I bought everything I could find of Ivan Doig. I have read 7 thus far over the last 4 years . He is an old fashioned novelist telling tales in novel form of his days in Montana… starting “The Whistling Season” and so it begins…
“When I visit the back corners of my life again after so long a time, littlest things jump out first. The oilcloth, tiny blue windmills on white squares, worn to colorless smears at our four places at the kitchen table. Our father’s pungent coffee, so strong it was almost ambulatory, which he gulped down from suppertime until bedtime and then slept serenely as a sphinx. The pesky wind, the one element we could count on at Marias Coulee, whistling into some weather-cracked cranny of this house as if invited in.”( Chapter 1, first paragraph)
