I have a soft spot for certain areas of the country: Oklahoma, LA (lower Alabama), south Jersey, the Great White North. That’s because I spent idyllic periods of time in each of them, from the cliched free range childhood of the 1960s in Oklahoma to a Bruce Springsteen-album-of-a-life in a New Jersey high school. The other places have their charms for various other reasons so whenever I run across a book set in one of those places, I grab it up. That’s why I grabbed this one, because it’s Alabama. I’m not quite sure where in Alabama, but sure enough recognizably ‘bama through the quirky characters and endemic redneckery.
Hattie Bohannon, a widower with daddy issues, and her four daughters - also with daddy issues- run a truck stop in a town called Mariodoches. It’s a good place with quirky employees and customers and everyone is fulfilling their Alabama role-playing assignments of being slightly off and what we down there like to call a ‘character.’ Hattie is still trying to get the VA to find and send her husband’s ashes from whatever drawer they have misfiled them after he passed, alone and unvisited, in a Walter Reed hospital bed. See, he was a bit older than Hattie. Quite a bit. Jessamyn, Hattie’s eldest daughter, is having an affair with a married man, sometimes in the storeroom of the truck stop, where she is caught in flagrante delicto by the big-boned cook, Gert (we like to say ‘big boned,’ too). Jessamyn confronts the wife of the man with whom she’s having the affair to demand him. That doesn’t go well. One thing leads to another and, the next thing you know, there are marches protesting the prostitution ongoing at the diner.
How we got from here to there involves my favorite character in the entire book, who is not so much a character as a group: the ladies of the Church of the Holy Resurrection. Led by the good Reverend Martin Peterson, a tongues-speaking evangelical with an increasingly frigid wife, the group links a couple of unconnected events to convince themselves that Hattie’s diner is a den of iniquity and, by the Lord above, are going to do something about it. The ladies and the reverend are the kinds of people who make a crusade out of other’s failings because it’s so much easier than confronting your own. So confront, they do.
Which made me laugh because I experienced confrontation by the ladies of the church in real life. My dad sponsored Friday night dances at an abandoned schoolhouse near where we lived in Alabama in the late 60s. Local redneck bands showed up to do their three-chord renditions of Wipe Out and Louie Louie and everybody, and I mean everybody, for twenty miles around came because there was nothing else to do. It was fun. It was wild. It was rock and roll. The local Baptist church took umbrage and began scheduling mandatory Friday night Bible classes. And that was the end of that.
I should write a book...
There are some MFA-driven annoyances in this book, such as numerous switches of POV and characters and we go back and forth between first and third person with the alacrity of a bluefly finding an open plate of corn fritters. And, other than Hattie’s brother, Troy Clyde, there is nobody here to admire. They’re just regular folk trying to get by in a regular way.
And that’s pretty cool.