An Endangered Species: A Novel
Autor Frances Washburnen Limba Engleză Paperback – iul 2024
Tom Warder, born on the Pine Ridge Reservation, works at the LaCreek refuge, which hosts the nation’s last remaining trumpeter swans. The refuge manager assigns Tom, who owns land adjacent to the refuge, to be the swans’ day-to-day caretaker. Tom’s land isn’t productive enough to make a sole living from it, so he leases grazing rights to white rancher Bart Johnson.
Bart has fallen into debt and is unable to pay the lease he owes not only on Tom’s land but also on land he leases from other Native landowners. As he sinks into debt his wife, Betty, becomes more extravagant and resistant to pleas for economy, while their son, Brian, becomes fascinated with hunting and begins stalking the trumpeter swans for the thrill of killing one. As his finances and his family fall apart, Bart takes to drinking. Meanwhile Tom’s wife, Anna, and three daughters struggle to make ends meet, though their eldest daughter, Bit, who often assists her father in the care of the swans, is bright and determined to become something. Where Bit is the hope of her family, Brian is the disaster of his.
An Endangered Species is a tale of two families, each with their own strengths and weaknesses, bound to circumstances largely beyond their control, and struggling to survive on the upper Great Plains during the 1960s.
Preț: 137.32 lei
Nou
Puncte Express: 206
Preț estimativ în valută:
26.28€ • 27.27$ • 21.96£
26.28€ • 27.27$ • 21.96£
Carte disponibilă
Livrare economică 24 februarie-10 martie
Preluare comenzi: 021 569.72.76
Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781496238672
ISBN-10: 1496238672
Pagini: 328
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.42 kg
Editura: BISON BOOKS
Colecția Bison Books
Locul publicării:United States
ISBN-10: 1496238672
Pagini: 328
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.42 kg
Editura: BISON BOOKS
Colecția Bison Books
Locul publicării:United States
Notă biografică
Frances Washburn (Lakota) is emerita professor of American Indian studies and English at the University of Arizona. She is the author of Elsie’s Business (Nebraska, 2006), Sacred White Turkey (Nebraska, 2010), and The Red Bird All-Indian Traveling Band.
Extras
1
Tom Warder tried to sleep in the passenger seat as Wayne Finley
drove, but the jolting of the old deuce and a half army surplus
truck bounced Tom’s head against the window glass until he gave
up trying to sleep, sat up straight, and stared at the yellow headlights
shooting the dark highway ahead. “Want a cup of coffee?”
Tom asked.
Finley leaned forward over the steering wheel, turning his torso
from one side to other, stretching his tired back muscles. “That
would go down good,” Finley said.
Tom poured the thick black liquid from the battered green
thermos into the silver lid, careful not to spill the hot liquid onto
his own fingers as the truck jerked and bounced along. He handed
it to Finley with a “Careful, it’s hot.”
Somewhere east of Gillette, Wyoming, heading toward Greybull,
the men and their truck with the load of cages in the back had
traveled less than five hundred miles from Red Rocks, Montana,
even though they had been on the road for more than ten hours,
but 45 miles per hour was top speed in the old truck. John King,
the manager at LaCreek National Wildlife Refuge, had picked it
up at an auction of government surplus, surprised he got the low
bid until the truck was delivered and King saw what he had bought
with his allotted funds from the Department of the Interior. Once
the big boys upstairs dictated that twenty trumpeter swans had to
be moved from the refuge in Montana down to LaCreek, the old
truck was the only means King had of collecting the birds. Wayne
Finley and Tom Warder were the lucky men who got to make the
trip, or one of them thought it was lucky. Finley’s parents lived in
Greybull, so he thought it a chance to spend a few hours overnight
at their place. Warder was indifferent about the excursion at first,
but the more he thought about it the more he looked forward to it.
The morning drive down from Red Rocks to Yellowstone gave him
a chance to see country he had never seen before, but only from
the window of the slow-moving truck. With a load of caged birds
in the back there was no time to stop and inhale the scenery, and
now, approaching eight o’clock on this September night, he saw
nothing beyond the hypnotizing passage of dividing lines on the
interstate. In 1960 traffic still hadn’t reached maximum saturation
on the interstate system, especially not on the northern plains with
tourist season past. Tom looked forward to getting out of the truck
at Finley’s parents’ home, letting the roar of the engine recede from
his hearing, and after a hopefully short conversation with the old
folks, a chance to lie flat and sleep.
He was to be disappointed. Mr. Finley senior was a retired Methodist
minister who never retired his proselytizing, so Tom politely
listened to two hours of Jesus talk while Mrs. Finley, frail with
arthritis and a heart condition, insisted upon plying their son and
Tom with more coffee. Worse still, Tom wasn’t allowed to smoke
in their house. When he finally did get to lie down on a pull-out
couch shared with Wayne, the caffeine buzz kept him awake. He
choked down the runny eggs and burned toast gratefully, signaling
the end of the visit to the Finleys’ and the beginning of the end of
a disappointing trip.
Big as young turkeys with beaks that pinched, the swans demonstrated
their unhappiness when Tom and Wayne cautiously opened
the cage doors to shove in pans of water before they started up the
truck, drove through the sleepy town and onto Highway 434 to
Buffalo, where they would get on Interstate 90 for a short stretch
until they turned off at Moorcroft. By the time the road crossed the
state line into South Dakota, Tom was driving, his eyes feeling like
sandpaper, while Wayne’s head bounced against the passenger-side
window as he slept. They passed through Custer, stopping only
briefly for gas and cigarettes, then on down through Oelrichs, where
the air smelled oily from the creosote used to coat the fence posts
produced by the town’s only industry. They drove across Pine Ridge
Reservation where Tom grew up, just as the sun sank behind them,
creating a glare in the cracked rearview mirror.
When the truck stopped in the headquarters yard of LaCreek
National Wildlife Refuge, King was waiting along with the graduate
student, Carl Wilson, from South Dakota State, who was interning
at LaCreek for the fall semester. King took one look at the exhausted
men and ordered them home while he and Carl unloaded the caged
birds in the pen prepared for them.
Tom drove the mile and a half to his small frame house, hugged
his sleepy wife, looked in on his four daughters, and went to bed.
As he was dozing off to sleep, Tom remembered: it was September
15th, his birthday. He was forty-two years old.
Sometime in the early morning, Tom felt a weight on the side
of the bed. Anna, his wife, shook his shoulder. “Tom. Time to get
up. It’s past six already. You’ll be late for work,” she said.
“No,” he said. “King told me not to come in today. I’ve got a
long weekend.”
He felt the weight lift from the side of the bed and moments later
felt more weight on the other side as Anna slid back into bed beside
him, cuddling up against his back for a few minutes. She would have
to get up again shortly to wake the girls for school. Her feet felt like
blocks of ice. He didn’t notice when she slid out of bed again a few
minutes later, but he did hear the argument, the same circular one
she had most mornings with their second-eldest daughter, Betsy,
the one they had nicknamed Little Bit but had quickly shortened
to just Bit. As she grew older, it became harder to tell whether she
was bitten or whether she bit.
Tom Warder tried to sleep in the passenger seat as Wayne Finley
drove, but the jolting of the old deuce and a half army surplus
truck bounced Tom’s head against the window glass until he gave
up trying to sleep, sat up straight, and stared at the yellow headlights
shooting the dark highway ahead. “Want a cup of coffee?”
Tom asked.
Finley leaned forward over the steering wheel, turning his torso
from one side to other, stretching his tired back muscles. “That
would go down good,” Finley said.
Tom poured the thick black liquid from the battered green
thermos into the silver lid, careful not to spill the hot liquid onto
his own fingers as the truck jerked and bounced along. He handed
it to Finley with a “Careful, it’s hot.”
Somewhere east of Gillette, Wyoming, heading toward Greybull,
the men and their truck with the load of cages in the back had
traveled less than five hundred miles from Red Rocks, Montana,
even though they had been on the road for more than ten hours,
but 45 miles per hour was top speed in the old truck. John King,
the manager at LaCreek National Wildlife Refuge, had picked it
up at an auction of government surplus, surprised he got the low
bid until the truck was delivered and King saw what he had bought
with his allotted funds from the Department of the Interior. Once
the big boys upstairs dictated that twenty trumpeter swans had to
be moved from the refuge in Montana down to LaCreek, the old
truck was the only means King had of collecting the birds. Wayne
Finley and Tom Warder were the lucky men who got to make the
trip, or one of them thought it was lucky. Finley’s parents lived in
Greybull, so he thought it a chance to spend a few hours overnight
at their place. Warder was indifferent about the excursion at first,
but the more he thought about it the more he looked forward to it.
The morning drive down from Red Rocks to Yellowstone gave him
a chance to see country he had never seen before, but only from
the window of the slow-moving truck. With a load of caged birds
in the back there was no time to stop and inhale the scenery, and
now, approaching eight o’clock on this September night, he saw
nothing beyond the hypnotizing passage of dividing lines on the
interstate. In 1960 traffic still hadn’t reached maximum saturation
on the interstate system, especially not on the northern plains with
tourist season past. Tom looked forward to getting out of the truck
at Finley’s parents’ home, letting the roar of the engine recede from
his hearing, and after a hopefully short conversation with the old
folks, a chance to lie flat and sleep.
He was to be disappointed. Mr. Finley senior was a retired Methodist
minister who never retired his proselytizing, so Tom politely
listened to two hours of Jesus talk while Mrs. Finley, frail with
arthritis and a heart condition, insisted upon plying their son and
Tom with more coffee. Worse still, Tom wasn’t allowed to smoke
in their house. When he finally did get to lie down on a pull-out
couch shared with Wayne, the caffeine buzz kept him awake. He
choked down the runny eggs and burned toast gratefully, signaling
the end of the visit to the Finleys’ and the beginning of the end of
a disappointing trip.
Big as young turkeys with beaks that pinched, the swans demonstrated
their unhappiness when Tom and Wayne cautiously opened
the cage doors to shove in pans of water before they started up the
truck, drove through the sleepy town and onto Highway 434 to
Buffalo, where they would get on Interstate 90 for a short stretch
until they turned off at Moorcroft. By the time the road crossed the
state line into South Dakota, Tom was driving, his eyes feeling like
sandpaper, while Wayne’s head bounced against the passenger-side
window as he slept. They passed through Custer, stopping only
briefly for gas and cigarettes, then on down through Oelrichs, where
the air smelled oily from the creosote used to coat the fence posts
produced by the town’s only industry. They drove across Pine Ridge
Reservation where Tom grew up, just as the sun sank behind them,
creating a glare in the cracked rearview mirror.
When the truck stopped in the headquarters yard of LaCreek
National Wildlife Refuge, King was waiting along with the graduate
student, Carl Wilson, from South Dakota State, who was interning
at LaCreek for the fall semester. King took one look at the exhausted
men and ordered them home while he and Carl unloaded the caged
birds in the pen prepared for them.
Tom drove the mile and a half to his small frame house, hugged
his sleepy wife, looked in on his four daughters, and went to bed.
As he was dozing off to sleep, Tom remembered: it was September
15th, his birthday. He was forty-two years old.
Sometime in the early morning, Tom felt a weight on the side
of the bed. Anna, his wife, shook his shoulder. “Tom. Time to get
up. It’s past six already. You’ll be late for work,” she said.
“No,” he said. “King told me not to come in today. I’ve got a
long weekend.”
He felt the weight lift from the side of the bed and moments later
felt more weight on the other side as Anna slid back into bed beside
him, cuddling up against his back for a few minutes. She would have
to get up again shortly to wake the girls for school. Her feet felt like
blocks of ice. He didn’t notice when she slid out of bed again a few
minutes later, but he did hear the argument, the same circular one
she had most mornings with their second-eldest daughter, Betsy,
the one they had nicknamed Little Bit but had quickly shortened
to just Bit. As she grew older, it became harder to tell whether she
was bitten or whether she bit.
Cuprins
Prologue
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Recenzii
"This is an exquisitely written story of two families struggling to survive in the Great Plains of the 1960s. Swans and circumstances bring these families—one Native and one white—together in Washburn’s graceful and insightful prose."—Ms. Magazine
“Frances Washburn is a consummate storyteller. An Endangered Species, her newest book, is a poignant, tragic, and brilliant tale of two families, one Native and one white, trying to cope with changing times on the Northern Plains in the early 1960s. Washburn’s forte is character development. The reader gets to know not only the time and place of the story, but also what makes her characters tick. The book is a masterwork of prose, rich in simile and active in voice. The story moves artfully to its final, surprising conclusion. It is indeed difficult to put down.”—Tom Holm, author of Ira Hayes and The Osage Rose
Descriere
Set on the Pine Ridge Reservation, An Endangered Species is a tale of two families, each with their own problems and failures, and both bound into circumstances beyond their control, surviving on the Great Plains during the 1960s.