By Brandon R. Schrand
Within the middle of the agricultural boomtown of Soda Springs, Idaho, stands the old Enders lodge, Caf?, and Bar, a three-story brick construction that has been many stuff to many folks. yet to at least one kinfolk who obtained it as an try and renew themselves it was once domestic, a spot they desperately attempted to carry directly to and but, after seventeen years of residing there, the very position from which they desired to escape. Growing up lower than its leaking roof, Brandon R. Schrand watched a solid of damaged characters go through the resort doors—an alcoholic artist, a forgotten boxing champ, an ex-con, a homeless family—and attempted to discover his personal id between these revolving faces. Haunted through a father he had by no means visible, he confirmed the faces of these drifters for familiarity. Winner of the River enamel Literary Nonfiction Prize, The Enders lodge finds the guarantees and warnings of western boomtown life—stories of alcoholism, homicide, betrayal, desire, and at last, redemption. (20080415)
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Additional info for The Enders Hotel: A Memoir (River Teeth Literary Nonfiction Prize)
I met a friend today,” I said. “One of the Brandons. —Brandon John. That’s his middle name, John. His last name is Weaver. ” 39 “I’ll be damned,” my grandmother said. ” My grandfather nodded and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Beaver Weaver’s boy,” he said smiling. ” “Yeah. Yeah, I know old Beaver,” Dad said. “Beaver Weaver? ” I laughed and picked up my cheeseburger. “No, his name is Allen,” my mother said. “He used to run around with us kids a lot,” my mother said. ” I got parts of the story over dinner, the rest over the years.
39 “I’ll be damned,” my grandmother said. ” My grandfather nodded and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Beaver Weaver’s boy,” he said smiling. ” “Yeah. Yeah, I know old Beaver,” Dad said. “Beaver Weaver? ” I laughed and picked up my cheeseburger. “No, his name is Allen,” my mother said. “He used to run around with us kids a lot,” my mother said. ” I got parts of the story over dinner, the rest over the years. How our grandparents used to prowl the back roads into the darkening throat of Wood Canyon on our ranch as they spotlighted for elk.
Alone, I would simply stare outward as if seeing the world for the ﬁrst time. The Idanha Theater 25 across the street, the towering grain elevators to the north, and beyond them, cloaked in smoke, Monsanto. From that window I could see rooftops and weeping willows swaying in the afternoon wind and the buildings scattered around City Park: the ﬁrehouse, Presbyterian Church, the bank, and so on. And beyond it all were hills lengthening out into the white horizon, and Mt. Sherman, and the darkening canyons and barley ﬁelds.
The Enders Hotel: A Memoir (River Teeth Literary Nonfiction Prize) by Brandon R. Schrand