I am not a Eudora Welty fan, but prior to this book I’d read nothing by her, so needed to remedy that (especially after she came so highly regarded by Steven King’s writing memoir). My opinion remains unchanged, and she blends in together with the amorphous group of Southern women writers, one big bag of Flannery/Carson/Eudora that I have trouble keeping apart. I’m a terrible person, I know.
There was some descriptive flair I liked in Why I Live at the P.O. where she’s grabbing everything in sight to take with her, ukulele, thermometer, watermelon rinds, tacks in the wall. I also did like A Memory, perhaps the only first-person story in the bunch, about a girl dreaming beside a lake interrupted by a group of “loud, squirming, ill-assorted people who seemed thrown together only by the most confused accident, and who seemed driven by foolish intent to insult each other, all of which they enjoyed with a hilarity which astonished my heart.”