Pops loved Westerns

True Grit by Charles Portis

Greetings, bibliophiles!

Today, I’m very excited to bring you Caroline.

Caroline writes Talking to Myself, where she documents her journey of self-discovery and growth. Her substack serves as a raw installation where Caroline paints her narrative and weave tales of triumphs, challenges, and the invaluable lessons that happen along the way.

Here, Caroline writes a touching essay about the book that reminds her of her grandfather. Enjoy!

— M. E. Rothwell

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Over the last few years, I have developed a somewhat uncomfortable attachment to the American West and its lacquered mythology. 

I don’t know why it’s rearing its head now, but I know the root of this compulsion. Both of my parents worked full-time, and I was left in the care of two couples: my beloved paternal grandparents Grannie and Pop, or our neighbors Gerri and Bob, a retired couple. All four filled every room with love and changed my life in ways that I could never adequately pen. What I can tell you is that the refusal of my grandfather and Bob to watch any programming outside of the Game Show Network (cue my obsession with Arlene Francis) and the Westerns Channel (I may be the only person on Earth to have seen every episode of Gunsmoke and still not know the plot), impacted my life incalculably. 

When I was small, I hated Westerns. Maybe I hated them simply because Pop loved them. I can still feel that peevish resistance burning within me. I couldn’t see what drew him in, what kept him returning to the same story. I always opted for the light and airy game shows. The Westerns often felt too violent and cumbersome. How do you watch a shoot-out before breakfast and then go about the rest of your day? I still haven’t figured that part out. 

I think Pop thought of himself as a cowboy. I never once saw him in shoes other than boots and most days a tan, dented crown cattleman hat decorated his head. I can see him now, plaid long-sleeved shirt (despite the harshness of Louisiana weather) tucked neatly into his Wrangler’s with that light-brown ostrich belt. And after 4 pm, when he turned in for the day, I lost control of the television. No more What’s My Line or To Tell The Truth reruns for me. I was one bitter 5-year-old. 

Pop was obsessed with Westerns, and I’m obsessed with the safety and comfort the memories of him bring me. And few memories of Pop don’t include John Wayne or James Arness, so, I guess I’m obsessed with Westerns too. 

As a teen, I decided to read Charles Portis’ novel True Grit for a class assignment. Looking at the copy now, I’m certain I selected it due to its brevity. But there’s no doubt Pop’s love of the movie drove me toward that title. 

True Grit was originally published as a serial in The Saturday Evening Post. The story is told from the perspective of an aging Mattie Ross, recounting the death of her father and her journey seeking retribution at the tender age of fourteen. In need of a US Marshal, Mattie seeks out the meanest, Rooster Cogburn, a man with seemingly untamed passion and perseverance – true grit. 

True Grit is a revenge story and a simple one at that. What sets it apart is the idiom in which it is written. The voice is authentic and deadpan while packing an emotional punch. It’s funny without slapstick or exaggerated action. Mostly, it’s profound because it never over-moralizes. In this way, the story distinguishes itself from more formulaic examples of the Western revenge archetype through its vividly realized narration and subtly layered style.

It took me several days to read this short novel because, after a few pages, I’d stop and savor what I’d just absorbed. Every word is rightly chosen, and every sentence lands squarely and structurally complements thematic events. It is a mastery of literary technique because it perfectly executes what it sets out to do. 

The American West has an outsized effect on American identity, especially regarding notions of individuality, personal freedoms, and the role of government. Truthfully, the “winning” of the West was an exceedingly rough and brutal period marked by violence, betrayal, and greed. The moral ambiguities of this conquest are difficult to rationalize. Seemingly in response, writers and filmmakers have coated “the Old West” in shiny layers of mythologized and romanticized lore.

The funny thing about True Grit is that it is not a part of that conversation. Unlike Blood Meridian or Lonesome Dove, Portis makes no effort to comment on the dispossession of Native Americans, the governmental giveaways to corrupt corporations, or the land wars between farmers and ranchers. Neither Mattie nor Cogburn are interested in these things. For them, it’s all personal.

True Grit doesn’t fall into the trap of idealizing the West either. Mattie and Cogburn’s journey is harsh and unforgiving. Yet, you feel love and optimism push up from the pages. Mattie’s sometimes dour personality and lack of any reasonable sense of self-preservation turns a potentially violent story into pure comedy. And yet it is also a love story. The love of a daughter desperately seeking to avenge the father she lost, and who understands her mother's limited capabilities, so she trudges across the land to shield her mother from the pain of managing death’s final duties. But the real love story is the collision of the formidable Rooster Cogburn with the paradoxically naïve yet mature Mattie. Love has many faces. Cogburn is not an ideal role model for anyone, especially not a young woman, and yet he's all that she has. And life is nothing if not a perpetual test to see if we can make do with what we have. 

I think Pop saw himself in Rooster Cogburn, he could certainly be gruff and no-nonsense, an endearing curmudgeon. And maybe we both hoped that I was Mattie. She is as salty, sure, and unapologetic as I’d like to be. And maybe I am…at least now and then. But the reality is, my grandfather wasn’t Cogburn. No, he was far gentler; he was my Augustus McCrae. And despite my longing for brashness, I don’t know that there is much of Mattie within me. I often feel meek and afraid. But I now see so clearly why Pop loved this story, these characters. It's one of the few Westerns I’ve read or watched that left me feeling peaceful. That’s a big accomplishment on its own, but I also walked away feeling inspired and envious of the characters – the good kind of envy that comes from seeing someone really live. I want to move toward something, anything, as doggedly as Mattie and as skillfully as Cogburn. 

So, I beg and plead: Read True Grit and then watch it! I don’t care whether you pick the 1969 John Wayne version or the 2010 Coen Brothers remake with Jeff Bridges and Hailee Steinfeld. Though I have a soft spot for the Bridges family. Pop and I saw it in theaters on Christmas Day. I sat next to him and could feel the child-like joy radiating through him as he inhaled fistfuls of buttered popcorn. We stayed until the credits ran black. 

I’m grateful for True Grit and Pop. Mostly, I’m thankful for the writing and filmmaking that allows me to sit with the people I miss most and to feel their presence. So, this week, I’m going to re-read True Grit and Pop will be right there with me, Mattie, and Cogburn, as if no time has passed.    

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