I always thought he looked a little like an owl, even before I met him. The way the tufts of hair perched up on his head and the pointed nose-but most of all it was the eyes; not so much those of an eagle because they carry a self-concern, but more like the eyes that see past self-interest.
I was fortunate enough to win a short story award that was named after him. He'd written seventeen books in his series when I met him, was a New York Times best-selling fixture, and had won every award you can imagine. I'd written one novel and was facing the daunting task of trying to write my second, so I asked him how you keep it fresh. He smiled the small grin that embodied the admiration, adoration, and respect that everyone had for him. "At the risk of sounding like a bad sports analogy, you gotta write 'em one at a time-and just remember to tell a good story." It was invaluable advice.
"Now, you're the fella that wrote The Cold Dish, right?"
I admitted that I was.
"Could I write a blurb for you?"
At a time when you have to beg most big-time authors to remember what it was like when they were climbing the ladder, he wrote me an endorsement for not only my first novel, but my second, because he said he'd enjoyed them so much. I still have the voice message on my answering machine. "Umm, Craig, I can't get this email thingy to work, so I thought I'd just call you and tell you what to put on your book..."
He began teaching at the University of New Mexico in 1967 and, with a wife and six children, he struggled to make ends meet. The story goes that he was typing in his office late one night and an associate enthused, "You must be the hardest working professor we have here at the University."
He looked up, owl-like, with the twinkle his eyes always carried, his glasses perched at the end of his nose. "Actually, I'm writing a book -- a mystery."
She was crest-fallen. "With all your knowledge of Navajo art, culture, society and history -- why are you wasting your time writing a mystery novel?"
His response, like the man, was eloquent and authentic. "Because I want someone to read the darned thing, that's why."
He was 83, and he lived in Albuquerque with, in his own words 'now-and-then rheumatic arthritis, in-remission cancer, a minor heart-attack, a mediocre eye, one tricky ankle, and two unreliable knees.' Now that he's gone, I hear a few criticisms of his work, about how it was ponderous or humorless. At the risk of being critical of his critics, I'd say these people just haven't had a lot of interaction with Native Americans or their sensibilities. His pacing is Indian-perfect, and the humor is there-Indian-style.
I read Tony Hillerman, and an awful lot of other people do, too.
Do you?
Editor's Note: Craig Johnson is the author of the Walt Longmire books.
