Barton Sutter

My Fatherís War: Stories of Midwestern Men

My Granddad Hackbart was a big old bastard, six feet tall and heavyset, with a chest like an overstuffed suitcase. He was fat, but he didnít look fat. His hair was thick, and he brushed it back in a silver pompadour. His forehead was high, his cheeks were pink, and his eyes were a scary blue. He was a handsome man, but it didnít do him any good, because everybody in Bessemer knew he was cranky and drank like a large-mouthed bass. When my Grandma Hackbart died, there wasnít a widow in town who would even consider him. He couldnít take care of himself, he wasnít ready for the nursing home, and he only had a small pension, so the son of a bitch moved in with us. He took my room. I was eight years old when Granddad came to live with us, and he was still in the house when I left for college. I grew up with him. Granddad was family, and I hated his guts.
--from ďVery Truly OursĒ

Selected Works

Essays
An oddly brilliant and lovely little book.
--Jim Harrison
Fiction
These stories are astonishingly good.
--Caroline See, Los Angeles Times
Poetry
Restores your faith in the drumbeat of your own heart.
--Minneapolis Star Tribune
Play
Composed entirely in verse, Bushed is scathing satire in revue-cabaret style.