A review by bethgiven
When We Were the Kennedys: A Memoir from Mexico, Maine by Monica Wood
5.0
Beautifully written and slow in the best way. I know I seem to find all the books about grief this past year or so, but I found this one to be particularly lovely and healing. Not much happens, really; there's the dad's death at the end of the prologue, and then there's the tweenaged author dealing with it for the rest of the chapters, interwoven with some thoughts on her hometown and reading and writing and Kennedy's assassination and the sweetness of life with a good family. But even if the plot itself doesn't lend itself to drama, I found this memoir to be highly engaging. Readable, insightful -- wonderful.
Clean readers: beware some almost-absent-but-still-present profanity. This just barely hit my "three-strikes" rule for the f-bomb, all on the same parenthetical remark.
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Since I read this on Kindle, I highlighted some lines that struck me as particularly profound or poetic:
"One hundred percent of my life, all nine years, filled to the brim with Dad." (p. 38)
"Everybody dies. And despite our daily preparations to meet God in eternity, I seem to be the only one in my class who knows this." (p. 42)
"Dadless days has at last gotten away from me. Fifty-four days, fifty-six days, the numbers piling up too fast now, relentless and unruly. I have to count by weeks instead—nearly eight of them so far, a smaller sum that makes Dad seem a little less far away." (p. 64)
"You didn’t have to have a car, or a destination, or someone to drive you there. No, indeed. You could roam the entire world, in any century, without so much as a bus ticket. The only thing you needed was a good book." (p. 67)
"Shelved in Norma’s tall, white, snow-clean bookcase are twenty volumes of the Nancy Drew mystery series, their numbered spines facing out, arranged in order, alluringly logical. Nothing these days has order, or logic—but look at this." (p. 72)
"Oh, how did he answer? If only I could dredge his voice back through the murk of time, to know his thoughts on this, on everything." (p. 87)
"It took years for me to know this, to see how loss can tighten your grip on the things still possible to hold." (p. 96)
"They ask, How’s your mother? They always ask, How’s your mother? Good, thank you. She’s very good. I don’t say, She sleeps a lot. I don’t say, In our bed. I don’t say, If Anne left I think we would die. I don’t say, I’m afraid my mother might be shrinking. I don’t say, She does everything the same but she’s not here. I don’t say, Sometimes I pretend I live here with you." (p. 112)
"What satisfaction, to know how to read, to write, to spell these words; to admire them, to pronounce them, to define them; to arrange and rearrange them; to commit them to a sheet of paper made to last." (p. 113)
"Dad talked about PEI all the time, told all those affectionate tales, made his homeland seem like a celebration he’d carried with him rather than a heartache he’d left behind." (p. 157)
"People, like trees, want to grow toward the light, and for Mum, Dad was that light." (p. 159)
"What happened to my family in April is now happening to the Kennedys; what happened to the Kennedys is now happening to the whole country; and the whole country cannot stop crying." (p. 164)
"This is what it is to be twelve, or thirty, or fifty-five: to look back, with new eyes, on what you did not know you knew." (p. 218)
"And after that? Happily ever after, what else? This is what we all believe, because if my family has learned anything from our intermittent sorrows, it is this." (p. 230)
Clean readers: beware some almost-absent-but-still-present profanity. This just barely hit my "three-strikes" rule for the f-bomb, all on the same parenthetical remark.
---
Since I read this on Kindle, I highlighted some lines that struck me as particularly profound or poetic:
"One hundred percent of my life, all nine years, filled to the brim with Dad." (p. 38)
"Everybody dies. And despite our daily preparations to meet God in eternity, I seem to be the only one in my class who knows this." (p. 42)
"Dadless days has at last gotten away from me. Fifty-four days, fifty-six days, the numbers piling up too fast now, relentless and unruly. I have to count by weeks instead—nearly eight of them so far, a smaller sum that makes Dad seem a little less far away." (p. 64)
"You didn’t have to have a car, or a destination, or someone to drive you there. No, indeed. You could roam the entire world, in any century, without so much as a bus ticket. The only thing you needed was a good book." (p. 67)
"Shelved in Norma’s tall, white, snow-clean bookcase are twenty volumes of the Nancy Drew mystery series, their numbered spines facing out, arranged in order, alluringly logical. Nothing these days has order, or logic—but look at this." (p. 72)
"Oh, how did he answer? If only I could dredge his voice back through the murk of time, to know his thoughts on this, on everything." (p. 87)
"It took years for me to know this, to see how loss can tighten your grip on the things still possible to hold." (p. 96)
"They ask, How’s your mother? They always ask, How’s your mother? Good, thank you. She’s very good. I don’t say, She sleeps a lot. I don’t say, In our bed. I don’t say, If Anne left I think we would die. I don’t say, I’m afraid my mother might be shrinking. I don’t say, She does everything the same but she’s not here. I don’t say, Sometimes I pretend I live here with you." (p. 112)
"What satisfaction, to know how to read, to write, to spell these words; to admire them, to pronounce them, to define them; to arrange and rearrange them; to commit them to a sheet of paper made to last." (p. 113)
"Dad talked about PEI all the time, told all those affectionate tales, made his homeland seem like a celebration he’d carried with him rather than a heartache he’d left behind." (p. 157)
"People, like trees, want to grow toward the light, and for Mum, Dad was that light." (p. 159)
"What happened to my family in April is now happening to the Kennedys; what happened to the Kennedys is now happening to the whole country; and the whole country cannot stop crying." (p. 164)
"This is what it is to be twelve, or thirty, or fifty-five: to look back, with new eyes, on what you did not know you knew." (p. 218)
"And after that? Happily ever after, what else? This is what we all believe, because if my family has learned anything from our intermittent sorrows, it is this." (p. 230)