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I’m writing from Winter Park, Colorado.
The Cranor Crew is on a family ski trip. Due to blizzard conditions in Kansas, it took us over twenty hours in my wife’s new Mazda (the same one I rammed into the mailbox a few weeks back) to get here.
We dodged the storm by cutting south through New Mexico and Texas. We drove past stockyards that stank for miles. When we finally turned north, the air was so thick with skunk bud the kids asked, “What’s that smell?”
“Colorado,” I said and grinned.
The trip has become something of a tradition. We came last year with my wife’s side of the family. When she was a girl, they came every season. I, on the other hand, had only been on one church ski trip prior to our marriage. As a result, I often find myself scrambling to keep up, or careening off the mountain into a tree.
This year things have slowed down a bit. This year, our kids are learning to ski. It hasn’t been easy. Some days, I think I’d rather be stuck halfway up a ponderosa pine.
Just getting them dressed in their multi-layered winter gear, their ski boots, helmets, and goggles — it's quite the chore. The thirty-minute-long shuttle ride to the mountain and the teeming lift lines that await us are also challenging. Once we’re finally on the slopes, we’re lucky to get five or six runs before the kids wear out and it’s time to head back to the condo for naps.
If all of that sounds exhausting to you, it is. There’s nothing easy about skiing. It takes a ton of effort and resources to get to the top of a mountain. Then, ten minutes later, you’re back at the bottom again, standing at the end of another long line.
The waiting is especially tough on four and seven-year-olds. It’s hard on their parents, too. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been asked, “Are we there yet?” I could’ve paid for this trip.
Now, it's our last day, and I’m up early, trying to put our adventure into words. Reading back over what I’ve written, I realize I haven’t mentioned the raw beauty found here: the mountain sunsets that turn the slopes a soft pink, or the fluffy whip cream snow piled high in the trees.
I haven’t said anything about gliding down a slope, either, the way the rest of the world slips away. There is no better mindfulness practice, no more surefire way to be present in the moment. Which is, after all, the gift we're giving our kids. One day, one fall, at a time, we're teaching them a skill that will allow them to enjoy the mountains for years to come.
I also haven’t thanked my in-laws for bringing us on this trip (thanks, Rah-Rah and Poo).
I’m thinking maybe I should go back and rework the whole column from top to bottom when my daughter walks into the kitchen and says, “Hey, Dad. Are we going home tomorrow?”
I pause, fingers hovering over my keys, and nod.
“Yay!” my daughter squeals. “How long will it take us to get there?”
| Books authored by Eli Cranor |
Broiler
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The troubles of two desperate families—one white, one Mexican American—converge rest in the ruthless underworld of an Arkansas chicken processing plant in this new thriller from the award-winning author of DON’T KNOW TOUGH.
Gabriela Menchaca and Edwin Saucedo are hardworking, undocumented employees at the Detmer Foods chicken plant in Springdale, Arkansas, just a stone’s throw away from the trailer park where they’ve lived together for seven years. While dealing with personal tragedies of their own, the young couple endures the brutal, dehumanizing conditions at the plant in exchange for barebones pay.
When the plant manager, Luke Jackson, fires Edwin to set an example for the rest of the workers—and to show the higher-ups that he’s ready for a major promotion—Edwin is determined to get revenge on Luke and his wife, Mimi, a new mother who stays at home with her six-month-old son. Edwin’s impulsive action sets in motion a devastating chain of events that illuminates the deeply entrenched power dynamics between those who revel at the top and those who toil at the bottom.
From the nationally bestselling and Edgar Award–winning author of Don’t Know Tough and Ozark Dogs comes another edge-of-your-seat noir thriller that exposes the dark, bloody heart of life on the margins in the American South and the bleak underside of a bygone American Dream. |
Don't Know Tough
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In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul.
Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs. |
Ozark Dogs
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In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.
After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.
Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it. |
| Previous columns: |
• Writing from the end of the year
• Writing from First United Methodist Church
• Writing from the end of the first semester
• Writing from the cusp of another visit
• Writing from a Razorback Game
• Writing From: The End
• Writing from Oyster Island
• Writing from Jayne Lemons
• Writing from Bed
• Writing from Witherspoon Hall
• Writing From: Coco
• Writing from the Beach
• Writing From: Crooked Creek
• Writing from a Nursing Home
• Writing from a Firework Tent
• Writing from a Boat
• Writing from the Stars
• Writing from the Pool
• Writing from the Kitchen
• Writing from Summer
• Writing from Kindergarten
• Writing from Mom
• Writing from a Plane
• Writing from Home
• My second novel’s publication
• A New Marriage Milestone
• An Invitation to the Party
• Writing from a Thunderstorm
• Writing from a Soundbooth
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• Writing from “Jazz Beach"
• Writing from the Sabbath
• Writing from somewhere between Little Rock and Russellville
• Writing from my back deck
• Writing from the morning of my thirty-fifth year
• Writing on the day of the college football National Championship
• Writing from the space between breaths
• Writing from 2022
• Writing from the glow of a plastic Christmas tree
• Writing on a rollercoaster of triumph and disaster
• Writing from the drop-off line at my daughter’s elementary school
• Writing with Thanksgiving on my mind
• Writing from the crowd before the start of a Shovels & Rope show
• Writing from the depths of a post-book-festival hangover
• Writing from the Ron Robinson Theatre
• Writing to you on Halloween Eve
• Writing from my bed on a Saturday morning
• Writing from my office with two darts clenched in my left hand
• Writing from the shade of my favorite tree
• Writing from my desk on a Tuesday morning
• Writing from a pirate ship
• Writing from the airport
• Writing from the hospital
• I'm writing from the water
• Writing from my wife's Honda Pilot
• Writing from my office |
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