Overview
Picking up where she left off in Going to Ground, Amy Blackmarr returns from her granddaddy's old pond-side fishing cabin in rural south Georgia - where "the scents of pine straw on damp mornings and peanuts drying in October fields were deep and warm and familiar" - to a northeast Kansas bluff, where she lives in the "house of steps" with her three dogs. Part architectural wonder, part architectural disaster, the quirky house becomes the backdrop for the tapestry of scenes Blackmarr weaves from her recaptured past and her awkward present, plucking from everyday life the bright gems of wonder and meaning in an extraordinary world. In the vibrant midwestern silence, where far-off voices play alarming tricks at night, Blackmarr gets lost in the woods, battles wasps but refuses to step on roaches, takes in another stray dog, frets over the "corruption" of her mother, confronts a blushing postman with her Victoria's Secret catalogue, collects bugs in a bowl, and faces her own perfectionism. Her discoveries teach her the deepest lessons about herself, her community, and her God.Synopsis
Picking up where she left off in Going to Ground, Amy Blackmarr returns from her granddaddy's old pond-side fishing cabin in rural south Georgia - where "the scents of pine straw on damp mornings and peanuts drying in October fields were deep and warm and familiar" - to a northeast Kansas bluff, where she lives in the "house of steps" with her three dogs. Part architectural wonder, part architectural disaster, the quirky house becomes the backdrop for the tapestry of scenes Blackmarr weaves from her recaptured past and her awkward present, plucking from everyday life the bright gems of wonder and meaning in an extraordinary world. In the vibrant midwestern silence, where far-off voices play alarming tricks at night, Blackmarr gets lost in the woods, battles wasps but refuses to step on roaches, takes in another stray dog, frets over the "corruption" of her mother, confronts a blushing postman with her Victoria's Secret catalogue, collects bugs in a bowl, and faces her own perfectionism. Her discoveries teach her the deepest lessons about herself, her community, and her God.
Publishers Weekly
In a breezy manner, Blackmarr describes her move from a remote cabin in southern Georgia (the setting of her first memoir, Going to Ground) to a ramshackle home near Lawrence, Kans. From the vantage point of this house with stacked rooms connected by an endless series of steps, Blackmarr observes the ebb and flow of rural Kansas life in a series of essays. Throughout her descriptions of her conflicts with wasps in the attic, her explorations in surrounding fields and her encounters with an assortment of Kansans, Blackmarr's sentences often sparkle. Describing "The Girl Who Could Talk to Trees," she writes: "When she was a girl, an Oklahoma woman I know was best friends with an old sycamore in her back pasture. She ran to it when she was hurt or sad and sat under it and cried and told it her troubles, she said, and it sang to her and told her its secrets." While Blackmarr's associative leaps are often intriguing, and her well-crafted sentences hold the promise of deeper meaning, she rarely mines her observations for true revelation. Rather, the writing tends to float from moment to moment, like dust on the Kansas wind. Occasionally, this airy style settles on its mark. An essay titled "Magic" neatly describes how the sacred world reveals itself in simple, material things. "Origami Ducks" captures in four concise pages the rituals of Thanksgiving and of giving thanks. More insight and less flutter would have been welcome, however. (July) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.