Rhapsody in Green is a solid 3.5 star book, but I'm rounding up because I can relate to Charlotte Mendelson and appreciate what she was trying to do with this quirky little memoir -- even if it got slightly out of her control by the end.
Ms. Mendelson's garden is a little patch of ground behind her London town house, but she has stuffed it full of plants -- mostly edibles, and what seems to be a particular fondness for exotic Asian greens. It's messy and overflowing, but bursting with the enthusiasm Mendelson's dreams have poured into it, even if she sometimes loses focus and bumbles the execution.
Which, naturally, is also a perfectly apt description of this memoir.
Mendelson packs her every sentence with twining words and elaborate constructions. Her enthusiasm for nature is contagious, and I started this book absolutely adoring the way she conveyed the almost tactile smells of plants. This passage in particular resonated with me:
"Other people are so peculiar. You see them all the time, walking past their neighbour's front gardens, by great clouds of scented clematis or huge bosomy fragrant roses roses, and do they sniff? Even hesitate? Ripe blackberries may be lolling at them through the railings, bird cherries so close they have only to lift a hand, and they do not break step: not a nibble. I have never [...] heard a grown woman being begged by her children not to dawdle on the way to school ... except me.
"It is mystifying. Nature is everywhere, in the playing fields we cross near the station, municipal flower beds, tops of walls; why doesn't everyone want to taste and smell it, roll it in their fingers, ingest it, to keep them alive?"
I don't share Mendelson's burning passion for all plants edible, but this is very much how I feel about nature in general -- always pulled towards it, and wanting to get outside to breathe in all the lovely smells. When we go on family hikes, I'm the one saying, "What if we just went a little ways further, just around that bend, to see what the view is?" while my husband sighs with superhuman patience and reminds me that if we don't get the kids back to the car in time, the afternoon will be a disaster. It is only with reluctance I turn my feet around, telling myself it's ok because I'll be back someday. Right?
But eventually I will get tired and seek rest. And that's what happened to me with Mendelson's writing; it became too much. As the chapters went on and on, I started to find her style less charming, and more ... manic. She seemed to lose focus, as if she was just slap dashing words onto the page, but never really following through with an idea. Like her garden, I became overwhelmed by the choking profusion of words that too often lacked a sense of organizing purpose. Her hectic descriptions about her garden's stresses and failures started to make ME feel stressed and discouraged. By the end, I felt as if I was a guest who had greatly enjoyed the first hour or so of my visit with Mendelson, but was now exhausted and eagerly looking for an excuse to go home.
I was also slightly miffed when Mendelson bungled the following Laura Ingalls Wilder reference:
"What escaped me was the small matter of necessity; in when in Farmer Boy Laura wrote, 'There was no rest and no play for anyone now. They all worked from candle-light to candle-light. Mother and the girls ... were drying corn and apples, and making preserves,' it wasn't because Ma and Grace and Laura needed a bonding activity and couldn't agree on a box set, but a response to seasonal plenty and year-round want."
The problem here, of course, is that Farmer Boy is NOT about Laura's family -- it's about the childhood of her husband, Almanzo Wilder, who grew up on a New York farm. "The girls" in this passage are Almanzo's mother and sisters, not Laura, Ma, and Grace. Oh, and what about Mary and Carrie, by the way?
Overall, though, I thoroughly enjoyed vast stretches of Rhapsody in Green, and the first third in particular. But really, it needs a pruning just as badly as Mendelson's garden does. I think I would have been content with just 100 pages or so.