(1.5 stars) The least annoying characters in this book were stale and flawed, but bearable:
Anna, the mother, spends all day painting various kinds of raisins, as a none-too-subtle representation of her own fear of her aging body. She evolves throughout the story, eventually transferring her artistic energy to equally banal but more uplifting subjects (trees, her daughters). Her latest batch of paintings is miraculously highly coveted, with buyers lining up.
Olive, the eldest daughter, is at the very least sane--unlike her trippy sister, and weirdo brother who spent his adolescence and young adulthood hiding up a tree. Despite being remarkably uptight and Type A, Olive pairs up with a deadbeat loser who suggests that they trade their apartment for life in a in a teepee. Olive leaves the loser, quits her job at the bank, starts planting thyme at the farm, and delivers the loser’s illegitimate baby in her granny’s friend’s truck.
The dad (forgot his name): he’s a money obsessed control freak, whose recent debilitating heart attack forces him to re-evaluate his life, particularly his neglect of his increasingly unhappy wife Anna. And he randomly decides to start playing the bag pipes.
The most annoying characters, who made this book truly insupportable include:
Jade, the younger daughter, who literally believes she is a black woman reincarnated in a white girl’s body. Although she is grown, she maintains her imaginary friend—a soul sista’ named Grace. She believes her dog is a reincarnation of past dogs, and her boyfriend is a reincarnation of a female friend she met in a past life in Africa. Jade sputters deep thoughts like, “Sometimes beauty is the wind blowing through your leg hair.”
Forrest is the youngest son, who ran away from home because he was consumed over the guilt of blowing up a chicken coop at 14 years of age. He has spent the past decade or so scavenging, off the grid, living in a tree house in the forest. (Get it? Forrest in the forest!) He somehow finds writing materials and uses them to record his bad poems, which he deposits everywhere possible. He reflects, “I can’t begin to tell you how I missed pizza all those years in my tree house.”
Grandma is an eccentric old bat who made her fortune growing sunflowers on a farm. She regularly shoots snakes, which she skins and bakes into casseroles that she brings to church. She is part of an old lady’s tap dancing group, and periodically exclaims things like, “Guns! Guns! Guns made this country great!” Oh, and she is also a repressed lesbian, because aren’t all crrrazy old biddies closeted homosexuals?
Even though the book isn’t long, it irritated me so much that half way through I skipped straight to the final chapter just to get a sense of closure. It was kind of pointless. I’ve read worse, but I am really not sure how anyone could actually like this book.