
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
I honestly don't know why I read memoirs. This one was written to the author's daughters and I am sure they loved it. I, on the other hand, had trouble following who was who especially the first half of the book--the author relates the backstories of several women in her family and her husband's family and I was constantly trying to keep the straight--which ones came from Sweden, which came from the South--which were her husband's mother's family and which her husband's father's? A family tree might have been helpful. There is a lot of skipping around. There are lots of little stories. I never could feel like a cohesive picture of who the author was or who her daughters were (or even, really, who her ancestors were). Details are skipped over (probably to save living relative's feelings). And sorry I don't think she owns up to any faults. But I do like the idea that we can gather strength and inspiration from those (especially ladies) that go before us.
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"It's like a hundred leaky faucets in a house. Everything you feel. You just turn off one faucet at a time. Drip by drip. It takes forever. But one day you'll wake up and hear quiet."
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