“That was the trouble with Wyoming; everything you ever did or said kept pace with you right to the end.”
When it comes to description, Annie Proulx is undoubtedly one of the best and most unique writers out there. With her blunt, unsparing prose, a fierce intellect and a coal black sense of humor, Proulx can paint a vivid and stark portrait of American life, and nowhere is this on better display than in her Wyoming Stories, where the hardscrabble existences of her characters go hand in hand with the bleak words used to describe them. Here’s how she introduces one of her characters in “Them Old Cowboy Songs”: “Archie had a face as smooth as a skinned aspen, his lips barely incised on the surface as though scratched in with a knife.” There’s a paragraph from “The Half-Skinned Steer” in Close Range , the first installment of the Wyoming series, which still gives me the chills years after I first read it.
Proulx’s descriptive power is, primarily, what keeps me coming back to the Wyoming stories, even though neither of the sequels has been able to match the power of Close Range (which also has the distinction of birthing “Brokeback Mountain,” the story the movie was based on). To tell the truth, each installment pales in comparison to the one that preceded it. Proulx has a fascination for fantasy elements that pop up in her stories that doesn’t entirely suit her style (at least not when she’s writing about the devil, who puts in a whopping two appearances in Fine Just the Way it is ). “The Sagebrush Kid,” about a man-eating, giant-size sage plant, captures something of a Twilight Zone vibe that makes it work, and still almost the entire middle section of this collection is taken up with the weakest form of Proulx’s writing. Compare this to only one out-there story in Bad Dirt , and hardly any in Close Range.
The bookends of Fine Just the Way it is are where it truly shines, and sure enough those stories are the ones that play to the intention of the Wyoming stories the best: slice-of-life vignettes that capture the essence of the hard living in such a violent, unpredictable location and the tough breed of human that it takes to live there. “Family Man” opens the collection by spotlighting Ray Forkenbrock, closing out his life in a retirement home and wondering just where the honor in his existence has gone, if there ever was any. Proulx closes it with “Tits-up in a Ditch” (which just might be the best name of a short story ever, although the meaning behind the title makes you feel bad for the immature giggle it gives you when you first catch sight of it), about naïve young Dakotah Lister, who enlists in the army and gets sent to Iraq after a failed marriage leaves her with no job prospects and no way to pay for the son her soon-to-be-ex husband left her with. While there are some winning moments in between, it is these stories that are the real winners in this collection. Aside from the fantasy element that bogs down at least three of the stories, “Deep-Blood-Greasy-Bowl” feels like a research project more than a story (indeed, Proulx pauses to explain that the impetus of the story was the discovery of an ancient fire-pit on her property and the research into Indian buffalo hunting that followed).
All in all, this is an uneven collection for Proulx, a supremely talented writer who may have been looking to shake things up a touch in her third visit to the Wyoming territory.
Grade: C+