“Through the Groves: A Memoir”
You can’t see the forest for the trees. Fluffy pines, and oaks that started growing before your parents were born. Tall willows, towering cottonwoods that create a canopy far above you. The forest soothes your mind; if you have an out-of-control imagination, it offers a good scare. Nature’s there, and in the new book “Through the Groves” by Anne Hull, you’ll find memories, too.
She still recalls the smell and the heat and the pesticides.
Anne Hull was her daddy’s sidekick the summer she was 6 years old, riding along with him on his job as a fruit buyer in the middle of Florida where rows of orange trees stretched for miles. Together, they visited the dusty, scarred older Black men who worked the groves on her father’s route, and her father taught her all about “withholding confidential information” and not telling her mother about using a chalky field as a bathroom or about the gun in his car.
Hull’s mother already knew about the roadside stops he made, and the bars along his way home: The ride-alongs Hull so enjoyed were meant to deter her father from “Friday afternoon fever” and bright neon beer signs.
Back then, Hull was only starting to notice that her family moved often, from one ramshackle house to another, and she saw the weekly checks her great-grandmother gave her father. She already knew that adults kept secrets that weren’t so secret to a growing girl who was obsessed with being a spy someday. These were adventures, just like the adventures she had with cousins and her little brother, who was an accident- prone “calamity.”
When Hull’s mother left Hull’s father and moved in with Hull’s grandmother, that was an adventure, too — until it wasn’t. Hull had became old enough to understand genteel poverty and that hand-me-downs weren’t cool. She bonded with her grandmother over music; sneered at her mother, as teenagers do; and she thought about her dad, but only in the abstract.
He never forgot about her, though. He never stopped trying to be her father. Do you really want some treacly life story now? Nah, you want something solid and sincere, right? Something different. Part coming-of-age, but more, maybe.
You want “Through the Groves.” Rather than opening this tale where most childhood memoirs start, with eye-rollingHull says her father was a storyteller and this (orange) apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Start “Through the Groves” and you’ll find that you just can’t leaf it.
— The Bookworm Sez
