Memoirs, for me, usually fall into two categories: those I think I could have written, and those whose lives are unique, unusual and fascinating. I prefer the latter, obviously, and this one by Jeannette Walls, falls solidly into the that category. She had a whopper of a childhood: fascinating and horrible at the same time. Basically, it’s the story of her childhood, and what a childhood. Her father was an alcoholic, her mother an “excitement addict”, and her sisters and brother and her were left to fend for themselves. In practically every way. Literally. When she was little, and they were living in the desert — in Nevada, Arizona and California — it wasn’t so bad. But, eventually her father’s drinking got really bad and her mother thought that moving back to his hometown would help (why she thought that was beyond me), and so they moved to West Virginia. From there, Walls’s life became particularly hard. Her parents wouldn’t take welfare or charity, so the kids took to fending for themselves. Digging lunch out of the garbage, getting work where ever they could. The house had no indoor plumbing, and was falling apart. The grandparents — especially Erma — were a real piece of work. It’s a wonder Walls survived at all.

I was caught between admiration for her parent’s fierce sense of independence and lack of judgement of others (and statements that no one should judge them) and horror at the good values gone wrong. They were parents, for God’s sake. They should act like parents. My great-great grandfather was a drunk — he’d go off to work in the morning, earn the money, and then spend it all on booze and come home to beat his wife and kids — but at least my great-great grandmother had the wits and the resources to earn money and raise her children. Neither one of Walls’s parents had that. Her mother spent her days painting and reading and eating chocolate, rather than buying food for her kids. Her father spent his days dreaming about striking it rich and drinking the income away. I felt bad for Walls, even though I don’t think she wanted us to feel bad. This was who she is, and I don’t think she wanted our charity or pity. She survived, she managed to find her way in life. And she did it basically on her own. She’s very independent, she had some wonderful experiences as a child — ones that our kids, as scheduled and structured as they are could never have — and she loves her family, crazy as they are. I think that’s what she was trying to get across — that even though it was horrible, she survived, thrived, and managed not to get stuck in that trap.

There is much to discuss about this book — poverty, and escaping poverty (I’m finding in my reading that one of the best ways to escape is through some sort of brilliance; if you’re smart, you can find a way out.); parenting; structuring of children; judgements; the 50s and 60s… it goes on and on. And it’s a fascinating, well-written, engrossing read. Just not a comfortable one.