Writing on the range

Many readers of WORLD probably already know that John Erickson is a national treasure. Of course he’ll be embarrassed at this accolade. But that’s precisely the point. He’s humble and unpretentious, with a dry sense of humor that he often directs at himself. His life exemplifies the old-fashioned American values of hard work, fidelity in marriage, and faith in God.

His new autobiography, Small Town Author (Texas Tech University Press, 256 pp.), offers a glimpse into both his writing and the worldview that’s shaped it. Erickson isn’t at all concerned with “influencing” or promoting a brand. His writing is like a clear window. It’s as if he says: Come and see what I see, the way I see it.

Small Town Author John R. Erickson

Erickson is most famous for his Hank the Cowdog stories, a series of 82 novels about ranch life in the Texas Panhandle narrated by an overly confident but endearing dog named Hank. Although these books are ostensibly for children, they appeal equally to adults and are full of insight about human character and relationships.

During his early years as a writer, Erickson pursued mainstream literary achievement by following the conventional wisdom of the 1960s, which was that serious literature had to be “full of existential angst, humorless, and depressing.” As he matured, though, he came to see that writing didn’t have to be quite so dark and nihilistic. He subsequently penned a number of fiction and nonfiction books about Texas and cowboy life, as well as about the craft of writing itself.

What’s so refreshing, even bracing, about Erickson’s prose is its simplicity and directness. As a college professor, I live in a world where jargon and specialized language tend to be considered marks of intelligence and sophistication. The aim in much academic writing is not to welcome readers but to exclude them, displaying erudition by using the language of a chosen tribe or in-group. Erickson saw this up close during his years at the University of Denver and UT Austin, and then at Harvard Divinity School, where he decided not to finish his degree.

Erickson has a healthy skepticism about the academic world, which he perceives as self-obsessed and insular. So when a professor told him that if he wanted to write, then he should “just do it,” he decided not to waste his time in graduate school. Instead he honed his craft by spending his early morning hours reading, writing, and thinking. After that, he’s out on the ranch, attending to land and animals. At 82 years old, he still follows this daily routine.

Here is the essence of Erickson’s project: “Real” life and reflection on life are inseparable, and the living and reflecting mutually inform each other. Our real lives are constituted not just by what we think in our minds and watch others do on screens; a great deal depends on where we live and what we actually do every day.

Writing is different from musical or athletic virtuosity, gifts sometimes possessed by the very young and inexperienced. Although talent certainly matters in writing, the best writers also draw on a fund of experience acquired over many years. Every aspiring writer is told that the best work results from writing about what you know. But as a young man, John Erickson realized he didn’t know very much. “My biggest problem as a writer,” he notes, “was that I lacked any kind of solid, sustained life experience. What had I ever done?”

In 1968, he and his wife, Kris, went back to Texas for a short visit with his parents before moving on to their next great adventure. But they never left. He subsequently worked (and wrote) in a variety of unpropitious settings: in a tractor, plowing a field, with a notebook attached to his right thigh with rubber bands; typing while wearing wool gloves in a freezing garage office; scribbling notes and character sketches on scraps of paper when he worked in a bar.

I think, as Erickson does, that there’s a tremendous amount of material for story and reflection in any “ordinary” life, especially if a person is deeply involved in real, concrete activities: ranching, religious life, teaching, parenting, theater, gardening, repairing cars, fishing, and countless other things.

In a classic “Ericksonian” image, he likens this accumulated experience to—of all things—the humble compost pile. His artistic compost heap includes parents, wife, small-town life, and religious training. But his involvement with ranch life “was one of the most powerful” elements in his formation because it pulled him away from books and abstraction and showed him “the living, breathing reality of earth, sky, and weather, muscle, sweat, and blood.”

Erickson claims he was never the most skilled cowboy on the ranch. But he learned the job from the inside out, acquiring a feel for the land, for the kinds of people he worked with, and especially for the animals. During these years he also discovered several men who modeled the kind of life he hoped to live.

Texas authors J. Evetts Haley and John Graves showed him that he didn’t need to be in a coastal capital but could draw on the “regional” identity he already had. As he observes, he was “stuck with” that regional identity, and maybe—just maybe—“it was impor­tant.” Place isn’t just a location on a map; it’s “a swirl of complex emotions and relationships that accrued to people whose lives were shaped by one specific patch of soil.”

And so instead of sending literary tomes to New York editors, he began writing short stories for regional and trade publications, like The Cattleman and Livestock Weekly. In the book, he shares one vignette titled “Casey the Bronc,” a brilliant story of horse-breaking told from the horse’s point of view. It’s a template for the voice of Hank, which has become so familiar and delightful to Erickson’s readers.

But I’ve saved the most important part for last. Erickson’s view of the world is deeply grounded in his faith. He does not advertise his Christianity, but the “simple, organic, innocent humor” of his stories offers a hint that he loves the world as it is and simultaneously has hope for a world to come.

Laughter, wrote G.K. Chesterton, has “something in common with the ancient winds of faith and inspiration; it unfreezes pride and unwinds secrecy; it makes men forget themselves in the presence of something greater than themselves.” Erickson’s autobiography—honest, direct, and definitely humorous—is a gift to his readers and a reminder of the unbought grace in every human life.

—Elizabeth Corey is a professor and director of the Honors Program at Baylor University