The Big Burn: Teddy Roosevelt and the Fire That Saved America by Timothy Egan.
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2009. 324 pages.
Historical nonfiction writing at its best. Egan explores the mood of our nation as shaped by Teddy Roosevelt and Gifford Pinchot (and their robber-baron opponents) on the topic of conservation-- framed by a catastrophic fire that devastated vast tracts of Idaho, Montana, and the Northern Rockies in 1910. We are reading about so much more than a monster wildfire run amok: that part is interesting, but only as a complement to the Gilded Age ebb and flow of natural exploitation and preservation that surrounds it.
The Last Stand: Custer, Sitting Bull, and the Battle of the Little Bighorn by Nathaniel Philbrick.
Viking, 2010. 466 pages.
It's not giving too much away to say that it doesn't end well for George. The beauty of this one lies in its liveliness and readability, in its attention to details of personality and landscape. When there’s speculation, it’s skillful speculation. The Last Stand is flat-out good story-spinning: a well-researched and commercially viable retelling of the iconic clash between Custer (and acquisitive westward expansionists) and Sitting Bull (and beleaguered Native American cultures).
As the fateful 1876 confrontation unfolds on the rolling hills of the Little Bighorn, our thoughts inevitably turn to the shag-carpeted streets of Doll Town, circa 1969, idyllically nestled in a Central Pennsylvania basement recreation room. We remember the day that Our General George rode into town on a high-stepping plastic horse named Vic (as in Victory). It’s the day that everything changed in Doll Town, much to the chagrin of strong-jawed prepster Ken. Ken... always sending mixed messages with twinkling eyes and frozen smirk and natty cardigan sweaters. The residents of Doll Town took one look at the rugged double-jointed newcomer and went wild. Ken was yesterday's news.
Our General George stole the hearts of Barbie, Francie, Barbie’s BFF Midge, and even poor little Skipper, who developed a full-fledged pre-teen crush on the cavalry officer. Who could blame her? The snappy blue uniform, the immovable mane of sandy blond hair, the impressive assortment of guns and knives: Our General George was eleven inches of molded-plastic alpha male.
It didn’t end well for Our General George in Doll Town, though: too much late-afternoon partying in the Dream House, too many brawls at the cardboard corral. He wound up with an embarrassing blue crayon mark on his forehead and lost his right hand in an unfortunate turntable incident (how the Good General found himself sitting and spinning atop a stack of 45rpm records remains one of Doll Town’s great unsolved mysteries). Our General George developed body image issues, too: not surprising, considering he married an eleven-and-one-half-inch-tall anorexic fashion doll whose vital statistics converted roughly to 36-18-34 on a five-foot-nine-inch frame. The only scale in Doll Town? A cheap pink plastic number permanently set at 110 pounds.
