We didn't know whether to weep or burst out laughing. So we laughed.
I hate the term "emotional roller coaster," but I can think of no better description for this book.
One minute I'm roaring at the antics of six brothers growing up during the fifties and sixties. Holy crap! I would not have survived these kids! My husband, who was once a part of a three-brother wrecking crew, was forced to listen to me read entire paragraphs featuring exploits of unimaginable destruction - fingernail polish used as paint to decorate hallway walls, innumerable items flushed, jugs of bleach poured into boxes of Tide, heirloom china used as stacking toys, and framed artwork assembled into forts. He shook his head, and I could tell he was thinking, "Why the hell didn't we think of that stuff?"
These descriptions of childhood are priceless, conjuring so many sights, smells, and fondly-remembered incidents from my own past.
Army Guy rules were fairly specific, one of which required you to produce a realistic machine gun noise.
If you were out in the open and you heard the ack-ack-ack, you were dead. Since losing was unacceptable, you made your peace with being killed by winning in the Best Death category. Nobody died as good as you. You flung yourself to the ground, overacting a death rattle that could be heard from the cheap seats . . . Your hands went to your stomach, your legs crumpled and then stillness.
Falling to the spongy green grass, that was death for us - your face to the Minnesota sky, the sunlight turning eyelid blood vessels into orange spider-webs. There you lay, certain your showy death had given a sort of murderer's remorse to your assailant, and you waited until the battle ended or Mom called you in for sandwiches. To us, that's all death was - a brief midsummer stillness and then a sandwich.
Now here comes the roller coaster part . . .
These idyllic scenes of a boyhood well-lived are frequently interrupted by an alcoholic and abusive father.
"WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO AROUND HERE? KNOCK SOME HEADS TOGETHER?"
Okay, most of our dads have probably said that at one time or another. But has your dad ever said yelled this to you and/or your mother?
"WELL, THEN I'LL JUST GO OUT TO THE TOOL SHED AND GET THE AXE AND SMASH THIS GODDAMNED DOOR IN! WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?"
This was the highlight lowlight of what became known in the family as the "Axe Incident."
The real heart of this memoir is the boys' mother, a gentle woman who loved books and reading, and, somehow, her vitriolic, tormentor of a husband. Much of the book consists of her detailed and beautifully written letters to her beloved father. (This was one thing that irked me - her parents KNEW of the verbal AND physical abuse their daughter was enduring, and offered NOTHING other than words of encouragement. Then again, this was the fifties. Men were not alcoholics. They were tipsy "party boys," like Dean Martin. Domestic abuse? Nonexistent.)
Mom took refuge in her library, the one room she could call her own. The boys? Well, they had thirty rooms to hide in.
Little boys who lived in the quiet Midwest of the 1950s were, of course, under constant attack by armed hordes and so forts had to be constructed everywhere. A ring of pillows in your bed. A blanket over a card table. and no matter where the fort went up, that outer wall was key - it separated Them from Us. Inside the wall you had sovereignty. A room to hide in and outlast any siege . . .
This is one of the better books I've read this year, and one roller coaster ride I'd recommend.
Here's one more good childhood memory I enjoyed:
In the winter, our front yard became a Currier & Ives print done by Quentin Tarantino. We created a vicious brand of snowball pressed to the density of croquet balls. Creating ordnance took fifteen minutes of packing and squeezing after which we misted them with water and put them in the freezer for an icy sheen. If a snowball could somehow be made in Hell, this was it. Parking one of these babies between the shoulder blades of a retreating brother was a satisfying experience and when one of us came into the house crying, within half an hour his parka was back on and he was out in the yard using his anger to squeeze a new snowball to the density of a diamond.
Ah, to be young again . . .