Letters

Letters 08-31-2015

Inalienable Rights This is a response to the “No More State Theatre” in your August 24th edition. I think I will not be the only response to this pathetic and narrow-minded letter that seems rather out of place in the northern Michigan that I know. To think we will not be getting your 25 cents for the movie you refused to see, but more importantly we will be without your “two cents” on your thoughts of a marriage at the State Theatre...

Enthusiastically Democratic Since I was one of the approximately 160 people present at when Senator Debbie Stabenow spoke on August 14 in Charlevoix, I was surprised to read in a letter to Northern Express that there was a “rather muted” response to Debbie’s announcement that she has endorsed Hillary Clinton for president...

Not Hurting I surely think the State Theatre will survive not having the homophobic presence of Colleen Smith and her family attend any matinees. I think “Ms.” Smith might also want to make sure that any medical personnel, bank staff, grocery store staff, waiters and/or waitress, etc. are not homosexual before accepting any service or product from them...

Stay Home I did not know whether to laugh or cry when I read the letter of the extremely homophobic, “disgusted” writer. She now refuses to patronize the State Theatre because she evidently feels that its confines have been poisoned by the gay wedding ceremony held there...

Keep Away In response to Colleen Smith of Cadillac who refused to bring her family to the State Theatre because there was a gay wedding there: Keep your 25 cents and your family out of Traverse City...

Celebrating Moore And A Theatre I was 10 years old when I had the privilege to see my first film at the State Theatre. I will never forget that experience. The screen was almost the size of my bedroom I shared with my older sister. The bursting sounds made me believe I was part of the film...

Outdated Thinking This letter is in response to Colleen Smith. She made public her choice to no longer go to the State Theater due to the fact that “some homosexuals” got married there. I’m not outraged by her choice; we don’t need any more hateful, self-righteous bigots in our town. She can keep her 25 cents...

Mackinac Pipeline Must Be Shut Down Crude oil flowing through Enbridge’s 60-yearold pipeline beneath the Mackinac Straits and the largest collection of fresh water on the planet should be a serious concern for every resident of the USA and Canada. Enbridge has a very “accident” prone track record...

Your Rights To Colleen, who wrote about the State Theatre: Let me thank you for sharing your views; I think most of us are well in support of the first amendment, because as you know- it gives everyone the opportunity to express their opinions. I also wanted to thank Northern Express for not shutting down these types of letters right at the source but rather giving the community a platform for education...

No Role Model [Fascinating Person from last week’s issue] Jada quoted: “I want to be a role model for girls who are interested in being in the outdoors.” I enjoy being in the outdoors, but I don’t want to kill animals for trophy...

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Proulx Plays the Right Cards in That Old Ace in the Hole

Nancy Sundstrom - March 13th, 2003
One of the great joys of reading iin the recent years has been settling in with the latest effort from Annie Proulx, the author of wonderful tales of hardworking scrappers constantly down on their look, such as “The Shipping News, “Close Range,““Postcards,“ and “Accordion Crimes.“
Her stories ring with conviction and unflinching realism and capture time, place, and people in such a unique and beautifully observed way that her readers have gotten to be a bit fanatical about her writing. Critics are equally quick to latch onto each new offering from her, and her honors have included a Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award, and Irish Times International Fiction Prize for “The Shipping News,“ and a PEN/Faulkner Award for “Postcards.“
So the odds would seem likely that this word wunderkind had an ace up her sleeve when she wrote her latest, “That Old Ace in the Hole: A Novel,“ and the good news is she indeed seemed to. Because it was so remarkable, following up “The Shipping News“ was going to be a formidable challenge in every regard, and while this one doesn’t quite evoke the range of reader emotions or flesh out the characters in the way the last book did, Proulx still delivers a textured vision of heartland humor and hope.
The protagonist here is Bob Dollar, a young man from Denver, CO who, like most of Proulx’s characters, is a decent fellow, trying to make the best of a rather lame hand that’s been dealt to him.
Dollar’s parents disappeared when he was eight, leaving him on the doorstep of his Uncle Tambourine‘s Denver resale shop, “Used but Not Abused,“ and life has pretty much been uphill from that point on. While college-educated, he’s not the sharpest pencil in the book, but he’s ambitious, albeit aimless. He lands work as a “hog scout“ with a company called Global Pork Rind, who give him the mission of finding vast expanses of land in the Texas and Oklahoma panhandles that can be gobbled up by the corporation and converted to hog farms. Unaware of the brutality of the meat industry and the environmental havoc such plants can wreak, he sets off to make good on his assignment.
With the opening paragraphs of the first chapter, the author establishes mood, place, and the essence of her lead character with such seeming effortlessness, that reader is immediately transported to Proulx country without even realizing it:

“In late March Bob Dollar, a young, curly-headed man of twenty-five with the broad face of a cat, pale innocent eyes fringed with sooty lashes, drove east along Texas State Highway 15 in the panhandle, down from Denver the day before, over the Raton Pass and through the dead volcano country of northeast New Mexico to the Oklahoma pistol barrel, then a wrong turn north and wasted hours before he regained the way. It was a roaring spring morning with green in the sky, the air spiced with sand sagebrush and aromatic sumac. NPR faded from the radio in a string of announcements of corporate supporters, replaced by a Christian station that alternated pabulum preaching and punchy music. He switched to s---kicker airwaves and listened to songs about staying home, going home, being home and the errors of leaving home.
The road ran along a railroad track. He thought the bend of the rails unutterably sad, those cold and gleaming strips of metal turning away into the distance made him think of the morning he was left on Uncle Tam‘s doorstep listening for the inside clatter of coffee pot and cups although there had been no train nor tracks there. He did not know how the rails had gotten into his head as symbols of sadness.
Gradually the ancient thrill of moving against the horizon into the great yellow distance heated him, for even fenced and cut with roads the overwhelming presence of grassland persisted, though nothing of the original prairie remained. It was all flat expanse and wide sky. Two coyotes looking for afterbirths trotted through a pasture to the east, moving through fluid grass, the sun backlighting their fur in such a way that they appeared to have silver linings. Irrigated circles of winter wheat, dotted with stocker calves, grew on land as level as a runway. In other fields tractors lashed tails of dust. He noticed the habit of slower drivers to pull into the breakdown lane - here called the “courtesy lane“ - and wave him on.
Ahead cities loomed, but as he came close the skyscrapers, mosques and spires metamorphosed into grain elevators, water towers and storage bins. The elevators were the tallest buildings on the plains, symmetrical, their thrusting shapes seeming to entrap kinetic energy. After a while Bob noticed their vertical rhythm, for they rose up regularly every five or ten miles in trackside towns. Most were concrete cylinders, some brick or tile, but at many sidings the old wood elevators, peeling and shabby, still stood, some surfaced with asbestos shingles, a few with rusted metal loosened by the wind. Rectilinear streets joined at ninety-degree angles. Every town had a motto: “The Town Where No One Wears a Frown“; “The Richest Land and the Finest People“; “10,000 Friendly People and One or Two Old Grumps.““

Dollar eventually lands in Woolybucket, TX, whose residents are tough enough to take all that this unforgiving country can dish out at them. He moves into an old bunkhouse for fifty dollars a month, helps out at the local Old Dog Caféé, spots a ranch he believes would be of interest to Global Pork Rind, and then settles into challenge its owners for its availability. The land isn’t even of much interest to Ace and Tater Crouch‘s children, but if Dollar thinks he’s going to get it out of their hands without a fight, he’d better have another ace up his sleeve.
The battle of love of the land vs. the almighty dollar gets some new treatment in the author’s capable crafting, and the colorful cast of characters, who include the likes of LaVon Grace Fronk, Jerky Baum, Habakuk van Melkebeek and Freda Beautyrooms, manage to be as over-the-top as their names, while still emerging as completely credible. “That Old Ace in the Hole“ has a much lighter feel to it than “The Shipping News“ and its moral authority isn’t as challenging, but this is still Proulx in fine form, and most recommended.

 
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