Is my insistence on reading certain books to the end healthy? This book lured me with the bait of lyrical descriptions of nature and (best of all) spending time alone appreciating the seasons. If it had stuck to that path, it may have been worth the effort, but she attempts to mine her own biography for details that I simply didn’t care about. Ho hum, a tomboy whose military family bounced around a lot and whose abusive dad ended up splitting the family. Yawn, her obsession with trusty dog companion (although this reminded me of Anne LaBastille’s Woodswoman) who she loved more than her dying mother. Zzz, sleeping through her tales of dating in a small Colorado town and especially snoring once she finds true love on OK Cupid. She deals with a cabin fire in the beginning, and I wonder how she chose to structure it as such. What if she built up to the fire and described the calm and the seasons, then peaked with burn drama and wrapped with lessons learned from getting rid of all your possessions?
Bottom line, there are much better memoirs and much better hymns to the natural world.