the cowsh*t on his boots. It all comes down to cows and horses.

Granted, those definitions may be too limiting, especially today. But, thanks to the days when Westerns dominated movie and TV screens, “cowboy” came to be applied to too many kinds of people, most of whom had no idea which end of a cow gets up first, and had never had manure on their boots. Outlaws, lawmen, gamblers, gunfighters, and all manner of others who appeared in Westerns (except those gathered under the likewise too-broad term, “Indians”) were referred to collectively as “cowboys.”

A while back I was approached by Shepherd.com, a web site devoted to readers, and asked to list five books I thought represented something important in the literature of the American West. I titled my contribution “The best novels about cowboys who are actually cowboys” and wrote a brief note about each of my five selections. Each novel on the list carries a storyline that revolves around cowboys doing actual cowboy work. While works of fiction, all the books feature an authentic look at cowboys, cowboy work, and cowboy life.  

Take a look at the list on Shepherd.com. See what you think. You may disagree with my selections or my premise or my reasoning. You may be inspired to read one or more of those books if you haven’t already. For more years than I care to remember, reading and writing about cowboys is as close as I have come to having cowsh*t on my boots. But I still haven’t forgotten which end of a cow gets up first.

NOTE: I borrowed the bronze sculpture pictured above from noted Western artist Jeff Wolf—he’s a cowboy born and raised, and knows whereof he sculpts.

The Return of Rawhide Robinson.

Rawhide Robinson is the star of three of my previous novels. Rawhide Robinson Rides the Range – True Adventures of Bravery and Daring in the Wild West won a Western Writers of America Spur Award. Rawhide Robinson Rides the Tabby Trail – The True Tale of a Wild West CATastrophe won a Western Fictioneers Peacemaker Award and was a Spur Award finalist. Rawhide Robinson Rides a Dromedary – The True Tale of a Wild West Camel Caballero was a finalist for both honors.

Now, after laying low for a few years, tall-tale-teller Rawhide Robinson is back. Speaking Volumes, publisher of the paperback and eBook editions of the aforementioned books, has just released the new, never-before-published Rawhide Robinson Rides a Wormhole – The True Tale of Bravery and Daring in the Weird West in paperback and eBook.

As you may know, extraordinary things often happen to ordinary cowboy Rawhide Robinson. In his latest adventure(s), while riding herd on a ranch in the remote Nevada desert a lightning strike zaps him into the middle of the twentieth century and the middle of Area 51, a top-secret experimental airbase where strange things are said to happen.

In a chance encounter, Rawhide Robinson meets young teenager Eric, who helps the discombobulated cowboy escape the clutches of military police, the CIA, and local law enforcement, and gets him mixed up in a kidnapping by Las Vegas mobsters. All the while, Rawhide Robinson entertains with his signature tall tales as he wonders if he will ever get out of the modern world and back to the Old West.

Learn more about Rawhide Robinson and his adventures on his very own website, RawhideRobinson.com. The books are available at Speaking Volumesand from online booksellers listed below.

The sentiment author Ol’ Max Evans once inscribed in my copy of The Rounders certainly applies to Rawhide Robinson Rides a Wormhole: “Have fun here—I sure as hell did.”

eBook On Sale Now:
Amazon US
Apple Books
Barnes & Noble
Google Play
Kobo Books

Preview eBook Here:
Amazon US
Google Play

Print Book On Sale Now:
Amazon US
Barnes & Noble

City of Rocks.

In south-central Idaho, not far from the borders of what are now Utah and Nevada, is a monumental place called City of Rocks. Nowadays, it is a National Reserve overseen by the National Park Service and the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation. In times past, it was a landmark through which most California-bound travelers passed after leaving the trail along the Snake River to reach the Humboldt River.

Photographs do not do it justice, as they fail to capture the scale of the rocks that give the place its name. Suffice it to say they are—to use the word in its proper sense—awesome.

We have visited City of Rocks before, but this time we traveled the Backcountry Byway from Oakley, Idaho to enter from the less-traveled west side of the park. It amounted to driving forty miles of bad road (fourteen, really, but it seemed longer) to get there, but it was worth the trip.

Despite other sightseers and several rock climbers scaling the monoliths, City of Rocks is so quiet and isolated and so little changed from days gone by that one can still imagine the wonderment of the Shoshoni and Bannock Indians who frequented the area, and the emigrants who scratched their names in the granite.

 

Eastern hospitality.

Writers conferences are making a comeback now that the scourge of covid is somewhat under control. You may recall my recent report on the Southern hospitality I enjoyed while speaking at the White County CreativeWriters Conference in Arkansas. Since then, I was treated to some Out West “Eastern” hospitality while speaking at the Eastern Idaho Writers League Conference in Idaho Falls, Idaho.

A few years ago, the statewide Idaho Writers League disbanded, and with it went the regional conferences around the state. But writers in Eastern Idaho weren’t content with inactivity, so they formed a new organization and this year sponsored their first conference. I was fortunate to be invited as a presenter. I renewed acquaintances with writers I had met at earlier conferences as well as met others for the first—and I hope not the last—time.

Having spent five years or so living in the Idaho Falls area, we also visited some old haunts from our time there as well as visiting family and friends still in the neighborhood.

All in all, as Jim Stafford would sing under different circumstances, it was “A Real Good Time.”

Southern hospitality.

It took a lot of walking through miles of airport concourses, late flights, missed connections, and hours and hours sitting on airplanes.

But it was worth it.

Last weekend I had the pleasure of speaking at the White CountyCreative Writers Conference in Searcy, Arkansas. They are a fine group of fine writers, and they host a fine conference. I got to meet a lot of folks—most of their names, unfortunately, soon leaked out of my porous brain—and talk with them about poetry, fiction, history, and every other kind of writing you can think of. My fellow presenters, Laura Castoro and Michael Claxton, were informative and entertaining and it would have been worth the trip just to listen to them.

With the nasty coronavirus more or less at bay these days, it is a pleasure to see writers conferences once again show up on the calendar. And if they are all as good as the White County Creative Writers Conference, the writing world will be a better place.

Really stupid words, Chapter 20.

A reader (and legendary writer) friend pointed out after one of these complaints that there are no stupid words. I suppose he’s right, mostly. But, as I said when I first started posting these whiny gripes, people have an annoying habit of taking perfectly good words and using (misusing) them in stupid ways. The result is communication that is imprecise and often incorrect, all from feeble attempts to sound important or clever or trendy.

I continue, then, to test my curmudgeonly conviction that by pointing out stupid words—or the stupid use of words—that we all might think more carefully about what we say and write.

Imagine yourself at a restaurant. The kind with tables and chairs where someone shows up and says, “May I take your order?” Almost without fail, someone will respond, “I’ll do the (enter selection here).” Then, more likely than not, someone else will say, “I’ll do the (enter selection here).” The trend may well continue around the table, with everyone (except me) saying they will “do” their choice of food.

“Do?” What are they going to “do” to it, or with it, other than eat it? I guess you could “do” other things with the food, but few of them seem appropriate in public.

People used to say “I’ll have” or “I’d like” or “I’ll try” the menu item of their choice. Those phrases make sense to me, they mean something. “I’ll do,” on the other hand, sounds stupid.

Maybe I’ll feel better after I eat. I guess I’ll “do” a burrito and see.

Coming Attractions.

This Thy Brother , sequel to my earlier novel, Father unto Many Sons , is slated for release by Five Star later in August. The book picks up the story of the Pate and Lewis families as they work to establish themselves in a new land in New Mexico, and follows the wayward Pate brothers who left the fold in the earlier book.

A few months later, in October, Five Star will release With a Kiss I Die. This love story follows an emigrant girl leaving Arkansas and a Mormon boy in Utah Territory as they attempt to find a life together despite opposition from all directions. This Romeo-and-Juliet-like story ends in southern Utah at Mountain Meadows.

Shortly after the first of the year comes a collection of my short fiction from Five Star, Black Joe and Other Selected Stories. Included is the Western Fictioneers Peacemaker Award-winning title story, two Western Writers of America Spur Award winners, and several other new and used stories.

Also lurking, with publication dates pending but uncertain, are two original novels from Speaking Volumes, Rawhide Robinson Rides a Wormhole—A True Adventure of Bravery and Daring in the Weird West, and a novel set in the mid-twentieth century, Silver Screen Cowboy. 

More to come.