This is one of those delightful stories that surprises at every turn. The narrator has a dry wit and a unique and idiosyncratic voice, as she contemplates the history of her family.
Peter Hobbs is a British writer who somehow captures the voice of a world-weary female American who lives somewhere remote and rural, perhaps the Appalachians or the Deep South. The family are farmers, and the story is broken up into short sections named after pumpkins. I confess I am suspicious of some of the pumpkins’ names; some are genuine (I have grown pumpkins and squashes myself) but some may not be… In any case, this story is huge fun.
“Home-schooling hell aside, the three of us had a golden childhood. From which I don’t retain too much. The lingering slightly fibrous taste of tomatoes straight from the vine. A happiness which arises only when I’m surrounded by farmland or countryside. Great memories of pre-Christmas pig-slaughtering ceremonies. The ability to operate a tractor. Well-developed upper-body strength from every menial task you care to name – and subsequently a right hook a fair degree more dangerous than you’d expect from looking…”
Published in I Could Ride All Day In My Cool Blue Train, Faber & Faber, 2006. You can read it here
A Personal Anthology 