This is a really old review, but Jon loves it and it's all still true.
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My godfather's name is Paul Pfeiffer. He is not the twerp from the Wonder Years. He lives on a hill in Wisconsin with his wife June. He used to call me Spike when I was little. He is one of my favorite people in the world.
Paul is monstrously tall, with enormous hands and feet. He walks slowly and swings his long arms like a sloth. He is gentle. He taught high school history for many years, and retired to run a bicycle repair shop out of his garage. When a little kid shows up, wanting to buy a bike for his kid sister and knowing his pocketful of change is not enough, Paul counts up the pennies, declares that the exact price, and sends the kid home with whatever he thinks his sister will like best, complete with basket, streamers, and bell. In Paul's life, kindnesses like this happen all the time; he makes them happen.
I had not seen Paul in perhaps 5 years, so I drove from Georgia to Wisconsin. I didn't call him until I got there. He recognized my voice and laughed and told me to hurry on over. I did. He fed me homemade chowder and cake. We sat in the kitchen and watched the deer in the snow in the backyard, delicately tongueing birdseed from the feeder. Paul talked and talked and I could have listened forever.
He has a warm voice, earthy and kind, like Garrison Keillor's, but without the sleepy-making. Even when I suspect he is making up the story, I do not complain, because he is a trustworthy man. His stories are always the way things should have turned out. It's a farmer's voice. He grows things. I can trust that.
This is all just to say: when I read Jonathan Shute's stories, this is what I think of, every time. It's a similarly reassuring voice. And I cannot get enough of it.
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Jon's book is available here. Supplies are reported to be dwindling. More of his writing, attitude, and puppies are here.
