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3.69 AVERAGE
3.69 AVERAGE
Personally, I couldn't enjoy this book for a lot of reasons that I know might be unfair. Plum's mother died at 93, at home, with two live in care givers. That is more privileged than 99% of the population. While some of the book seemed to be a "celebration of life", a lot of it felt more "woe is me". I enjoyed the history behind Plum's family and how they came to live in Oakville, which is why I am giving it two stars, but the nostalgia was too self indulged. It felt like my old, kind of sad Aunt had trapped me in a corner at a Christmas party and all I could do was nod awkwardly and try to escape.
How does I rate a book that I completely lost interest in and abandoned part way through?
It had been recommended to me so I had some positive expectations of it. It also takes place in a suburb outside of Toronto so I thought my familiarity with the area might add to my interest too.
Not so much. This is a story of one woman's journey dealing with the things in her parent's massive house after they died. And I just found it boring.
The author seems to have had a conflicted relationship with both parents, for different reasons. As she is sorting through her parent's belongings, she goes down memory lane with a lot of it. I just kept thinking "get on with it girl, and get it done".
As I said, I didn't finish it so I don't know if somehow it got spectacularly better and I just missed that part. Somehow, I doubt it.
It had been recommended to me so I had some positive expectations of it. It also takes place in a suburb outside of Toronto so I thought my familiarity with the area might add to my interest too.
Not so much. This is a story of one woman's journey dealing with the things in her parent's massive house after they died. And I just found it boring.
The author seems to have had a conflicted relationship with both parents, for different reasons. As she is sorting through her parent's belongings, she goes down memory lane with a lot of it. I just kept thinking "get on with it girl, and get it done".
As I said, I didn't finish it so I don't know if somehow it got spectacularly better and I just missed that part. Somehow, I doubt it.
reflective
slow-paced
What a wonderful book, and such a perfect one to end my reading year on. As the author notes, this is really the story of a generation, one shared by many of us who had WWII enduring parents. She has particularly interesting family stories but, as she says, likely ones that were just more fulsomely captured than the rest of us. I’ll be passing this book on to one of my sisters, who I know will enjoy it as much as I did.
Covers really do make a difference. If I'd only seen the alternate cover, I wouldn't have picked it up - and then missed out on this great book.
Really enjoyed this- live very close to Oakville and could relate to some many of her memories
In this memoir, Plum Johnson recounts how after the deaths of her parents, she spent 16 months sorting through their belongings and preparing the house for sale. Her parents, Alex and Anne, had lived for over half a century in the sprawling, 23-room house in Oakville on the shores of Lake Ontario, so the amount of accumulation was massive.
In that time in her childhood home, she not only declutters the house. She examines her difficult relationship with her mother whom she saw as “intrusive, demanding, and possessive” (252), a relationship that was exacerbated by years of elder care. She realizes she has to find what she missed, ignored or forgot about her mother. After her mother’s death, people “didn’t describe the forceful mother I had been experiencing for the past twenty years – the one who invaded my privacy, demanded I call her every few hours, who seemed judgmental and disapproving of my choices – they described an Other Mother who was loving and wise, confident and charming, admirable and true. They described a woman I wished I had known. Or perhaps a mother I had pushed away. A mother I just needed to remember – someone who had been there all along” (88). In the end, Plum admits that “most of the clutter was in my head” (279). And I love the irony of Plum saying about her daughter, “I can’t believe she doesn’t see herself the way I do” (213).
Many books, both fiction and non-fiction, have been written about mother-daughter relationships, and I didn’t find that this one added anything new. Of course, this means that readers will find much that is relatable in the book. Plum Johnson wonders what all daughters have probably asked: “Are all our unfulfilled dreams unconsciously passed down from mother to daughter for generations?” (217) and “Was I afraid to see that [my mother] looks like me?” (263). With age, most daughters have more empathy: “I’m experiencing some aches and pains myself, and I see now that old people are simply young people locked into aging bodies. No wonder she was cranky” (263). The author confirms what most people come to understand: we don’t fully appreciate things and people until they’re gone.
I did appreciate the discussion of Other Mothers, other women who can serve as mentors: “we can all use more than one mother . . . It keeps us sane” (91). It’s true that “It’s hard to accept guidance when you’re trying to break away” (91) so it’s easier to accept guidance from others with whom relationships are less fraught with emotions and so are less complicated. I’ve treasured close friendships with older women who have, like Plum’s friend Pat, shared “hard-won insights” (93).
Plum’s difficult relationship with her mother is understandable. Anne was definitely a strong personality: “a ‘life force’ who . . . always stole the show . . . it was more like Mum was the limelight . . . [that required] constant attention” (83-84). It’s interesting that the author admits to replacing “the lens through which I view her” (263), and accepting that “’Mothers are always “The Nurturer” and “The Witch,” whether we like it or not . . . We have to accept both in the same package’” (264).
In the Acknowledgments, Johnson states, “I just wish the last twenty years hadn’t been so thorny. Because then I wouldn’t have felt the need to put [my mother] back up on a pedestal – which is where she sits now” (279 – 280). It seems that she has done the same thing with her father. Her mother may have been insensitive to her children’s feelings, but her father was overbearing and abusive. She describes his behaviour towards her and her brothers but she seems to refuse to see it for what it is. Though he was a man of a different time, his treatment of his wife also seems harsh. And the author doesn’t examine the impact of her parents’ tumultuous relationship on her and her siblings. (I found myself wanting to learn more about her parents’ fascinating histories and adventurous, book-worthy lives.)
The sibling relationships do not ring true. The division of family assets is often a competitive exercise, yet these four siblings seem to have no conflicts and remain unfailingly supportive of each other. Perhaps the sympathetic portrayals were influenced by the fact that her brothers were alive when she wrote this memoir?
Though not ground-breaking, the book will appeal to readers of a certain age, especially baby boomers caring for elderly parents and having to dispose of decades of accumulation. And it did get me thinking about what I should do with my lifetime collection of journals: “Earlier I’d resolved to clear out my own mess, too, so my children wouldn’t have to face it, but since then I’ve had a change of heart. Now I believe this clearing out is a valuable process – best left to our children. It’s the only way they’ll ever truly come to know us, discovering things we never wanted them to find” (219).
Please check out my reader's blog (https://schatjesshelves.blogspot.ca/) and follow me on Twitter (@DCYakabuski).
In that time in her childhood home, she not only declutters the house. She examines her difficult relationship with her mother whom she saw as “intrusive, demanding, and possessive” (252), a relationship that was exacerbated by years of elder care. She realizes she has to find what she missed, ignored or forgot about her mother. After her mother’s death, people “didn’t describe the forceful mother I had been experiencing for the past twenty years – the one who invaded my privacy, demanded I call her every few hours, who seemed judgmental and disapproving of my choices – they described an Other Mother who was loving and wise, confident and charming, admirable and true. They described a woman I wished I had known. Or perhaps a mother I had pushed away. A mother I just needed to remember – someone who had been there all along” (88). In the end, Plum admits that “most of the clutter was in my head” (279). And I love the irony of Plum saying about her daughter, “I can’t believe she doesn’t see herself the way I do” (213).
Many books, both fiction and non-fiction, have been written about mother-daughter relationships, and I didn’t find that this one added anything new. Of course, this means that readers will find much that is relatable in the book. Plum Johnson wonders what all daughters have probably asked: “Are all our unfulfilled dreams unconsciously passed down from mother to daughter for generations?” (217) and “Was I afraid to see that [my mother] looks like me?” (263). With age, most daughters have more empathy: “I’m experiencing some aches and pains myself, and I see now that old people are simply young people locked into aging bodies. No wonder she was cranky” (263). The author confirms what most people come to understand: we don’t fully appreciate things and people until they’re gone.
I did appreciate the discussion of Other Mothers, other women who can serve as mentors: “we can all use more than one mother . . . It keeps us sane” (91). It’s true that “It’s hard to accept guidance when you’re trying to break away” (91) so it’s easier to accept guidance from others with whom relationships are less fraught with emotions and so are less complicated. I’ve treasured close friendships with older women who have, like Plum’s friend Pat, shared “hard-won insights” (93).
Plum’s difficult relationship with her mother is understandable. Anne was definitely a strong personality: “a ‘life force’ who . . . always stole the show . . . it was more like Mum was the limelight . . . [that required] constant attention” (83-84). It’s interesting that the author admits to replacing “the lens through which I view her” (263), and accepting that “’Mothers are always “The Nurturer” and “The Witch,” whether we like it or not . . . We have to accept both in the same package’” (264).
In the Acknowledgments, Johnson states, “I just wish the last twenty years hadn’t been so thorny. Because then I wouldn’t have felt the need to put [my mother] back up on a pedestal – which is where she sits now” (279 – 280). It seems that she has done the same thing with her father. Her mother may have been insensitive to her children’s feelings, but her father was overbearing and abusive. She describes his behaviour towards her and her brothers but she seems to refuse to see it for what it is. Though he was a man of a different time, his treatment of his wife also seems harsh. And the author doesn’t examine the impact of her parents’ tumultuous relationship on her and her siblings. (I found myself wanting to learn more about her parents’ fascinating histories and adventurous, book-worthy lives.)
The sibling relationships do not ring true. The division of family assets is often a competitive exercise, yet these four siblings seem to have no conflicts and remain unfailingly supportive of each other. Perhaps the sympathetic portrayals were influenced by the fact that her brothers were alive when she wrote this memoir?
Though not ground-breaking, the book will appeal to readers of a certain age, especially baby boomers caring for elderly parents and having to dispose of decades of accumulation. And it did get me thinking about what I should do with my lifetime collection of journals: “Earlier I’d resolved to clear out my own mess, too, so my children wouldn’t have to face it, but since then I’ve had a change of heart. Now I believe this clearing out is a valuable process – best left to our children. It’s the only way they’ll ever truly come to know us, discovering things we never wanted them to find” (219).
Please check out my reader's blog (https://schatjesshelves.blogspot.ca/) and follow me on Twitter (@DCYakabuski).
So glad my cousin Jen suggested this one. I felt like I was talking with a friend and at the same time reflecting on my own relationship with my mom. Reading the untangling of the author’s relationship with her mom gave me pause to consider my relationship with my mom and my aunts. I will take more time to listen and accept; to learn and to love.
A story about family, life, death, and the challenging dynamics of mother/daughter and father/daughter relationships. Parents age, become ill and die leaving behind their possessions and lives to be catalogued and stored by those left behind. In the end, how important is it all? Anyone that has dealt with the death of an aging and ailing parent can relate to this story.
The story telling could have been a little tighter but then it seems as if objects and events triggered memories that make up the chapters.... just like real life. Overall I enjoyed this book and at times laughed out loud while reading. The novel includes frank, open and realistic sharing of family stories and history. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad, but always full of real life.
A 'must read' for adult daughters!
The story telling could have been a little tighter but then it seems as if objects and events triggered memories that make up the chapters.... just like real life. Overall I enjoyed this book and at times laughed out loud while reading. The novel includes frank, open and realistic sharing of family stories and history. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad, but always full of real life.
A 'must read' for adult daughters!
One of the best memoirs I've read in a long time--so authentic and revelatory. I would have given it 5 stars if the wrap-up were not a little too tidy to believe. Wonderful writing here!