The Cold Dish by Craig Johnson: A review

Various people who have read my reviews of C.J. Box's books (the few that I've read) have suggested to me that I should read Craig Johnson's Longmire series. They kept telling me that he was a very good writer. So curiosity got the better of me and I decided to see for myself, and after reading the first book in the series, I have to say that I don't think they steered me wrong.

Now, no one will mistake Johnson's writing for great literature, but it is highly entertaining. He writes with humor and a light touch and a fine eye for the Wyoming landscape and culture. He's created some interesting and well-described characters that the reader can invest in and care about.

The one thing that this first book might have used was a better editor. I was frequently annoyed by the sloppy editing. For example, when the sheriff is securing a crime site, it is written as "sight". Later when he placed a piece of evidence on the bar, he "sat' the evidence on the bar. Lodestar becomes "loadstar". There were numerous such errors and they really set (not sat) my teeth on edge. It's the kind of thing that drives me nuts! Maybe it's being married to an editor all these years.

But, that complaint aside, this was a good and satisfying read.

When we meet Sheriff Walter Longmire of Absaroka County, Wyoming, he has been the sheriff for twenty-four years, much of his adult life. He's now in middle age and is hoping to groom one of his deputies, a woman, to succeed him as sheriff. She would be the first woman sheriff in Wyoming.

The plot revolves around the consequences of a gang rape of a young Cherokee woman by a group of teenage white boys and the minimal sentences they received for their horrific crime. The crime and the sentences divided the community. Some, particularly in the Indian community, were outraged by the light sentences. Others felt the boys' lives should not be ruined for one adolescent crime. Never mind what that crime did to the girl's life.

This all happened in the past. The boys had already served their sentences at the opening of this story and were back in the community.

Then one of the boys is killed, shot from a great distance with a big gun. Some evidence at the scene seems to point to someone from the local reservation having committed the crime and Walt suspects that the death might be related to the earlier rape.

Then another of the rapists is killed in the same manner, which gives credence to the sheriff's suspicions. He must now hunt for the killer while simultaneously trying to keep the other rapists from being killed.

Sheriff Longmire is aided by the aforementioned deputy Victoria Moretti and his lifelong friend Henry Standing Bear as well as other assorted deputies and community assets. He'll need all the help he can get because in the middle of the manhunt, a blizzard is coming.

As if the problems presented by his job were not enough, Walt Longmire's personal life is a mess. His wife died four years earlier, his only daughter is off being a Philadelphia lawyer, and he is a lonely man living in a shell of a house and bordering on a serious drinking problem.

All in all, this was a good beginning to what has become a very long-running series.

Incidentally, my husband and I have watched the television series, Longmire, that is based on these books and it is not bad. But, although the ending here stretched my credulity, I thought the book was better.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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