John Rember's 'Traplines'
One of the nicest writers you'll meet in the Rocky Mountain West is Idaho native John Rember. After hearing him last weekend at the book festival (see Wednesday's post, below), I picked up his new memoir, "Traplines: Coming Home to Sawtooth Valley." Like its author, the book is amiable, intelligent but not pedantic, digressive and yet rooted. I'm delighted he was picked up by the New York publisher Pantheon.
Rember's previous book was the short story collection "Cheerleaders from Gomorrah," and to be honest, I enjoyed that book more than this one. Cheerleaders is an often-humorous, often-accurate portrait of life in Western resort towns, what Rember calls the "Lycra Archipelago." It's similar to Pam Houston's "Cowboys are my Weakness," and a comparison of the titles (and sales figures) is instructive: Americans seem to prefer reading about cowboys than cheerleaders.
Why? We still think of ourselves as cowboys. The cowboy myth still rules America -- even for those of us who do more writin' than ridin'. "Traplines" is illustrated with dozens of old photos, but the one I really wanted to see was the 17-year-old Rember working at a Stanley gas station, dressed as follows: olive-drab Texaco shirt, black and green tie-dyed bellbottoms, aviator-style mirror shades, and a black felt cowboy hat with a hatband made out of aluminum pop-tops. Hippie? Cowboy? What's the difference!
Rember's previous book was the short story collection "Cheerleaders from Gomorrah," and to be honest, I enjoyed that book more than this one. Cheerleaders is an often-humorous, often-accurate portrait of life in Western resort towns, what Rember calls the "Lycra Archipelago." It's similar to Pam Houston's "Cowboys are my Weakness," and a comparison of the titles (and sales figures) is instructive: Americans seem to prefer reading about cowboys than cheerleaders.
Why? We still think of ourselves as cowboys. The cowboy myth still rules America -- even for those of us who do more writin' than ridin'. "Traplines" is illustrated with dozens of old photos, but the one I really wanted to see was the 17-year-old Rember working at a Stanley gas station, dressed as follows: olive-drab Texaco shirt, black and green tie-dyed bellbottoms, aviator-style mirror shades, and a black felt cowboy hat with a hatband made out of aluminum pop-tops. Hippie? Cowboy? What's the difference!
